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July 22, 2023
Essays from the Edge of the World: COVID 19 in Seattle, Part 4 The Last Normal Day
Edgar grew up outdoors. His family sat squarely in that part of the blue-collar working class that opted for camping trips over exotic destination trips. Opted, is probably not the right word, relegated to is probably closer to accurate.
Also, Edgar’s family belonged to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, you definitely know their more colloquial name, Mormon. Edgar recalled reading something recently that Mormon was no longer a preferred name, but considering he hadn’t gone to church since he was about twelve, he wasn’t exactly up on the current lingo. In fact, he’d actually sent an official request a while back to church headquarters to be taken of any member lists. His departure from the religion did nothing to change his genes however. When Edgar sent his DNA test to ancestry.com, it showed he was part of the Mountain West Mormon Pioneers group. Before that, he’d never considered that he may be ethnically Mormon, or that Mormon was an ethnicity at all, but here was an entire gene group, from which he was descended, roaming west across the bulk of the United States. It sounded like an ethnic group to him. It goes without saying that Edgar was a Cub Scout, and later a Boy Scout, as these organizations are closely associated with the Mormon religion. As a result, his bourgeois colleagues marveled at his prowess with a wrenches, rifles, and fishing rods.
To most urban professionals the ability to turn a wrench in order to fix a mechanical device was magic. The ability to catch, kill, and consume an animal was mesmerizing. That said, Edgar tried hard not to showcase his ability to rebuild a motor, or survive indefinitely in the wilderness. Edgar had great survival skills because he was outside most of his childhood. He had great mechanical skills because he’d owned numerous unreliable automobiles when he was younger; automobiles he never had enough money to pay a mechanic to fix. These skills were useful when they were called for, which, these days, was almost never, and they certainly differentiated him from his colleagues. Edgar liked watching more than being watched, so he turned the volume way down on these stereotypical blue-collar skills when he was around other attorneys. Besides, Edgar genuinely disliked being outside, so rarely felt a desire to talk about them. On one camping trip, while he was rolling up a soggy sleeping bag, and packing up a mildewed tent, he promised himself when he was grown, he’d never camp again, unless it was for actual survival.
Although he vowed not to force the outdoors on his sons, his sons found the outdoors on their own. Specifically, little Edgar, who was twelve, and wanted to go on a class camping trip the first week of March. For several weeks, Edgar attempted to rope Audrey into doing the chaperone duties on the trip, but Audrey hated camping more than Edgar, and had none of the outdoor skills that made trips like these tolerable. Edgar finally conceded that, being a good father, in this circumstance, required that he go camping for a few days. The camping itself would be bad enough, but the real inconvenience was that he would miss television coverage of super Tuesday. Edgar watched election season, the way his brother and stepdad watched football, and super Tuesday was like the beginning of the playoffs.
Edgar arrived at the Islandwood facility on Bainbridge Island around lunch time on that first Monday in March, courtesy of the largest ferry system in the United States, fourth largest in the world. Both Edgars stood on the upper forward deck of the Tacoma. From there, the Puget Sound Islands just look like one land mass covered by thick forest. In reality, Puget Sound is comprised of about 170 separate islands, and the Puget Sound, inside the Salish Sea, is a main artery in the anatomy of global commerce. At nearly a thousand feet deep, it’s about as deep as the tallest building in Seattle is high. A steady drumbeat of the largest container ships in the world float through Elliot Bay, and to the Port of Seattle day and night, but that was the view from the rear deck of the ferry.
Bainbridge is the closest island to Seattle, as such, this was probably the busiest commuter route in the ferry system. You can actually see the Seattle skyline quite clearly from the Bainbridge coast. Edgar liked being able to see Seattle, probably because Edgar didn’t even like leaving Seattle. Shit, he didn’t even like leaving his Capitol Hill neighborhood to go to his downtown office to pick up his work mail.
Islandwood is actually a school in the forest. It hosts school groups, and corporate team building retreats. It runs a four-day program that has city kids doing outdoor activities from the crack of dawn until lights out, which meant chaperones would be doing outdoor activities from the crack of dawn until lights out. Little Edgar could not be more excited, big Edger could not stop thinking about how the one thing he liked less than camping was waking up early in the morning. Edgar was expecting Spartan accommodations, but was pleasantly surprised by more of a glamping situation at Islandwood. Very comfortable lodges, canteen with a large kitchen, all which softened the blow of being in the woods for four days.
Within two hours of arrival, little Edgar’s excitement overcame his biology, and he vomited all over the grass outside of the canteen. On March 2, 2020, a kid vomiting at a camp only warranted a temperature check by the Islandwood nurse, before being cleared to stay in a lodge room with five other kids. In fact, another chaperone, the mother of one of the other kids who was bunking in little Edgar’s room, encouraged big Edgar to allow little Edgar to stay at the camp, and sleep in the same room with her own son. That is a normal reaction to a kid vomiting at a school camp.
On Tuesday, Islandwood staff checked Edgar’s temperature again. Again, he had no fever, and that was that. Audrey called to say goodnight. She proudly told big Edgar all about the toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and non-perishable foods she’d accumulated over the last day, in anticipation of possible stay at home orders. Also, Super Tuesday proceeded as it had in every other election cycle for decades. Edgar typically would have been glued to his television screen all night. That day, he sat in front of his phone, listening to his CNN streaming app for about an hour before passing out in his bunk. Waking up early was not normal; camping in the woods was not normal; his wife stockpiling toilet paper was not normal. Despite numerous abnormal things happening that day, it was, in Edgar’s opinion, the last normal day on planet Earth for some time to come.
Also, Edgar’s family belonged to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, you definitely know their more colloquial name, Mormon. Edgar recalled reading something recently that Mormon was no longer a preferred name, but considering he hadn’t gone to church since he was about twelve, he wasn’t exactly up on the current lingo. In fact, he’d actually sent an official request a while back to church headquarters to be taken of any member lists. His departure from the religion did nothing to change his genes however. When Edgar sent his DNA test to ancestry.com, it showed he was part of the Mountain West Mormon Pioneers group. Before that, he’d never considered that he may be ethnically Mormon, or that Mormon was an ethnicity at all, but here was an entire gene group, from which he was descended, roaming west across the bulk of the United States. It sounded like an ethnic group to him. It goes without saying that Edgar was a Cub Scout, and later a Boy Scout, as these organizations are closely associated with the Mormon religion. As a result, his bourgeois colleagues marveled at his prowess with a wrenches, rifles, and fishing rods.
To most urban professionals the ability to turn a wrench in order to fix a mechanical device was magic. The ability to catch, kill, and consume an animal was mesmerizing. That said, Edgar tried hard not to showcase his ability to rebuild a motor, or survive indefinitely in the wilderness. Edgar had great survival skills because he was outside most of his childhood. He had great mechanical skills because he’d owned numerous unreliable automobiles when he was younger; automobiles he never had enough money to pay a mechanic to fix. These skills were useful when they were called for, which, these days, was almost never, and they certainly differentiated him from his colleagues. Edgar liked watching more than being watched, so he turned the volume way down on these stereotypical blue-collar skills when he was around other attorneys. Besides, Edgar genuinely disliked being outside, so rarely felt a desire to talk about them. On one camping trip, while he was rolling up a soggy sleeping bag, and packing up a mildewed tent, he promised himself when he was grown, he’d never camp again, unless it was for actual survival.
Although he vowed not to force the outdoors on his sons, his sons found the outdoors on their own. Specifically, little Edgar, who was twelve, and wanted to go on a class camping trip the first week of March. For several weeks, Edgar attempted to rope Audrey into doing the chaperone duties on the trip, but Audrey hated camping more than Edgar, and had none of the outdoor skills that made trips like these tolerable. Edgar finally conceded that, being a good father, in this circumstance, required that he go camping for a few days. The camping itself would be bad enough, but the real inconvenience was that he would miss television coverage of super Tuesday. Edgar watched election season, the way his brother and stepdad watched football, and super Tuesday was like the beginning of the playoffs.
Edgar arrived at the Islandwood facility on Bainbridge Island around lunch time on that first Monday in March, courtesy of the largest ferry system in the United States, fourth largest in the world. Both Edgars stood on the upper forward deck of the Tacoma. From there, the Puget Sound Islands just look like one land mass covered by thick forest. In reality, Puget Sound is comprised of about 170 separate islands, and the Puget Sound, inside the Salish Sea, is a main artery in the anatomy of global commerce. At nearly a thousand feet deep, it’s about as deep as the tallest building in Seattle is high. A steady drumbeat of the largest container ships in the world float through Elliot Bay, and to the Port of Seattle day and night, but that was the view from the rear deck of the ferry.
Bainbridge is the closest island to Seattle, as such, this was probably the busiest commuter route in the ferry system. You can actually see the Seattle skyline quite clearly from the Bainbridge coast. Edgar liked being able to see Seattle, probably because Edgar didn’t even like leaving Seattle. Shit, he didn’t even like leaving his Capitol Hill neighborhood to go to his downtown office to pick up his work mail.
Islandwood is actually a school in the forest. It hosts school groups, and corporate team building retreats. It runs a four-day program that has city kids doing outdoor activities from the crack of dawn until lights out, which meant chaperones would be doing outdoor activities from the crack of dawn until lights out. Little Edgar could not be more excited, big Edger could not stop thinking about how the one thing he liked less than camping was waking up early in the morning. Edgar was expecting Spartan accommodations, but was pleasantly surprised by more of a glamping situation at Islandwood. Very comfortable lodges, canteen with a large kitchen, all which softened the blow of being in the woods for four days.
Within two hours of arrival, little Edgar’s excitement overcame his biology, and he vomited all over the grass outside of the canteen. On March 2, 2020, a kid vomiting at a camp only warranted a temperature check by the Islandwood nurse, before being cleared to stay in a lodge room with five other kids. In fact, another chaperone, the mother of one of the other kids who was bunking in little Edgar’s room, encouraged big Edgar to allow little Edgar to stay at the camp, and sleep in the same room with her own son. That is a normal reaction to a kid vomiting at a school camp.
On Tuesday, Islandwood staff checked Edgar’s temperature again. Again, he had no fever, and that was that. Audrey called to say goodnight. She proudly told big Edgar all about the toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and non-perishable foods she’d accumulated over the last day, in anticipation of possible stay at home orders. Also, Super Tuesday proceeded as it had in every other election cycle for decades. Edgar typically would have been glued to his television screen all night. That day, he sat in front of his phone, listening to his CNN streaming app for about an hour before passing out in his bunk. Waking up early was not normal; camping in the woods was not normal; his wife stockpiling toilet paper was not normal. Despite numerous abnormal things happening that day, it was, in Edgar’s opinion, the last normal day on planet Earth for some time to come.
Essays from the Edge of the World: COVID 19 in Seattle, Part 3 The Fish Bowl
Life Care Center in Kirkland isn’t nice; it’s not nasty either, not by nursing home standards anyway. Still, walking in there gave Edgar the heebie-jeebies. Edgar was never a particularly good EMT. Driving the ambulance was about the only aspect of the job he really excelled at, and let’s face it, most people can drive an automobile from one place to another. He certainly didn’t excel at patient care.
Later, he worked in Swedish Medical Center’s Emergency Room, where he also failed to excel at patient care, and there was nothing to drive, so he literally excelled at nothing. It wasn’t that he lacked empathy, but working around sick people just wasn’t his calling. He’d taken enough pathogen classes to be scared of bacteria and viruses, but not enough to ever feel comfortable around sick people. When he looked around his ambulance, or an ER room, all he ever saw was a film of invisible germs. That was under normal circumstances. Now, as COVID 19 began ravaging Life Care in Kirkland, Edgar silently echoed Audrey’s sentiments. He was glad he was no longer an EMT.
Life Care personnel noticed residents suffering from a respiratory illness in early February, but didn’t alert state authorities until nearly the beginning of March. There was actually a confirmed case at the facility on February 19th, but this was not widely disseminated, so visitors, staff, and first responders such as police, fire, and EMS personnel continued to freely come and go from Life Care. All the while, this respiratory illness, that we now know as COVID 19 percolated through the residents at Life Care, infecting at least 81 of the 120 residents there. At least thirty-seven of those died. Another way to say that is, nearly half of the residents who had COVID 19 at Life Care died. Still another way to say it is, nearly one-third of 120 residents at Life Care died of COVID 19. There is not a good way to say it, just variety of terrible ways to say it.
By the last day of February, reporters from every major news outlet had set up their tent in the Puget Sound to watch the canary in the coal mine. While all eyes were on a small nursing home, in a small suburb outside Seattle, the first case of community spread happened in California. To most viewers, this was not a significant development, and was nowhere near as dramatic to watch as the dysfunction and death unfolding at Life Care. It was, in retrospect, the real canary in the coal mine. The other day, New York State had an average of 33 people die per hour from COVID 19, which in retrospect makes Life Care’s 37 total deaths, happening over several weeks, seem tame.
Those last days of February seem so innocent now. Back then, we still thought we were dealing with a localized epidemic, of a virus, that would peter out in a week or two. Just something to stitch the last major news cycle to the next major news cycle. A distraction between the last presidential debate, and the next state primary. Nobody knew then, that Bernie Sanders would have to drop out of the presidential race over Skype because nobody had left their house in a month and gatherings of any kind were barred. Right then, life was more about watching the fish bowl that Life Care had become, and it had become just that.
It had become commonplace, and even expected to see news footage of family members waiving through windows at their quarantined, elderly, and often dying relatives in their rooms inside the Life Care facility. You could guarantee the next CNN live shot would be either, a patient leaving on an EMS stretcher, with Life Care staff holding up a sheet to protect the resident’s identity, or an angry relative shouting into a reporter’s microphone. Sometimes they were crying, but usually just angry.
Later, he worked in Swedish Medical Center’s Emergency Room, where he also failed to excel at patient care, and there was nothing to drive, so he literally excelled at nothing. It wasn’t that he lacked empathy, but working around sick people just wasn’t his calling. He’d taken enough pathogen classes to be scared of bacteria and viruses, but not enough to ever feel comfortable around sick people. When he looked around his ambulance, or an ER room, all he ever saw was a film of invisible germs. That was under normal circumstances. Now, as COVID 19 began ravaging Life Care in Kirkland, Edgar silently echoed Audrey’s sentiments. He was glad he was no longer an EMT.
Life Care personnel noticed residents suffering from a respiratory illness in early February, but didn’t alert state authorities until nearly the beginning of March. There was actually a confirmed case at the facility on February 19th, but this was not widely disseminated, so visitors, staff, and first responders such as police, fire, and EMS personnel continued to freely come and go from Life Care. All the while, this respiratory illness, that we now know as COVID 19 percolated through the residents at Life Care, infecting at least 81 of the 120 residents there. At least thirty-seven of those died. Another way to say that is, nearly half of the residents who had COVID 19 at Life Care died. Still another way to say it is, nearly one-third of 120 residents at Life Care died of COVID 19. There is not a good way to say it, just variety of terrible ways to say it.
By the last day of February, reporters from every major news outlet had set up their tent in the Puget Sound to watch the canary in the coal mine. While all eyes were on a small nursing home, in a small suburb outside Seattle, the first case of community spread happened in California. To most viewers, this was not a significant development, and was nowhere near as dramatic to watch as the dysfunction and death unfolding at Life Care. It was, in retrospect, the real canary in the coal mine. The other day, New York State had an average of 33 people die per hour from COVID 19, which in retrospect makes Life Care’s 37 total deaths, happening over several weeks, seem tame.
Those last days of February seem so innocent now. Back then, we still thought we were dealing with a localized epidemic, of a virus, that would peter out in a week or two. Just something to stitch the last major news cycle to the next major news cycle. A distraction between the last presidential debate, and the next state primary. Nobody knew then, that Bernie Sanders would have to drop out of the presidential race over Skype because nobody had left their house in a month and gatherings of any kind were barred. Right then, life was more about watching the fish bowl that Life Care had become, and it had become just that.
It had become commonplace, and even expected to see news footage of family members waiving through windows at their quarantined, elderly, and often dying relatives in their rooms inside the Life Care facility. You could guarantee the next CNN live shot would be either, a patient leaving on an EMS stretcher, with Life Care staff holding up a sheet to protect the resident’s identity, or an angry relative shouting into a reporter’s microphone. Sometimes they were crying, but usually just angry.
Essays from the Edge of the World: COVID 19 in Seattle, Part 2 City on the Edge of the World
Seattle is the home of Boeing, Starbucks, Amazon, Microsoft, as well as countless other less obvious, but extremely consequential corporations. Seattle is home to one of the most important public universities in the country. Seattle was the home of two sadly departed left-handed guitarists who were so influential, their names need not be written here. And, without doing too deep of a dive, Seattle, and the Pacific Northwest, in general, has influenced the music you listen to as much as Nashville, New York, or London. You may not even realize that, but it’s true.
If today, you found yourself sipping a latte, and listening to music, while ordering a consumer product online, there is a better than average chance that you were drinking a beverage from Starbucks, and listening to a band who drew significant influence from NW music, while purchasing a consumer product from Amazon, on a Microsoft operating system. And, before that consumer product reached you, it more than likely flew on a Boeing airplane.
The completion of such a routine transaction also relies on dozens of technology platforms you’ve never heard of, which were also built here in the Puget Sound. Microsoft was built on companies and technologies you’ve never heard of, in the same way that Nirvana’s sound was build on decades of homegrown punk, garage, and metal bands.
Suffice it to say, without Seattle, your world would be a very different place. Nonetheless, as far as most people are concerned, Seattle is nothing more than a dark gloomy rainforest in the back pocket of the country. The place where the west ends. The place where you run out of land, before having to confront an ocean that occupies half the globe. The place that Lewis and Clark took one look at, and decided to turn around and go home. The city on the edge of the world.
COVID 19 travelled the inhospitable Pacific Ocean to arrive in the Puget Sound on January 20, 2020, in the form of a Washington man who had recently travelled to Hubei Province, China. By the end of February, Seattle, the city at the edge of the world, became the center of the universe, for all the wrong reasons.
Between January 20th and February 28th, it became fairly routine for Edgar to watch an hour or more of coverage on CNN about the corona virus, and even though the first confirmed case in the United States was here in the Puget Sound, the media focus was still thousands of miles away. Chinese authorities had shut down Wuhan, a city with a population larger than New York City. Travel restrictions were put in place. The first death outside of China was reported. At least two full news cycles focused on little more than the ill-conceived quarantining of the Diamond Princess cruise ship. Also, around the middle of the month, the media started calling it COVID 19.
The first death in the United States happened at Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland, right across Lake Washington from Seattle. Edgar knew that hospital well. In his twenties and early thirties, he’d been an EMT. Edgar had spent about a year working on the Eastside, and Evergreen was the primary receiving facility for 911 calls on the Eastside. What really got Edgar’s attention that day was that a nursing facility, called Life Care, right across the 405 freeway from Evergreen, had two confirmed cases, and fifty people with symptoms. Edgar knew Life Care so well that he could have drawn a map of the facility from memory, despite not having been there in nearly twelve years. Not surprisingly, first responders spend a lot of time responding to 911 calls from nursing homes.
When Edgar saw the first live shots of Life Care on CNN, he yelled over to Audrey in the kitchen, “Ha, Audrey, I used to go to that place all the time when we first got married.” She glanced up from her laptop, and quickly scanned the headline at the bottom of the television screen, and said, “God, I’m glad you’re not an EMT anymore!”
If today, you found yourself sipping a latte, and listening to music, while ordering a consumer product online, there is a better than average chance that you were drinking a beverage from Starbucks, and listening to a band who drew significant influence from NW music, while purchasing a consumer product from Amazon, on a Microsoft operating system. And, before that consumer product reached you, it more than likely flew on a Boeing airplane.
The completion of such a routine transaction also relies on dozens of technology platforms you’ve never heard of, which were also built here in the Puget Sound. Microsoft was built on companies and technologies you’ve never heard of, in the same way that Nirvana’s sound was build on decades of homegrown punk, garage, and metal bands.
Suffice it to say, without Seattle, your world would be a very different place. Nonetheless, as far as most people are concerned, Seattle is nothing more than a dark gloomy rainforest in the back pocket of the country. The place where the west ends. The place where you run out of land, before having to confront an ocean that occupies half the globe. The place that Lewis and Clark took one look at, and decided to turn around and go home. The city on the edge of the world.
COVID 19 travelled the inhospitable Pacific Ocean to arrive in the Puget Sound on January 20, 2020, in the form of a Washington man who had recently travelled to Hubei Province, China. By the end of February, Seattle, the city at the edge of the world, became the center of the universe, for all the wrong reasons.
Between January 20th and February 28th, it became fairly routine for Edgar to watch an hour or more of coverage on CNN about the corona virus, and even though the first confirmed case in the United States was here in the Puget Sound, the media focus was still thousands of miles away. Chinese authorities had shut down Wuhan, a city with a population larger than New York City. Travel restrictions were put in place. The first death outside of China was reported. At least two full news cycles focused on little more than the ill-conceived quarantining of the Diamond Princess cruise ship. Also, around the middle of the month, the media started calling it COVID 19.
The first death in the United States happened at Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland, right across Lake Washington from Seattle. Edgar knew that hospital well. In his twenties and early thirties, he’d been an EMT. Edgar had spent about a year working on the Eastside, and Evergreen was the primary receiving facility for 911 calls on the Eastside. What really got Edgar’s attention that day was that a nursing facility, called Life Care, right across the 405 freeway from Evergreen, had two confirmed cases, and fifty people with symptoms. Edgar knew Life Care so well that he could have drawn a map of the facility from memory, despite not having been there in nearly twelve years. Not surprisingly, first responders spend a lot of time responding to 911 calls from nursing homes.
When Edgar saw the first live shots of Life Care on CNN, he yelled over to Audrey in the kitchen, “Ha, Audrey, I used to go to that place all the time when we first got married.” She glanced up from her laptop, and quickly scanned the headline at the bottom of the television screen, and said, “God, I’m glad you’re not an EMT anymore!”
Essays from the Edge of the World: COVID 19 in Seattle, Part One Just a Blurb
During the week after Christmas of 2019, Edgar noticed a small article in the Seattle Times. Article, is not really the right word, as it was little more than a blurb, and not much of a blurb at that. It wasn’t much larger than a classified ad, and it was buried deep in the bowels of the paper, somewhere around A15. That blurb, reported that Chinese authorities were treating dozens of cases of pneumonia. The cause of this pneumonia was unknown.
Edgar always flipped to the back pages of the newspaper first. Edgar was forty-four, and because of that, he’d lived about half his life in an analog world, and the other half in a digital one. One consequence of being in this transitional generation was that he maintained numerous antiquated habits, having an actual newspaper delivered to his doorstep was just such a habit. Edgar preferred to read his paper in the evening, and he also preferred reading the newspaper backwards. Reading the front page was typically a waste of his time. By the time Edgar got around to reading the paper, after work, he would have received fifty news reports on his phone, and seen CNN segments at the gym. Even at dinner time, the local evening news would cover most of the big local stories, so the back pages were the only part of the paper that still had fresh information for him to consume.
If you want to know what the city council did today, or how your national or state representatives voted on bills that never made it to the front page, you read the Roll Call in the back of the paper. Similarly, if you want to read about service workers on strike, or a police officer being suspended for some sort of misconduct, you flip to the back pages. On this occasion, if you wanted to see an obscure blurb about an, as yet, unidentified virus and proto-pandemic, you flipped to the back pages. Edgar remembered similar blurbs in 2003 and 2009. Those blurbs were SARS and H1N1 respectively. Edgar mentioned it to his wife Audrey and left it at that.
By the time the first death was reported in China, on January 11, 2020, Edgar had noticed that little blurb from the back page of the Seattle Times had grown daily. The exponential growth in news coverage of the virus in the newspaper, as well as everywhere else, walked in tandem with the exponential growth of the virus itself. Edgar read intently and daily. That day, it was a half-page article on page A2. That was the last time COVID 19 would be second-page news. From then on, COVID 19 would be on the front page daily. In fact, by the end of March, COVID 19 would be seventy-five percent or more of the Seattle Times, and based on what Edgar observed, approximately one-hundred percent of CNN’s broadcasting.
The rapidity with which COVID 19 went from back page, to front page, to every page reminded Edgar of the opening montage of every disaster, apocalypse, or zombie movie he’d ever watched. Edgar consumed horror movies in about the same quantity as he consumed news media, that is, anytime, and all the time. Low-budget movies with dystopian themes always used this same sort of deterioration, collapse of society montage. Once you know what you’re looking for, they stick out like a sore thumb. Whenever you see an actual news media clip from ten years ago, that has been repurposed, and taken out of context, in order to set the stage for an apocalyptic event, you know you’re in for a low-budget, dystopian masterpiece. It’s a good way to convey the collapse of human civilization on the cheap. Big-budget movies do it differently. They build expensive sets of newsrooms, and hire actual news media personalities like Wolf Blitzer to set the story up, and they usually spend more time showing you the collapse. Either way, to Edgar, this felt like the first ten seconds of a five-minute disaster montage.
He’d didn’t yet know how serious it would become, nobody did. The seasonal flu kills tens of thousands every year, and Edgar had lived long enough to see the new media’s foretelling of disaster from SARS in 2003, and H1N1 in 2009, neither amounted to much, and neither had worried Edgar at the time. There was no indication that this was anymore serious than any of the dozens of outbreaks the world deals with every year, just a feeling.
Edgar was an attorney, and had spent most of his adult life trying to mute that part of himself that most people called intuition or instinct, in favor or rationality and reason. He certainly made his best efforts to never let that part of himself start making decisions for him. At best, a hunch was just a reason to take a closer look at something, but every once in a while, your instincts tell you to move quickly when you feel yourself being followed down a dark alley. To Edgar, this felt like the dark alley.
Edgar always flipped to the back pages of the newspaper first. Edgar was forty-four, and because of that, he’d lived about half his life in an analog world, and the other half in a digital one. One consequence of being in this transitional generation was that he maintained numerous antiquated habits, having an actual newspaper delivered to his doorstep was just such a habit. Edgar preferred to read his paper in the evening, and he also preferred reading the newspaper backwards. Reading the front page was typically a waste of his time. By the time Edgar got around to reading the paper, after work, he would have received fifty news reports on his phone, and seen CNN segments at the gym. Even at dinner time, the local evening news would cover most of the big local stories, so the back pages were the only part of the paper that still had fresh information for him to consume.
If you want to know what the city council did today, or how your national or state representatives voted on bills that never made it to the front page, you read the Roll Call in the back of the paper. Similarly, if you want to read about service workers on strike, or a police officer being suspended for some sort of misconduct, you flip to the back pages. On this occasion, if you wanted to see an obscure blurb about an, as yet, unidentified virus and proto-pandemic, you flipped to the back pages. Edgar remembered similar blurbs in 2003 and 2009. Those blurbs were SARS and H1N1 respectively. Edgar mentioned it to his wife Audrey and left it at that.
By the time the first death was reported in China, on January 11, 2020, Edgar had noticed that little blurb from the back page of the Seattle Times had grown daily. The exponential growth in news coverage of the virus in the newspaper, as well as everywhere else, walked in tandem with the exponential growth of the virus itself. Edgar read intently and daily. That day, it was a half-page article on page A2. That was the last time COVID 19 would be second-page news. From then on, COVID 19 would be on the front page daily. In fact, by the end of March, COVID 19 would be seventy-five percent or more of the Seattle Times, and based on what Edgar observed, approximately one-hundred percent of CNN’s broadcasting.
The rapidity with which COVID 19 went from back page, to front page, to every page reminded Edgar of the opening montage of every disaster, apocalypse, or zombie movie he’d ever watched. Edgar consumed horror movies in about the same quantity as he consumed news media, that is, anytime, and all the time. Low-budget movies with dystopian themes always used this same sort of deterioration, collapse of society montage. Once you know what you’re looking for, they stick out like a sore thumb. Whenever you see an actual news media clip from ten years ago, that has been repurposed, and taken out of context, in order to set the stage for an apocalyptic event, you know you’re in for a low-budget, dystopian masterpiece. It’s a good way to convey the collapse of human civilization on the cheap. Big-budget movies do it differently. They build expensive sets of newsrooms, and hire actual news media personalities like Wolf Blitzer to set the story up, and they usually spend more time showing you the collapse. Either way, to Edgar, this felt like the first ten seconds of a five-minute disaster montage.
He’d didn’t yet know how serious it would become, nobody did. The seasonal flu kills tens of thousands every year, and Edgar had lived long enough to see the new media’s foretelling of disaster from SARS in 2003, and H1N1 in 2009, neither amounted to much, and neither had worried Edgar at the time. There was no indication that this was anymore serious than any of the dozens of outbreaks the world deals with every year, just a feeling.
Edgar was an attorney, and had spent most of his adult life trying to mute that part of himself that most people called intuition or instinct, in favor or rationality and reason. He certainly made his best efforts to never let that part of himself start making decisions for him. At best, a hunch was just a reason to take a closer look at something, but every once in a while, your instincts tell you to move quickly when you feel yourself being followed down a dark alley. To Edgar, this felt like the dark alley.
A Solar System of Individuals
I envision the people in my life like a solar system. I am the star, not a celebrity, but an actual star. Of course, I am at the center of my solar system, and the people in my orbit are like a thousand planets surrounding me.
The ones that are closest get the most light and warmth from me, but there are only a few. Let's call them the inner circle of close friends, associates, and family. Not all friends, family or associates are allowed into the inner circle. As a matter of fact, very few are. My most intense interactions happen with these people, and communication is allowed and welcomed pretty much anytime.
The group outside of that are outer circle friends, associates, and most other extended family. There are a lot of neighbors, people at work, and family members that are " outer circle friends," not close ones, just friends. Some hug the ring close to the inner circle, sometimes but not often, punching their way through to the inner circle, but mostly "friends" stay in that comfortable space of texting you when they have something to say, or maybe a couple of times a year to just say hi. That seems like a proper boundary expectation for people that inhabit this particular belt of my human solar system.
Everyone else that I know are acquaintances, adversaries, and friends or family members I don't care for who I've relegated to the cornfield. Acquaintances are necessary and mostly not objectionable. Adversaries, while they can be aggravating, still exist and need categorization, therefore they also reside here. Family members and friends that have fallen out of favor, or that you just can't fuckin' stand, must also be categorized somehow, so here they sit. Communications from acquaintances is sparse, and rightly so. It is rarely objectionable since it is sparse and light. Communication from overzealous adversaries, irritating family members, and clueless acquaintances is never welcomed and almost always frequent and burdensome.
The remainder of humans are strangers. Strangers are good, and I welcome interactions with strangers, so please feel free to contact me about my books, my posts, etc. Interactions with strangers are often less awkward than interactions with people you know. Plus, strangers can be abandoned altogether when an awkward interaction has occurred. For those you already know, the awkward interaction is forever memorialized in the annals of the relationship, often making further interactions more awkward. Strangers deliver a no strings attached human interaction, my favorite type.
In the real solar system, everything inhabits its proper place. Celestial bodies don't spontaneously co opt another's orbit.
Sometimes an outer circle friend, acquaintance, or out of favor family member decides they want to exist in a more intimate part of my solar system. They flout convention and order. They try to jump from an outer ring to the inner circle. And just like moving the arm of a record player across grooved vinyl from the first song to the last without picking up the needle, they cause actual damage and chaos.
When someone you barely know starts calling you "bro," red flag. When a family member you can't stand says they just want to have a closer relationship with you, red flag. When a one-night stand shows up at your work, red flag.
It makes sense, it does. All things seek equilibrium; water levels itself. A person content minding their own business becomes a vacuum sucking in people who require inputs from other humans to feel okay. Unfortunately, the equilibrium this world seeks, in this respect, disrupts my homeostasis.
The ones that are closest get the most light and warmth from me, but there are only a few. Let's call them the inner circle of close friends, associates, and family. Not all friends, family or associates are allowed into the inner circle. As a matter of fact, very few are. My most intense interactions happen with these people, and communication is allowed and welcomed pretty much anytime.
The group outside of that are outer circle friends, associates, and most other extended family. There are a lot of neighbors, people at work, and family members that are " outer circle friends," not close ones, just friends. Some hug the ring close to the inner circle, sometimes but not often, punching their way through to the inner circle, but mostly "friends" stay in that comfortable space of texting you when they have something to say, or maybe a couple of times a year to just say hi. That seems like a proper boundary expectation for people that inhabit this particular belt of my human solar system.
Everyone else that I know are acquaintances, adversaries, and friends or family members I don't care for who I've relegated to the cornfield. Acquaintances are necessary and mostly not objectionable. Adversaries, while they can be aggravating, still exist and need categorization, therefore they also reside here. Family members and friends that have fallen out of favor, or that you just can't fuckin' stand, must also be categorized somehow, so here they sit. Communications from acquaintances is sparse, and rightly so. It is rarely objectionable since it is sparse and light. Communication from overzealous adversaries, irritating family members, and clueless acquaintances is never welcomed and almost always frequent and burdensome.
The remainder of humans are strangers. Strangers are good, and I welcome interactions with strangers, so please feel free to contact me about my books, my posts, etc. Interactions with strangers are often less awkward than interactions with people you know. Plus, strangers can be abandoned altogether when an awkward interaction has occurred. For those you already know, the awkward interaction is forever memorialized in the annals of the relationship, often making further interactions more awkward. Strangers deliver a no strings attached human interaction, my favorite type.
In the real solar system, everything inhabits its proper place. Celestial bodies don't spontaneously co opt another's orbit.
Sometimes an outer circle friend, acquaintance, or out of favor family member decides they want to exist in a more intimate part of my solar system. They flout convention and order. They try to jump from an outer ring to the inner circle. And just like moving the arm of a record player across grooved vinyl from the first song to the last without picking up the needle, they cause actual damage and chaos.
When someone you barely know starts calling you "bro," red flag. When a family member you can't stand says they just want to have a closer relationship with you, red flag. When a one-night stand shows up at your work, red flag.
It makes sense, it does. All things seek equilibrium; water levels itself. A person content minding their own business becomes a vacuum sucking in people who require inputs from other humans to feel okay. Unfortunately, the equilibrium this world seeks, in this respect, disrupts my homeostasis.
July 8, 2023
Ranchero
Sunday morning is always a special ditch for me. It’s typically the best meal of the week, and I always pull it at a restaurant that I’ve ran out on at least two or three times before. Sometimes I see that recognition in the eyes of the manager, and it’s like the standoff in a spaghetti western. They always serve me, even when they know I’m going to run. It’s just bad form not to serve an old man his Sunday brunch.
There’s always this look of fear in the manager’s eyes when they see me. What can they do, call the cops. Is the fat sweaty man in the short-sleeved dress shirt going to confront me in front of all these people? I think not. As he crumbles over the pressure, I sit relaxed, enjoying my eggs and bacon. At the age of sixty-eight this about the only excitement left in my life
The waitress is oblivious to the power struggle going on right in front of her as she fills my coffee cup for the fourth time. This time I slide a couple of fives across the table at her. My gesture is only met by a blank stare.
“Are you ready for your bill?”
“You can bring it whenever, but I wanted to make sure you got your tip now.”
A mass exodus of blue haired women provided the opening I was looking for. I snapped to my feet, and darted to the door. With my jacket in one hand, and the door in the other I appeared to be the attentive senior citizen husband that taxis his wife and her knitting group to brunch. As I let go of the heavy door to make my break I heard the crack of metal striking old bones. Behind me, the door I had just hastily released now trapped an especially small and frail knitter. She squirmed and wiggled like a mouse, snapped in half by one of those spring-loaded traps people used to use to catch rodents. I felt bad, but not bad enough to go back, or pay for my meal. It’s just like that in combat sometimes. In Vietnam that choice to leave a man behind for the survival of the platoon could be made several times a week, and I never looked back then either.
All the commotion from the knitter stuck in the door had drawn the attention of that fat sweaty manager. My escape needed to be accelerated, but demanding more from my body these days took an enormous effort. Even with a complete knee replacement on the right side, and a stomach full of hash browns I legged it out to the Ranchero. In my rearview I could already see that the fat man had managed to dislodge the knitter from the sprung mousetrap the door had become, and was now approaching. He was waving a piece of paper in one hand that I assumed was my bill. At the command of my key eight cylinders roared to life, and I slammed the stick into reverse with the clutch only half engaged. There was a loud grinding as I did this, and then I felt a clunk throughout the whole frame. For an instant I thought I was dead in the water, and it seemed like that fat man might finally have his day. And it seemed like I might actually have to pay for my Sunday feast, and a tow truck. That’s what it seemed like, but when my left foot slid off the clutch the rear tires smoked and I was immediately doing thirty miles an hour in reverse. Out of an instinctual need to escape I cranked the wheel, and muscled the shifter into first without the assistance of the clutch. The Rancheroresponded by spinning one hundred and eighty degrees, then I took it over the nearest curb to get out of the parking lot. The fat bastard stood there, out of breath, staring at me. Defeated, the bill now just dangled at the end of a limp arm like a flag of surrender.
Third Sunday in a row I’ve got that fat bastard at the IHOP. He’s thirty-five years younger than me, and he can’t get across the parking lot without getting winded. What a disappointment that fucker is. I’m going back next week, got to teach him a lesson.
When I pull up to the apartment building that Wurlitzer kid is sitting on the steps outside. Talk about a fat bastard, this little criminal is as wide as he is tall.
“Ha, old man, nice El Camino”
“It’s a 68’ Ford Ranchero, Chevy makes El Caminos.”
“You got a smoke old timer?”
“Yeah, I got a whole pack. Do you have any?”
“What? No, I don’t have any.”
“Well, good luck getting some.”
That kid is as stupid as he looks.
When I walked into the apartment the light on the message machine was flashing. I had the feeling I knew who it was, so I didn’t bother to check it. Instead I sat on the couch and screamed at the television set while the Seahawks lost to the Raiders. Six cans of Budweiser into the game the phone rang. The voice on the other end was the reason I’d chosen not to check my message machine, but the early afternoon buzz short-circuited my natural reaction to ignore the phone and I picked up.
“Jerry?” A woman’s voice spoke.
“Jerry, are you there?”
“Of course I’m here, I picked up the phone didn’t I.”
“Did you see Adam today? He said you never showed up.”
"Look Susan, I don’t think that kid is mine. I don’t hear from you for three decades, then you just give me a call and tell me I have this grown son.”
“Well you do, and I’m sorry about how it happened but he wants to know who his father is. If you want to be upset at someone, be upset at me. Don’t take it out on your son. Will you call him?”
“No. I’ll go see him.”
“Are you going to show up this time?”
“I said I’d go see him. I’ll go by there next Sunday.”
“A whole week!”
“You’re lucky I’m going at all after what you did. Just tell him, I’ll see him next Sunday. Bye.”
The television clicker wouldn’t make the volume on the game go back up. The demise of the remote’s life force came as no shock. Those batteries had been on their way out for weeks. Going to the store was out of the question, and fishing some living ones out of another device seemed too labor intensive. After dusting off Bud number seven, getting number eight out of the refrigerator seemed too labor intensive as well. Even without sound it was clear the Seahawks were still losing. Instead of turning the volume back up I just closed my eyes.
When I woke up my arm was asleep, or maybe that pins and needles sensation is why I woke up. The clock fell off the wall a couple of months ago, and the white circle where it used to be is the only indication of the apartment’s original color. The current color of nicotine yellow covered the remainder of the wall. Lending no useful information, the VCR just flashed twelve o’clock over and over again. When I found my watch in the bathroom I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. The lines the couch had left on my face blended well with the ones that old age had left on my face, and I flashed myself a smile that exposed my wall shaded dentures. My watch confirmed what I already suspected. After nine o’clock, and well past my bedtime. After lighting a smoke I sprawled out on my couch again, but this time I stripped to my skivvies and pulled the blanket over me.
When I woke up the following Sunday morning I was already thinking about how I was going to stiff that fat bastard at the IHOP again. Going down there on Sunday had become the highlight of my week, and I decided right then and there that I would rip off that place every Sunday until that manager guy caught me. That fucker was yellow, and I was going to make him grow a backbone if it killed him.
The best thing about being retired is that you never have anywhere to be, and if you do it’s because you were stupid enough to take on some bullshit charity commitment somewhere because you thought you’d be bored without a job to go to. Who’s stupid enough to go work somewhere for free after they’d already worked a lifetime. Well I’ll tell you what; I’m no sucker. After the clock fell off the wall I just chucked it into the garbage. The compulsion to look and see what time it is hasn’t been so easy to dispose of.
The light on the message machine was flashing again, but I didn’t bother to check the tape. I already knew who it was, and she was the reason I’d turned the ringer off the night before. Yesterday’s paper was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch when I woke up, so I lit a smoke and browsed the articles. The Sunday paper on the doorstep would have been more interesting, but Saturday’s is sitting right in front of me. Sunday’s news will have to wait for Monday morning.
That growling and slight nausea growing in my stomach was telling me that it was time for the IHOP. I pulled up yesterday’s trousers, put on a fresh shirt, and maneuvered my suspenders into place. The circle on the wall didn’t know what time it was, neither did the VCR, and my watch was misplaced again. Time was a minor detail anyway, so I pulled on my tweed derby cap and headed out.
After cruising the block a couple times I confirmed that the quarry was indeed in his normal setting. Today I wouldn’t make it so easy for him. I pulled the Ranchero into a spot on the North side of the building. It was still relatively close to the exit, but was also completely obscured by bushes.
After heading in it didn’t take long for the sweaty, fat man to take notice of me. This neither shocked nor frightened me. As always he was wearing his short-sleeved dress shirt with a polyester Searstie. Nobody dresses in this manner except restaurant managers, and Mormon missionaries. If either ever show up on your doorstep, punch first and ask questions later.
“You’re not getting away this week old man.” His nametag threatened to blind me with all the flare and shiny buttons. Nobody else here had as many shiny buttons on their nametag. They were like war medals, for losers. It was like he was the General of some kind of pathetic and sad food army.
“Well I’d like to see you stop me, Adam.”
“Enjoy your pancakes and hash browns. Really enjoy them, because you’re going to be paying for them this time.”
That fat kid had fire in his gut today, and I was starting to think getting over on him was going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. Up until this moment I’d had my doubts about him, but I still wasn’t sure. It was going to take more than an idle threat to convince me, but it was a good start.
“More coffee? That generic, bubbly tone in the voice was the hallmark of all successful waitresses.
“Of course.”
“Rise and Shine Senior special today?”
“Yeah, three of them.”
“Are people joining you?”
“No. Make sure to charge me full price too.”
“You got it.”
In the background I could hear her calling out the order to the line cook. This caught the attention of Adam the manager, and it prompted another visit to my booth.
“What do you think you’re doing Jerry?”
“Trying to get my breakfast, but the service around this shit hole leaves something to be desired.”
It took me a little by surprise when he called me by name, and he seemed a little disappointed that I didn’t react. That was obviously his trump card, but my poker face never cracks. He must have talked to his mother and put two and two together, but if that’s all he’s got I’ll beat him like I do every other week. Fuck him. I’ll fake a heart attack, and leave in an ambulance if that’s what it takes.
My three Rise and Shine’s soon arrived. I made sure to eat off every plate, but finished none of them. The three meals were just a smokescreen, something to confuse old Adam, mess up his game plan, fuck with his head. The real plan was the same as always; I’d wait for another diversion to happen in the restaurant, and slip out while he tended to it.
As I glanced toward the bushes that the Ranchero hid safely behind my doubt about the fat manager, and his origins returned. My pondering was interrupted by voices in the distance. Dozens of conversations took place in the dining area, but I singled out two distinct voices in the crowd. It’s a skill I’ve always had, and today it was going to pay off in a big way.
“We’re out of ones.” My waitress’s voice called out to the fat man.
“Again! There’s none in the safe. It’s Sunday I can’t go to the bank.”
“Well we’re out Adam.”
“I’ll go to the 7-11, and see if they’ll sell me a bundle.”
Poor Adam, this wasn’t even fair. I almost felt bad for ditching while he was off the premises, but I take opportunities where they’re given. Maybe another day kid, but today belonged to the old man. I pulled my derby on, and removed a couple of fives from my wallet. With my shirt-pocket pen I scribbled, “tip for waitress” on a napkin, and slid the fives under it. Right then my bill appeared in front of me, and since I already had my pen out I wrote, “better luck next Sunday, Adam” on the back of the bill.
With my escape all but assured, I moved toward the exit without even bothering to look over my shoulder. Adam walked out the front door three minutes ago, and handed me the easiest meal I ever stole. As I started up the walkway toward the parking lot the voice that haunts my message machine called out:
“Did you see Adam?”
“You checking up on me Susan.”
“I just wanted to make sure you two got together. How’d it go?”
“Great, he’s good, I’m full. I got to go, call me later.”
Wild cards were just popping out of the woodwork, but I’d been in plenty of tight situations before. It was starting to seem like getting me to pay for my meal was not the fat boy’s primary objective. Susan’s presence was no coincidence, but I couldn’t figure it out at this moment.
There was no turning back now. The faster I walked the more my fake knee throbbed, and I held it as I fled. The knee would recover, just an acceptable strategic loss. Sun Tzu would concur. To avoid further eye contact I dropped my head and stared at my loafers as I limped along. I kept waiting to hear Adam’s winded voice behind me, yelling about the bill or something, but it never came. The noise that now caught my attention was the unmistakable noise of a tow truck’s hydraulic lift. When I looked up from my loafers my worst fear was confirmed.
Adam stood with a huge grin on his face as the tow truck pulled out of the IHOP parking lot.
“Well played.”
“Thanks, old man.”
“You want that money for the bill now?”
“Nah, this one’s on me. Besides you’re going to need save your Social Security check to get your car back.”
“It’s not a car, it’s a Ford Ranchero. Any kid of mine would know that.”
“1968 Ranchero with a stock 428. I had a peek under the hood before I called the tow guy.”
“I’ll take you for a ride sometime if you want.”
“Sure, anytime. I got to get back to work, alright.”
“Hey son, do you know if your mom is still here?”
“I think she’s inside.”
“Do you think she’ll give me a ride home?”
There’s always this look of fear in the manager’s eyes when they see me. What can they do, call the cops. Is the fat sweaty man in the short-sleeved dress shirt going to confront me in front of all these people? I think not. As he crumbles over the pressure, I sit relaxed, enjoying my eggs and bacon. At the age of sixty-eight this about the only excitement left in my life
The waitress is oblivious to the power struggle going on right in front of her as she fills my coffee cup for the fourth time. This time I slide a couple of fives across the table at her. My gesture is only met by a blank stare.
“Are you ready for your bill?”
“You can bring it whenever, but I wanted to make sure you got your tip now.”
A mass exodus of blue haired women provided the opening I was looking for. I snapped to my feet, and darted to the door. With my jacket in one hand, and the door in the other I appeared to be the attentive senior citizen husband that taxis his wife and her knitting group to brunch. As I let go of the heavy door to make my break I heard the crack of metal striking old bones. Behind me, the door I had just hastily released now trapped an especially small and frail knitter. She squirmed and wiggled like a mouse, snapped in half by one of those spring-loaded traps people used to use to catch rodents. I felt bad, but not bad enough to go back, or pay for my meal. It’s just like that in combat sometimes. In Vietnam that choice to leave a man behind for the survival of the platoon could be made several times a week, and I never looked back then either.
All the commotion from the knitter stuck in the door had drawn the attention of that fat sweaty manager. My escape needed to be accelerated, but demanding more from my body these days took an enormous effort. Even with a complete knee replacement on the right side, and a stomach full of hash browns I legged it out to the Ranchero. In my rearview I could already see that the fat man had managed to dislodge the knitter from the sprung mousetrap the door had become, and was now approaching. He was waving a piece of paper in one hand that I assumed was my bill. At the command of my key eight cylinders roared to life, and I slammed the stick into reverse with the clutch only half engaged. There was a loud grinding as I did this, and then I felt a clunk throughout the whole frame. For an instant I thought I was dead in the water, and it seemed like that fat man might finally have his day. And it seemed like I might actually have to pay for my Sunday feast, and a tow truck. That’s what it seemed like, but when my left foot slid off the clutch the rear tires smoked and I was immediately doing thirty miles an hour in reverse. Out of an instinctual need to escape I cranked the wheel, and muscled the shifter into first without the assistance of the clutch. The Rancheroresponded by spinning one hundred and eighty degrees, then I took it over the nearest curb to get out of the parking lot. The fat bastard stood there, out of breath, staring at me. Defeated, the bill now just dangled at the end of a limp arm like a flag of surrender.
Third Sunday in a row I’ve got that fat bastard at the IHOP. He’s thirty-five years younger than me, and he can’t get across the parking lot without getting winded. What a disappointment that fucker is. I’m going back next week, got to teach him a lesson.
When I pull up to the apartment building that Wurlitzer kid is sitting on the steps outside. Talk about a fat bastard, this little criminal is as wide as he is tall.
“Ha, old man, nice El Camino”
“It’s a 68’ Ford Ranchero, Chevy makes El Caminos.”
“You got a smoke old timer?”
“Yeah, I got a whole pack. Do you have any?”
“What? No, I don’t have any.”
“Well, good luck getting some.”
That kid is as stupid as he looks.
When I walked into the apartment the light on the message machine was flashing. I had the feeling I knew who it was, so I didn’t bother to check it. Instead I sat on the couch and screamed at the television set while the Seahawks lost to the Raiders. Six cans of Budweiser into the game the phone rang. The voice on the other end was the reason I’d chosen not to check my message machine, but the early afternoon buzz short-circuited my natural reaction to ignore the phone and I picked up.
“Jerry?” A woman’s voice spoke.
“Jerry, are you there?”
“Of course I’m here, I picked up the phone didn’t I.”
“Did you see Adam today? He said you never showed up.”
"Look Susan, I don’t think that kid is mine. I don’t hear from you for three decades, then you just give me a call and tell me I have this grown son.”
“Well you do, and I’m sorry about how it happened but he wants to know who his father is. If you want to be upset at someone, be upset at me. Don’t take it out on your son. Will you call him?”
“No. I’ll go see him.”
“Are you going to show up this time?”
“I said I’d go see him. I’ll go by there next Sunday.”
“A whole week!”
“You’re lucky I’m going at all after what you did. Just tell him, I’ll see him next Sunday. Bye.”
The television clicker wouldn’t make the volume on the game go back up. The demise of the remote’s life force came as no shock. Those batteries had been on their way out for weeks. Going to the store was out of the question, and fishing some living ones out of another device seemed too labor intensive. After dusting off Bud number seven, getting number eight out of the refrigerator seemed too labor intensive as well. Even without sound it was clear the Seahawks were still losing. Instead of turning the volume back up I just closed my eyes.
When I woke up my arm was asleep, or maybe that pins and needles sensation is why I woke up. The clock fell off the wall a couple of months ago, and the white circle where it used to be is the only indication of the apartment’s original color. The current color of nicotine yellow covered the remainder of the wall. Lending no useful information, the VCR just flashed twelve o’clock over and over again. When I found my watch in the bathroom I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. The lines the couch had left on my face blended well with the ones that old age had left on my face, and I flashed myself a smile that exposed my wall shaded dentures. My watch confirmed what I already suspected. After nine o’clock, and well past my bedtime. After lighting a smoke I sprawled out on my couch again, but this time I stripped to my skivvies and pulled the blanket over me.
When I woke up the following Sunday morning I was already thinking about how I was going to stiff that fat bastard at the IHOP again. Going down there on Sunday had become the highlight of my week, and I decided right then and there that I would rip off that place every Sunday until that manager guy caught me. That fucker was yellow, and I was going to make him grow a backbone if it killed him.
The best thing about being retired is that you never have anywhere to be, and if you do it’s because you were stupid enough to take on some bullshit charity commitment somewhere because you thought you’d be bored without a job to go to. Who’s stupid enough to go work somewhere for free after they’d already worked a lifetime. Well I’ll tell you what; I’m no sucker. After the clock fell off the wall I just chucked it into the garbage. The compulsion to look and see what time it is hasn’t been so easy to dispose of.
The light on the message machine was flashing again, but I didn’t bother to check the tape. I already knew who it was, and she was the reason I’d turned the ringer off the night before. Yesterday’s paper was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch when I woke up, so I lit a smoke and browsed the articles. The Sunday paper on the doorstep would have been more interesting, but Saturday’s is sitting right in front of me. Sunday’s news will have to wait for Monday morning.
That growling and slight nausea growing in my stomach was telling me that it was time for the IHOP. I pulled up yesterday’s trousers, put on a fresh shirt, and maneuvered my suspenders into place. The circle on the wall didn’t know what time it was, neither did the VCR, and my watch was misplaced again. Time was a minor detail anyway, so I pulled on my tweed derby cap and headed out.
After cruising the block a couple times I confirmed that the quarry was indeed in his normal setting. Today I wouldn’t make it so easy for him. I pulled the Ranchero into a spot on the North side of the building. It was still relatively close to the exit, but was also completely obscured by bushes.
After heading in it didn’t take long for the sweaty, fat man to take notice of me. This neither shocked nor frightened me. As always he was wearing his short-sleeved dress shirt with a polyester Searstie. Nobody dresses in this manner except restaurant managers, and Mormon missionaries. If either ever show up on your doorstep, punch first and ask questions later.
“You’re not getting away this week old man.” His nametag threatened to blind me with all the flare and shiny buttons. Nobody else here had as many shiny buttons on their nametag. They were like war medals, for losers. It was like he was the General of some kind of pathetic and sad food army.
“Well I’d like to see you stop me, Adam.”
“Enjoy your pancakes and hash browns. Really enjoy them, because you’re going to be paying for them this time.”
That fat kid had fire in his gut today, and I was starting to think getting over on him was going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. Up until this moment I’d had my doubts about him, but I still wasn’t sure. It was going to take more than an idle threat to convince me, but it was a good start.
“More coffee? That generic, bubbly tone in the voice was the hallmark of all successful waitresses.
“Of course.”
“Rise and Shine Senior special today?”
“Yeah, three of them.”
“Are people joining you?”
“No. Make sure to charge me full price too.”
“You got it.”
In the background I could hear her calling out the order to the line cook. This caught the attention of Adam the manager, and it prompted another visit to my booth.
“What do you think you’re doing Jerry?”
“Trying to get my breakfast, but the service around this shit hole leaves something to be desired.”
It took me a little by surprise when he called me by name, and he seemed a little disappointed that I didn’t react. That was obviously his trump card, but my poker face never cracks. He must have talked to his mother and put two and two together, but if that’s all he’s got I’ll beat him like I do every other week. Fuck him. I’ll fake a heart attack, and leave in an ambulance if that’s what it takes.
My three Rise and Shine’s soon arrived. I made sure to eat off every plate, but finished none of them. The three meals were just a smokescreen, something to confuse old Adam, mess up his game plan, fuck with his head. The real plan was the same as always; I’d wait for another diversion to happen in the restaurant, and slip out while he tended to it.
As I glanced toward the bushes that the Ranchero hid safely behind my doubt about the fat manager, and his origins returned. My pondering was interrupted by voices in the distance. Dozens of conversations took place in the dining area, but I singled out two distinct voices in the crowd. It’s a skill I’ve always had, and today it was going to pay off in a big way.
“We’re out of ones.” My waitress’s voice called out to the fat man.
“Again! There’s none in the safe. It’s Sunday I can’t go to the bank.”
“Well we’re out Adam.”
“I’ll go to the 7-11, and see if they’ll sell me a bundle.”
Poor Adam, this wasn’t even fair. I almost felt bad for ditching while he was off the premises, but I take opportunities where they’re given. Maybe another day kid, but today belonged to the old man. I pulled my derby on, and removed a couple of fives from my wallet. With my shirt-pocket pen I scribbled, “tip for waitress” on a napkin, and slid the fives under it. Right then my bill appeared in front of me, and since I already had my pen out I wrote, “better luck next Sunday, Adam” on the back of the bill.
With my escape all but assured, I moved toward the exit without even bothering to look over my shoulder. Adam walked out the front door three minutes ago, and handed me the easiest meal I ever stole. As I started up the walkway toward the parking lot the voice that haunts my message machine called out:
“Did you see Adam?”
“You checking up on me Susan.”
“I just wanted to make sure you two got together. How’d it go?”
“Great, he’s good, I’m full. I got to go, call me later.”
Wild cards were just popping out of the woodwork, but I’d been in plenty of tight situations before. It was starting to seem like getting me to pay for my meal was not the fat boy’s primary objective. Susan’s presence was no coincidence, but I couldn’t figure it out at this moment.
There was no turning back now. The faster I walked the more my fake knee throbbed, and I held it as I fled. The knee would recover, just an acceptable strategic loss. Sun Tzu would concur. To avoid further eye contact I dropped my head and stared at my loafers as I limped along. I kept waiting to hear Adam’s winded voice behind me, yelling about the bill or something, but it never came. The noise that now caught my attention was the unmistakable noise of a tow truck’s hydraulic lift. When I looked up from my loafers my worst fear was confirmed.
Adam stood with a huge grin on his face as the tow truck pulled out of the IHOP parking lot.
“Well played.”
“Thanks, old man.”
“You want that money for the bill now?”
“Nah, this one’s on me. Besides you’re going to need save your Social Security check to get your car back.”
“It’s not a car, it’s a Ford Ranchero. Any kid of mine would know that.”
“1968 Ranchero with a stock 428. I had a peek under the hood before I called the tow guy.”
“I’ll take you for a ride sometime if you want.”
“Sure, anytime. I got to get back to work, alright.”
“Hey son, do you know if your mom is still here?”
“I think she’s inside.”
“Do you think she’ll give me a ride home?”
