Posts tagged ‘humor’
ELMO’S INVENTION: CHAPTER 8, ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
CHAPTER 8
ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE
It was the morning of the sixth day after The New York Times people left town. The article about Elmo and his invention was published in The Los Alamos Herald and was the impetus for the visit from the Times. Much to Mildred’s joy and astonishment there were no immediate repercussions from the article in The New York Times. The residents of Los Alamos had already had their feathers ruffled by the topic and there were no further reactions. Elmo and Mildred began to relax, confident that all the problems involved with the invention were behind them. That morning Mildred asked Elmo, “Could you run out and get the paper? I’ll make you a nice breakfast before you go to work.” Mildred had mellowed and Elmo’s life was back to normal, but that was about to change in seconds.
Elmo opened the front door, took a few steps and then slowly backed up and closed the door. Their usually quiet street was overflowing with cars, buses and a great mass of people milling around appearing to anticipate something. Elmo had no idea what was going on but had a very bad feeling. Mildred was not going to like this. He peered through the window, and it was then he caught sight of a placard where his name appeared being carried towards his house.
Elmo had little choice. He had to let Mildred know that something was going on. If he didn’t, it would be like trying to hide a herd of elephants taking up residence on their front yard. He gently called, “Oh Mil, there’s something I think you should see. I’m sure it won’t amount to much.”
She entered the front room and asked, “What won’t amount to much?”
As she approached the front window Elmo pushed back the curtains. Mildred stood as if paralyzed, and then shouted, “I knew it! I told you talking to The Times was a big mistake. But no, you were going to save the world.” She stormed out of the room leaving Elmo alone with his thoughts of how this would all work out.
Soon more placards appeared identifying the various organizations present. There was The Friends and Relatives of Prisoners. They were joined by The Society of Prison Guards and another group representing ex-cons. A large group of construction workers were present, their group wearing hard hats, were involved in the building of prisons. Along with their signs, they paraded with a scarecrow suspended from a pole with of picture of Elmo’s face attached to the head.
Keeping to themselves, Elmo spied another small group which stood out like a sore thumb. Outfitted in expensive suits and equally expensive shoes, they held professionally manufactured signs proclaiming them as The Society of Defense Lawyers. Their main beef was the possible elimination of endless appeals which kept them supplied with their expensive attire.
Elmo found it strange, but not disappointing, that this great milling crowd of protesters was not protesting. He also noticed that a buffer zone was carefully observed between the house and the crowd. The answer to his observation of inactivity soon became clear when the news trucks began to arrive. What was the purpose of a protest if there was no one there to record it? Elmo thought it was something like that tree falling in the forest and no one heard it. He noticed something else most disturbing. There was a secondary crowd forming in the distance away from the main body of protesters. He could not recognize individual faces, but he knew who they were. They were the residents of Los Alamos coming to witness the spectacle. This would anger Mildred even more.
Once the cameras were in place and the reporters had their makeup on and were holding microphones, the crowd began to come alive holding up signs and voicing their respective opinions.
But all was not quite finished. The icing on the protest cake was the arrival, with as many lights flashing as possible and sirens wailing, of the Los Alamos police. Four police cars came to a skidding halt on Elmo’s front yard creating deep tire tracks. The chief of the Los Alamos police, John McFurdy first went over to the press and diligently spelled his name for them. Then he went to Elmo’s front door and knocked. Elmo asked the chief in and offered him a cup of coffee. Sitting at the kitchen table, McFurdy said, “All the groups out there obtained permits to protest. There is nothing we can do but ensure that no damage happens to your property.”
Elmo recalled the deep groves he had observed in his front yard.
Chief McFurdy continued, “State police have formed a perimeter around you house to ensure that no one without a permit enters the protest zone.”
Elmo knew that the perimeter was not that great. His neighbors had already broken it. The term ‘protest zone’ made the hairs on the back of Elmo’s neck stand on end.
After McFurdy left, Elmo noticed that six officers had stationed themselves between Elmo’s house and the press. There was a hushed silence. The first camera lights came on and it was as if someone threw a switch: All hell broke loose.
The once silent crowd instantly created a roar. Each group shouted their rehearsed chants. Soon after the beginning of the protest, Elmo’s effigy burst into flames. The various groups began to hurl eggs and tomatoes at Elmo’s house and the police. The lawyer’s contingent hurled non-libelous insults and carefully recorded what they said. A few rocks were thrown, later determined to come from the area populated by the ex-cons, but no real damage was done to the house or bystanders including the police.
The protest went on for two days while the press conducted interviews. One woman came forward and held up a copy of The New York Times pointing to the before and after pictures of Elmo’s demonstration shouting, “My son is in prison. I don’t want him turned to ash.” Behind her stood a grizzled ex-con, his shaved head glistening in the sun. “Nobody is putting me in no fucking death chamber,” indicating his life of crime was not yet over.
After the media had their film and interviews they began to pack up and leave. With the media gone the protesters lost their enthusiasm and quietly slipped away leaving a mess of litter and protest signs. There were some portable toilets available, but not nearly enough to handle the large crowd, so the area around Elmo’s home was not only a mess but also a health hazard.
* * *
Once the protesters had left, Kingsley Dasher slowly made his way to Elmo’s residence not knowing what he would find. He climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. The Elmo that greeted him was one he didn’t know. The man appeared beaten, the image of a lost soul. Before he could stop himself, Kingsley asked, “How are you doing, Elmo?”
Elmo stood with slumped shoulders, and dark-rimmed eyes answered with a raspy voice, “I’ve been better.”
“May I come in?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t mind a little company right now.” Elmo led his friend into the living room and offered him a seat.
Kingsley said, “You had to endure quite a ruckus, Elmo. I feel guilty that I was the one who pointed out the obvious use of your invention. I suspected something might happen once the existence of your invention was made known, but I never imagined the level of hostility. The reality is our society is a fickle society. It professes one set of values, but it is mere lip service. The values that are actually in practice are completely different from those voiced.
“Money is the value our society holds dearest.
“Your invention would have saved millions of dollars, perhaps billions in doing away with the prison system and at the same time providing swift justice for the guilty. But at the same time, it would have deprived hundreds maybe thousands of people of their livelihood. Construction workers and prison guards would suffer and let us not forget the lawyers with their endless appeals. Society has problems with such sudden changes no matter how beneficial they are.”
Kingsley then took a moment to look around and wondered where Mildred was. “How is Mildred handling all this?”
“Not very well. The day the protests began she left for her sister’s home in Santa Fe. I call but she refuses to talk to me.”
“I’m sure she’ll come around once all this is over. It will just take some time. This whole experience was quite a blow for both of you. To say it was a life-disrupting event would be putting it mildly.”
The two men sat in silence for a while and then the phone rang. Elmo jumped up hoping it was Mildred, but he was to be extremely disappointed and further upset.
“Hello,” he said.
Kingsley watched Elmo’s face and immediately knew the news was not good. Elmo had little to say during the short call. After hanging up, he told Kingsley, “That was a representative of the American Civil Liberties Union calling to notify me that they are issuing a class-action lawsuit on behalf of prisoners, families of prisoners and ex-convicts. Apparently there are organizations of defense lawyers also preparing lawsuits. This whole thing is just getting worse and worse.
I was hoping to patent the device and make some money. Now it appears it may cost me everything I have. This is definitely not going to bring Mildred home.”
Kingsley knew that Elmo needed to be alone. He rose and said, “I would suggest you issue a statement saying that upon further consideration, you’ve decided to discontinue any further attempts in patenting or selling your machine.
“Your science was sound, Elmo. Society just wasn’t prepared for such a sudden advance.”
Kingsley left Elmo sitting on the couch, a man in love with science and defied by society.
PLUMBING PROBLEMS: PART VIII
PLUMBING PROBLEMS VIII
While Robin was involved with her various activities, I busied myself with some errands. After a few hours we returned home and as we approached the house, I was surprised to see Dave’s truck still in my driveway. I got Robin settled with a snack and a video we had rented, then proceeded upstairs to see how things are coming along. I thought Dave would be long gone by now. The fact that he was still here was not a good sign; a big bill was heading my way. Halfway up the stairs, I was greeted by a horrible stench that started me gagging. I made it up the stairs and opened some of the windows. The house smelled like Porto-John on a hot summer day. I was not really prepared for what I found in the master bathroom. Dave’s tools were scattered over the floor, but Dave wasn’t there. Yellowish goo, inches deep in some places, covered the bathroom floor. The smell in the bathroom was horrible, smelling as if the septic system had backed up and that smell was combined with another smell that defied description. I hurried from the bathroom and started calling for Dave. I went outside for some fresh air and took a short walk around the property. Jack was working in his field, so I asked if he had seen anyone walking around my place. Jack just shook his head and went back to his work. Finally, I phoned Dave’s office and was greeted by the voice of a young woman who introduced herself as Debbie Watson and asked how she could help me. I told her who I was and that Dave’s truck was still at my house but I couldn’t find Dave and my plumbing problems were getting worse. Debbie’s voice changed from that of a professional secretary to a worried wife and then to something else. She suddenly sounded furious.
THE DRIVING LESSON: A COMEDY
An unpublished story
THE DRIVING LESSON
Many years ago, while I was in high school, Sam Franks was my driving instructor. He was a good instructor, easy-going and fun. Then one day I had an instructor change: a change from hell.
I was a junior, and every Thursday, during, my study hall I was scheduled for a driving lesson. Mr. Franks taught me to drive a Honda, equipped for student drivers; I loved driving that little car.
The morning of my fourth lesson arrived and I went out to the parking lot to meet Mr. Franks, but he wasn’t there, and the Honda was nowhere in sight. I walked around the lot looking lost when I heard my name called out. I turned to see a man approaching, a stranger to me, and someone who seemed out of place in a high school parking lot. He appeared to be in his sixties, tall and thin. What really made him stand out were his clothes. He wore faded bib overalls, stained with oil and grease and a mixture of other things better left unknown. Under his overalls he wore a white sweatshirt, or at least a sweatshirt that was white at one time years ago. On his head he wore a faded green John Deere cap rimmed with sweat stains. Long white hair emerged from beneath the cap. Work boots completed the outfit. His heavily whiskered cheek bulged with what I thought was the largest piece of gum I had ever seen anyone chew.
As he approached he shouted, “Can I help you? Looking for a driving lesson?”
“Well, yes”, I replied,” I’m looking for Mr. Franks.”
“Well, you found him, “came his answer. Now my Mr. Franks was in his thirties, kind of preppy while this guy was old enough to be his – father. The fact that this man knew my name at first puzzled me, but I started putting two and two together – fast. “I guess you expected to see Sam Jr., well, he ain’t here, gone to Pittsburgh to interview for another job and I’m filling in.
“Are you a teacher?” I asked with an unsteady voice.
“Listen, I taught Sam Jr. how to drive a tractor. If I could teach that lunkhead son of mine to drive a tractor I sure as hell can teach you to drive a car. The principal of the school said I needed a teaching credential but I had a year to get it, so I figured what the hell, I’ll make some money for a year and then I’m out of here. Now let’s get your butt behind the wheel.”
That was the other problem I immediately identified, there was no car. I guess from the look on my face, Mr. Franks Sr. knew what I was thinking. “Sam Jr. loaned that little Honda to another teachee, so I had to bring my own vehicle.” With that, Mr. Franks pointed to a pickup truck older than me. Between the rust and the patching, I found it hard to determine the color, but I think it had once been blue. Now the Honda I loved had three peddles – a gas pedal and two brake pedals. The truck had three peddles also, but they were all on the driver’s side. This damn old piece of crap had a standard transmission.
“I can’t drive a standard transmission,” I said.
“Oh yes you can,” came Mr. Franks reply.
“What about the instructor’s brake?” was my next question?
“I got long legs,” he said, “and I figure after I squash your foot a couple of times you won’t make any more stupid damn mistakes.”
Did I want to go back into school or what – but the lessons were paid for and Mr. Franks did not look like the kind of man that would give refunds. When I entered the cab of the pickup I got a sickening feeling that it wasn’t gum that was bulging his cheek. There, attached to the dash, with a piece of coat hanger, was an old coffee can, which he wound up using often during the lesson. Reluctantly, I sat on the bench seat of the pickup, and with some difficulty, attached the lap belt. The next the thing I knew, Mr. Franks was shouting, “Damn it, what in the hell are you doing messing up the seat belts?”
“I’m using it,” I said firmly.
“I had them all laid out so nice and now you screwed them up,” he groaned, “don’t let it happen again.”
With the seat belt part of the lesson out of the way, I started the engine. We immediately lurched forward and the engine died. “What in the hell do you think the clutch is for, decoration?” he screamed. I thought maybe he could teach me the use of the clutch, but I kept that idea to myself. I felt a demonstration would be helpful and it was soon in coming. “Put your foot on the clutch,” he said, and I did. Before I knew it his size twelve work boot had smashed the clutch peddle, along with my foot, down to the floor. “You step on the clutch when you start the engine and when you change gears, you idiot.”
I will not describe the next fifteen or so minutes because it has taken me years trying to forget. I finally got the truck started and sort of found most of the gears. The fact that I didn’t have to wear a neck collar for months after the lesson was a miracle. By the time we made it out of the parking lot, my lesson was more than half over. “We’ll just do a little driving and then head back,” he said. After a little time on the road, I gained some confidence, although confidence might be too strong a word. We were driving along when I noticed that the light at the intersection about half a block away had turned yellow. I started to gently ease off on the gas when Mr. Franks’ size twelve mashed my foot and the gas pedal down to the floor. People dove for the sidewalk as we barreled through the red light. I sat waiting for the explanation for this maneuver and it was soon coming. “You heard about defensive driving?” he asked. I nodded yes. “Well remember this; the best defense is a good offense.” I rolled my eyes. Mr. Franks was into offensive driving, what a surprise.
The next thing I knew he grabbed the wheel and jerked it to the right. I felt a slight thump, thump as the wheels ran over something. “Stop the truck,” he yelled, “I think we nailed him.” I looked in the rearview mirror and could not believe my eyes. A squirrel lay dead in the street. Franks hopped out of the truck, retrieved a burlap bag from the truck bed, and bagged the poor critter. “Won’t have to go shopping on my way home now,” he said. “You know,” he went on, “all you need to do is skin ‘em and gut ‘em. The wheels act as kind of a natural tenderizer – breaks up the bones and the meat just melts in your mouth.”
I was going to be sick.
That was my first lesson with Sam Franks Sr., but not my last. I finished the course with him and went on to get my license, but I was never quite the same.
I’m married now and have a daughter who wants to learn to drive and wants me to teach her. She doesn’t think her dad has the patience. We’ve gone driving a few times now. Our seatbelts are always buckled, and when we approach a yellow light I make her stop even if she thinks she can make it. I’ve cleared most of Mr. Franks Sr.’s unique habits from my teaching techniques. But I still harbor the memory of that poor little squirrel.
Suddenly a squirrel darts out onto the road, I have a sudden urge, but I keep it under control.
THE END
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