A Sorry State of Affairs

Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats ~ H.L. Mencken

It goes something like this:

Without any warning or any apparent cause, the cable goes off and the screen displays the error message I now know by heart, that they have detected an interruption in my service and advise me to check the connections - as if - and to contact Comcast if the problem persists.  There is, of course, no way to know whether it will be three minutes, three hours, or three days and not wanting to take on the crushing arrogance and ineptitude of the cable company, I generally hold off until I’m sure it’s going to be a prolonged problem.  I am  roadrunner quick to anger and snail slow to letting it out but my cable service is deplorable and shameful and I know there’s no way I will not lose my temper.  Even so, I promise myself this time it will be different.

After a 20 to 30 minute wait for what is satirically called customer service - when you are the sorriest ass cable company in the country, you do tend to rack up the complaints and keep your people occupied – I finally reach a representative who immediately reaches for his script, assures me how sorry he is, promises that he completely understands my frustration, is determined to resolve my issue and is dedicated to providing me with “5 Star Service”.  (No, wait, that last part is Uverse.)  After another 20 minutes or so, he admits that he can’t resolve a damn thing, no surprise there, but that he will be delighted to schedule a technician visit.  I tell him that I don’t need a technician and ask that he check for an outage.  I explain that this happens several times a month – oh, the irony of knowing more about cable service that the cable employees – and request that he check my service records.  He immediately tells me he can’t access that information and after several more futile minutes of back and forth, I ask to speak to a supervisor.  This apparently hurts his feelings and he asks why.  I tell him because he’s a dumb son of a bitch, that I want someone who speaks English, is willing to listen, and who can give me one simple reason why I shouldn’t rip out every piece of godforsaken Comcast equipment, throw it in my car, and drive through their goddamn lobby.  This gets me a supervisor.  She tells me indeed there is an outage, that the estimated repair is 10 pm and that while I don’t need a technician – she can’t imagine what ol’ Akmar/Bubba was thinking to suggest it – with my history, she does recommend a service call to make sure that there isn’t some undiagnosed cable issue.  She can have someone there between 8 and 10 Sunday morning, if I’m okay with that and naturally, there will be no charge.

This is where I’m supposed to be so grateful for her help that I overlook ol’ Akmar/Bubba, the last 12 years of atrocious service, and the odds that no matter what she promises, you’ll be able to knock me over with a feather if some mystery technician actually shows up.  Instead, I tell her Sunday between 8 and 10 will be fine and maybe somebody ought to up the Comcast training game.  She agrees – they always do – and I hang up before she can tell me Thank you for choosing Comcast and I before I can tell her I wouldn’t choose Comcast if they were paying me.

No one shows on Sunday.  When I call to ask why, I’m told the appointment was cancelled but they can’t tell me who cancelled it or why or when.  They offer to reschedule and I tell them after they give me the infamous $20 credit for missed appointments, they can add credit for the 16 hours the service was out, and then drop dead.

After this, so I tell myself, upgrading my internet to fibre optics should be a breeze.  It isn’t.

It seems that the telephone thinks I owe $215.23 from a cell phone I had some 10 years ago.  I explain that the account was settled in February and the collection company had assured me it was paid in full.  They’re very sorry but their records show the current debt and they can’t change the service until it’s resolved.  I tell them I will talk with the collection company and get back to them.

The collection company tells me there’s no outstanding amount, that it was settled in February.  I ask why the telephone company doesn’t know that and I can almost hear the bored Not our problem shrug.  Coming on the heels of the most recent cable debacle, I’m in no mood to listen to their lies or debate another Akbar/Bubba and demand to speak to a supervisor.  In due time, when they finally understand that I’m not going to give up and go away, they tell me that it appears the unpaid bill was actually put on the credit report twice.  When I push a little harder, they also admit that the payment was misposted, their error entirely and they will correct it at once.

A week later when I call the telephone company again, I get as far as the credit check and no further.  They still want their $215.23.

I call the collection agency back and ask them to define at once.  They're hostile and defensive and go to great lengths to assure me that they've done their part, the account is cleared, the telephone company has been updated.

So the telephone company is lying to me? I snap, Seems unlikely.

They offer to email a settlement letter stating that the bill has been paid in full.  I agree and ask how long before I have it.  They say 24 hours at the most.

Two days later, I call and ask them to define 24 hours.  They assure me the email was sent and I suggest they research the phrase Tits on a boar hog , useless as and demand to speak to yet another supervisor.

They’re mystified.  I’m on the brink of losing it.  I ask them where they sent the email.  Turns out the first word of my email address -barbara  - which I had painstakingly spelled four times, was more than Akbar/Bubba could manage and when the email was non-deliverable, they weren’t interested, responsible, or even curious enough to wonder why.  They offer to send it again, promising I’ll have it first thing in the morning.  No, I tell them, you’ll send it now and I’ll wait.

My third call to the telephone company ends with a conference call between me, them, and the by now despised collection agency.  It takes the better part of an hour and a half but they finally admit that they’ve had the payment for 7 months. I am vindicated.  Appalled by their practices and rabid incapability but vindicated.  When the supervisor offers me – and the telephone company – a half-assed apology, I turn it down but can’t resist asking if they get their employees from Comcast rejects or is it the other way around.  The telephone company rep tries valiantly to muffle her laughter but a little slips through and it takes her a few seconds to regain her professionalism.

It’s a sorry state of affairs, this old world, but it’s not a bad week’s work when you overcome the cable company, the telephone company, and a collection agency. 

H. L. Mencken knew what he was talking about. Until next time.

The Train Wreck

I get to work, unlock the front door and start to laugh.  I can’t help but admire the sheer totality of destruction on the other side of the door. 

 

The front hall is littered with pieces of cardboard and shredded paper towels.  A trail of Angel Soft is draped crookedly from the landing to the bottom of the stairs.  A prized imitation orchid plant has been thoroughly de-petaled, its leaves chewed off and left in random  bunches the length of the Oriental runner.  In my office, the couch has been de-nuded with pillows scattered all over the floor.  A ceramic pot of what had been a healthy ivy lies in pieces amid several piles of dirt and roots.  The raccoon toy with the noisemaker has been demolished, the wastebasket overturned, the soggy remains of a rawhide chew lies forlornly in the middle of the floor.  In Michael’s office, a handful of magazines and an entire telephone book have been torn to pieces.  Several portions of the carpet have been pulled loose and chewed to the matting, an entire section of baseboard is missing – later I will find it stashed behind the couch along with several empty dog food containers, a pair of blue jeans, and a curling iron – and the whole floor is a debris field of something that was once plastic or rubber but is now unidentifiable.  On closer inspection, it appears to be a mix of curly telephone cord and Tupperware.

The puppy trots through all this devastation bright eyed and perky while I step carefully and lead him and the other dogs to the side door and coax them outside.  I don’t have the moral fortitude to go upstairs.

Well, I tell him as he high-steps through the still wet grass, enthusiastically chasing the cur dog from one side of the yard to the other, You’ve done yourself proud, you have.  You’re a regular one puppy train wreck.

There are footsteps behind me and I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is probably not the best moment to laugh or point out that I warned him.  The puppy now has found a sock and is dragging it awkwardly around the yard.  He can’t quite manage to keep from stepping on it and he keeps getting tangled up, tripping and falling like a tiny, un-graceful tumbler.  After several tries, he finally just flops to the ground and lies there, content to hold the sock in his mouth and stare up at the sky.  It’s comical and more importantly it provides a little misdirection and I’m free to laugh. 

It’s possible, Michael says a little wearily, this wasn’t one of my better decisions.

He looks as frayed and disheveled as the carpet – I decide to keep that to myself as well – and I do my best to be sympathetic as he chronicles the second floor destruction, everything from the ravaged trash to the half-eaten Gucci dress shoes to the gnawed-on legs of the antique table in the hall. He punctuates this sad tale with deep sighs, slumped shoulders and a defeated look.  I know he loves these dogs and loves the act of rescuing them.  It’s the reality and demands of rescuing that are giving him so much trouble.

I could redeliver my lecture about dogs not coming pre-trained, about the sacrifices an animal owner must make, about the usefulness of kennels and crates, about how dogs need structure and  boundaries.  I could tell him again that they don’t housebreak themselves, that they can’t be expected to know to adhere to his schedule, that they have to be taught with patience and follow through and consistency.  I could suggest again that confinement isn’t cruel and unusual, that they can’t be blamed for what they don’t understand and that it’s his job to teach them, that just loving and saving them isn’t enough and that he expects too much from them.  Knowing that it would fall on deaf ears, I just shrug.

He’s three months old, I say, trying not to sound exasperated, What did you expect?

I don’t know, he admits with another huge sigh, but not this……..this……….nuclear winter!  

His house may be on the verge of ruination.

He might be very nearly broke with no prospects in sight.

His heart might swell to the point of exploding to take in these cast off animals.

But his flair for the dramatic is still intact.

  

The Girl Who Thought She Was Dead

She was never the same but after she died, Imogene came back.

She’d been a risk taker at heart, a daredevil child always looking to show off, take a wild chance, accept a dare that no one else would.   It was Imogene who heard the whistle and tap danced her way – barefoot – across the Bear River trestle bridge and directly in the path of the oncoming train.  She jumped clear at the last possible minute and was very nearly blown off the tracks – it stopped all our hearts to watch – but she just laughed and called us all sissies.   It was Imogene who climbed to the very top of Melanson’s silo and swan dived in a hay wagon.  It was Imogene who set the woods on fire and then ran through the flames and back again, coming out a sooty, blackened mess with live ashes in her hair.  It was Imogene who found Sparrow’s old revolver and challenged us all to Russian Roulette – where in God’s name she’d learned of it we never did know – but when he saw she really meant to do it, Gene snatched the gun away and slapped her silly.  By the time she was nine, we all pretty much felt she was either invincible or loon-crazy and a good candidate for Dartmouth.  She died the year she would’ve turned eleven when she stole a dory and rowed to Peter’s Light, intending to swim back against the cold, unforgiving tide.  The dory turned up the following morning, battered, run aground but intact.  There was no sign of Imogene until that evening when her thought-to-be-lifeless body washed up in the cove.  There was also no doctor that summer and the islanders in the search party assumed she was dead – as indeed she was for a time, the mainland doctor was to say later – but to everyone’s astonishment, as they carried her to the church in a makeshift litter, she began to cough and choke and spit sea water.   It unnerved her rescuers so badly that they dropped her small body on the dirt road and almost didn’t pick her up again. 

Sweet Cryin’ Jesus!  Uncle Shad was heard to say, She ain’t dead!

Well,gawd-dayum, a startled Uncle Willie exclaimed, Somebody fetch Rowena!  Child’s still breathin’!

I’m cold!  Imogene wailed and as the men hurriedly shed their jackets to cover her, Who the hell turned the lights out?

Shut yer trap, girl, Sparrow snapped impatiently, You damn near drowned so show a little respect or sure as hell we’ll throw you back!

In typical Imogene fashion, she was cold and wet and smelled of fish but nothing except her pride was hurt.  Rowena doctored her, got her a warm bath and some dry clothes, and had her home and tucked into bed in no time.  It was, after all, Imogene, and no one gave it a second thought, expecting her to rally and be her same old, reckless self within the week.  Except that it didn’t happen.  She had grown reclusive after the near drowning, keeping to herself and no longer interested in risk taking.  She spent a lot of time skipping stones off the old breakwater and when we tried to speak to her, she often seemed not to hear.

What’s wrong, Imogene?  Ruthie asked, You being uncommon quiet.

Nuthin’, Imogene said distantly, I’m dead is all.

No, you ain’t!  Ruthie cried, You’re right here, real as rain!  Mama says you just re-pressed!

De-pressed is what she said, I corrected her without thinking that it might be thoughtless.

Imogene smiled at us, an old smile it seemed to me, far older than her years, and shook her head.

No, she said softly, You think that but facts is facts.  I died and I’m still dead.  

Ruthie began to cry and Imogene patted her shoulder awkwardly.

So what’s it like? Betty Jean wanted to know, Bein’ dead?

 It ain’t so bad, Imogene said softly, almost serenely.

You ain’t dead, Imogene!  Ruthie wailed, and I ain’t gon’ listen!  She stamped one small red sneakered foot for emphasis and took to running down the wharf and across the dirt road raising a cloud of dust behind her.  Betty Jean and I reluctantly followed while Imogene just sat cross legged at the end of the breakwater, staring out across the whitecaps.  I remember having the uneasy feeling that she either didn’t notice us leaving or worse, was glad to see us go.  We caught up with Ruthie just this side of Gull Rock and argued all the way home over whether to tell anyone. 

In a village of under 300 though, it’s near impossible to keep a secret and in a matter of weeks, everyone had an opinion.  Imogene was depressed after her near death experience.  Or it was all an act.  Or she was going through a phase.  Or it wouldn’t last.  Or you never could tell with head injuries.  Or she was delusional.  Or she’d been touched by heaven.  Or, and this was said only by one or two and in reverently hushed whispers, God works in mysterious ways and she really was dead.

Never heard such nonsense in all my born days, Nana proclaimed loudly at the covered dish supper, Child’s traumatized from near drownin’, ain’t no more to it.  Leave her be, give her time and she’ll be fine as paint.

Except that didn’t happen either.

Imogene spent her life on the island, never left, never married but somehow managed to sleepwalk through fifty years, staying on the fringes of village life and becoming, in some ways, more spirit than flesh.  Where she lived no one really knew, how she survived, no one was ever sure.  By the time she reached adulthood, you only saw her in glimpses – a solitary figure walking along the beach in the morning fog or a quick flash of her as she slipped into the woods at the approach of a car.  It was said that the bootleggers left her food and blankets and the church regularly set out care baskets in the small graveyard – tins of food, soap, second hand clothes, whatever the young minister could collect – there was rarely any sign of Imogene but the baskets would be empty the next morning.  When the weather turned harsh in the fall, he made sure to leave the church doors unlocked and saw to it that there was a pillow and a sleeping bag stashed in the back choir loft but in the end, like death itself, Imogene remained a mystery that no one ever solved.  One chilly October morning, Miz Clara arrived to tend the graves and discovered her pale, slender body lying in the fallen leaves by the cemetery gate.  Together, she and the young minister dug a grave and quietly buried her and in time the girl who thought she was dead became one more island fable for parents to tell their sleepy children at bedtime. 

Almost a metaphor, you might say.

  

Monster Trucks

The first team arrives promptly at 7:30am, a virtual parade of tree service trucks hauling all manner of implements of destruction.  They slowly rumble and grumble up the street, park a little haphazardly on either side, and spill out a couple of dozen little men in neon yellow jumpers and hard hats.  The neighborhood dogs erupt in unison but are quickly drowned out by a chorus of chain saws and the whack-whack-whack of a compressor.  All this is followed by an encore of an astonishingly loud and discordant wood chipper.

The second team is here by 8:00 and adding to the organized tumult by 8:30.  More chain saws, a second wood chipper, an even louder compressor and what sounds like a half dozen jackhammers.  It goes on all day for three solid days, then all weekend including Sunday, and then Labor Day.  You’d think they were clear cutting 40 acres on the back forty instead of trimming one dead end block.  By the holiday, I realize I’ve gotten a little oblivious to it and I only notice that by quitting time, the silence sounds odd.

When they paved the roads on the island one early summer, people turned out in droves to see the heavy equipment at work.  Many had never seen anything fancier than Mr. Melanson’s tractor and hay maker and most didn’t appreciate the noisy invasion of man and machines.  The road crew came on the first ferry each morning and left on the last each night, leaving the bulldozers and earth movers and tar makers parked wherever they happened to be at the end of the day.  We were fascinated by these monstrosities, the cement mixer in particular made a grand playground, until one of the younger Albright boys took a tumble off it and broke his leg. The whole area was immediately put off limits to anyone under 18.

If I’d been older, I might’ve understood the adult resistance to all this macadam.  There was something sad about losing our dusty dirt roads and the stories they knew.

Progess, Ogden Nash wrote, is a fine thing but it’s gone on too long.

Hearts and Common Sense

My friend, Michael, having more heart than sense when it comes to dogs, sees a picture of a homeless and alleged Chihuahua/Boston Terrier mix with enormous ears and breaks down.  He won’t listen to any of the sane and perfectly reasonable objections I have to a 4th dog and before I know it, we’re on our way to an Arkansas animal shelter.  There’s no logic to love at first sight and knowing when I’m beaten, I give in gracefully.  There’s no point in staging a protest and there’ll be plenty of time for “I told you so” later.

A few hours later, we’re on our way back with a 3 month old brindle puppy who may or may not have either Chihuhua or Boston Terrier in him.  Later I will think that if we were to check his genealogy, we’d find some piranha and likely a little mule, but for the time being, he sleeps peacefully in my lap. When we arrive at the house, Michael actually listens to my advice and agrees to it – I walk the pup while he lets the other three dogs out and then we ease him into a crate for his debut and his own protection.  The mayhem is instantaneous, deafeningly vocal, and more than a little unnerving.  All three dogs gather ‘round the crate like Apaches circling a doomed wagon train.  There is frenzied barking and howling and panicky lunges at the crate but the little one fearlessly stands his ground and will not be intimidated.  He dances around like a mad puppet and barks and howls right back, his entire body trembling with anticipation and excitement.

What do you think?  Michael shouts at me.

I think you’ve lost your mind!  I shout back, Man the lifeboats!

I decide to get while the gettin’s good.

The battle – a steady series of stalemates, standoffs, sneak attacks and skirmishes – rages through the weekend and into the next week but there’s no actual bloodshed and by the fifth day, the brief truces are getting a little longer, primarily due to exhaustion.  The cur dog has decided, more or less, to befriend the small creature, at least up to a point and the pit, older and as a rule more mellow than Coltrane’s jazz, is trying his best to be tolerant.  Only the little girl, antisocial and testy under the best of circumstances, refuses to give an inch.  She will not allow him to approach her without breaking out into very serious snarls and threats and seems to take exception to his presence in the same room.  This, of course, only encourages him more – he dances and lunges and nips at her heels then skitters for cover all the while yelping like a coyote - the decibel level easily reaches ear-splitting then surpasses it.   She snaps right back, her little mouth curves into a nasty grimace and she displays all her teeth while producing the most alarming troll-like noises. The puppy, no intellectual sharp-shooter, I’m afraid, thinks it’s all a wonderful game and persists until the old pit wanders by and then gets distracted and changes his target.  I notice I have a headache.

Stop or I’ll shoot!  I finally yell and slam my hand down on my desk.  There’s a pause and I seize the moment to put the puppy in time out, shoo the pit into Michael’s office and settle the little girl beside me.  The cur dog peeks around the corner.  You’re too late, I tell him sternly, Go lie down.

The fact is I doubt there’s enough aspirin.

Til Death Us Do Part

The Alzheimers Unit was a locked ward, beautifully appointed in the public areas leading up to it but a little less so once you punched in the code and passed through the double doors.  The birthday party was held in the game room with cupcakes and presents but no amount of either could make up for the locked doors and the vacant looks of the patients.  Live music – mostly old country western – helped with some of the less impaired guests clapping and singing along but no matter what you chose to see or hear, we were still celebrating the 80th birthday of a man whose mind came and went like a random breeze.  His speech was unclear, his body tremored, what teeth he had left were jagged and blackened.  Even so, he managed to down two chocolate cupcakes and a tiny medicine cup of lemonade and though it took some time and patience, I did manage to be pointing my camera directly at him when he happened to give his daughter a crooked grin. 

The painful hour passed and the party ended but as I was leaving, I noticed the old couple in the corner.  It was impossible to tell if one or both were residents but you couldn’t miss that they were holding hands – and, I thought, although it could have just been my imagination – they’d been doing so for a lifetime.   I approached them and smiled but got no sign of being noticed so as discreetly as I could, I knelt, focused, and clicked the shutter.

They didn’t seem to mind.

The Not Entirely Useless Cat

The cat materialized out of the fog like some kind of apparition – on the small side and black from nose to tail – she stepped lightly with a slight swagger.   At Sparrow’s feet, the old hound dog stirred and twitched, raised his head and peered into the fog with a throaty growl.  Sparrow stretched out his hand and laid it lightly on the dog’s course-coated head and the old hound relaxed at once.  He sat quietly, looking from the approaching cat to Sparrow and back again, alert, curious but still as a statue.

Step by deliberate step, the cat continued toward us.  She moved with typical feline grace and confidence, tail held high and yellow-eyed stare unwavering.  There was not the slightest sign of hesitation or fear and when she was within a few feet of the rickety front steps, she stopped and quite calmly sat down.

Ain’t never had much likin’ for cats, Sparrow said mildly, But this un’s got some brass, I’ll give her that.

The cat yawned.

Ay-uh, Sparrow said with something like reluctant admiration, Thing’s got spirit.

As if to confirm the words, the cat gave a short, sharp meow and the sound echoed eerily on the damp air.  She casually resumed walking toward us until she was within reach, then climbed the old steps and settled herself between Sparrow and the hound dog where she began to wash her paws and whiskers methodically.  When she was finished, she gave the dog an indifferent look, touched noses with him briefly and then curled up against his side and went to sleep.  The dog sighed and laid his head on his paws.

If that don’t beat all, Sparrow muttered, Thinks she owns the place.

This ain’t no charity home, cat, he told her firmly, You be wantin’ to move in here, you’ll be doin’ your share.  Ain’t no harm in havin’ a decent mouser ‘round the place but you ain’t gon’ be seein’ no handouts.

Then he sent me to the icebox for a piece of left over haddock, coaxed her into his lap, and fed it to her – and the hound dog – in small bites.  A man of his convictions Sparrow was.  When next I stopped by and asked after the cat, the old man shrugged.

Almost caught her a mouse last evenin’,  he said diffidently, She ain’t entirely useless.  She’s inside somewheres if you’re wantin’ to see her.

The not entirely useless cat was indeed inside, curled on a quilt at the foot of Sparrow’s bed and sleeping soundly in a nest of souvenir pillows.  Her sleek coat shone from a recent brushing and she was surrounded by handmade toys – a tightly wound ball of rubber bands, a feather tied to a stick with a length of string, a small square of burlap, roughly sewn together around the edges, filled with what sounded like loose coins – and several well-worn old shoes.

Don’t be gettin’ any wrong ideas, missy, Sparrow rumbled from the front porch, Them’s jist what you call trainin’ aids.   Been learnin’ her to hunt.

Oh, ay-uh, I said as straight-faced as I could manage, I ‘spect it ain’t easy with a cat.

He gave me a suspicious look.

Learnin’ to earn your keep and all, I mean, I added quickly, Cats just ain’t quick like dogs.

It seemed to satisfy him and he nodded, settling back into the old rocking chair and pulling out a pack of cigarette papers and a faded pouch of tobacco.   We sat for a time while he smoked, listening to the tide coming in and the waves as they washed up against the aged wharf, still hidden by the fog.  It was near to supper time when we heard a soft thump from inside the house, followed by a series of casually chatty meows.  The cat appeared on the other side of the screen door, took a moment to groom herself then pushed through and in one graceful leap, launched herself into Sparrow’s lap, meow’ed loudly and climbed up onto his shoulder.

Ain’t nothin’ to see, cat, the old man told her, Still fogbound and that’s a fact.

You gon’ name her? I asked.

She'll name herself in good time, he shrugged, Ain't up to me.

Another meow, although whether in confirmation or protest, I couldn’t tell.  Sparrow sat passively as she rubbed her head against his unshaven cheek, paid no mind when she sunk her claws into and began to knead his flannel shirt.  I watched her pick her way down his chest and across his thigh to jump delicately down to where the hound dog was sleeping.  She shoved and shifted and twined about his face and upper body, purring loudly and head-butting his muzzle before finally and contentedly nestling into the space between his chin and chest.  The old dog, feeling affectionate or resigned or just too sleepy to care, sighed and didn’t put a fight. 

Brazen little thing, ain’t she, Sparrow mused thoughtfully, Don’t know no fear.

What’s the name of that war hero fella from Texas, he asked a few minutes later, That movie actor soldier won every medal they is?

Audie Murphy? I asked.

Ay-uh, that’s the one, he grinned, Reckon that’s as good a name as any.  It’s fittin’, don’cha think.

I thought it was a fine name for a fine cat and said so but if the cat cared one way or another, it wasn’t clear. Having come from out of the fog to find an old man and a dog to love, she slept on.  She never did exactly catch on to being an effective mouser but she did learn to come when Sparrow called her name and that was good enough.  Audie Murphy was there to stay.