Jasper and the Goldfish

My first serious job was working for the real estate loan center of a major bank. I worked in the records department, which housed the real estate loans for the entire state. Basically it was a small library and our customers were other bank employees who only stopped by our little whole in the wall when they needed to borrow a loan file.

We were the stepchildren no one wanted. No budget. Few supplies. My boss did not even qualify for a secretary so I had to teach myself how to type so we could produce timesheets and memos in a somewhat professional manner. In order to make our working conditions bearable we used to make after hour raids to other departments to "borrow" equipment. Unused office chairs, a typewriter, filing cabinets and our biggest "find" a section of new carpet.

However, no matter how much we improved our work area the other units still looked down their collective noses at us. So being nineteen years old and not knowing any better I made it my life's mission to crack the façade our customers insisted on maintaining when they visited our little corner of paradise.

I was always somewhat of a smart ass in those days, for that matter I probably still am. So slowly but surely I began to tweak the nose of the establishment.

I began by posting simple comic strips or jokes on the "For Business Uses Only" bulletin board just inside our office door. Just as soon as some bigwig would remove them I would repost the same ones. This went on for a quite a bit until I wore the person down and they gave up. At that point others began posting items and pretty soon no business could be found on the business only bulletin board.

Next step was introducing Hawaiian shirts to the white shirt black pant aliens who at some point in the past must have taken over the banking world. Normal people do not dress like bankers did at that time. Technically our department had to do a lot of lifting and boxing so we could get away with dressing down. Therefore I began wearing Hawaiian shirts, first at random intervals during the summer. Then as it became more accepted the shirts became my badge of honor and I was rarely seen without one. Now I am not claiming that everyone began dressing down but it became more commonplace to see shirts that were not plain, ordinary, garden-variety white.

The final step in well thought out plan of confusion was to mess with their heads. I began leaving one corner of our counter clear of clutter at all times. If someone began to set something down in that spot I would ask to move his or her files to another location. It took longer than I expected but someone finally asked me why?

I looked at them for a moment like they were nuts and than explained it would not do for their files to knock over my goldfish bowl. The questioner shook their head and walked away. More people began asking and I explained about my two goldfish that I kept on the counter for beautification purposes.

Surprisingly before long people began leaving that space clear of clutter without prompting. Some would even ask me how the goldfish were doing. They were taking baby steps but our customers were beginning to lighten up and realize that banking did not mean you had to leave your sense of humor at home.

Before long I grew bored of the goldfish so I had to change the rules again. One morning I placed a pile of files where the "fish bowl" had been located. Again it took awhile but one of my regulars asked me where I had moved the fish? Doing my best to remain somber I informed them that the janitorial crew, in a horrible accident, had knocked over the goldfish bowl and they had flopped their last before I had come in that morning. All day our customers were asking about the accident and when I would replace the fish. No more fish I would say, they are too hard to protect from random accidents.

About a month later we received some new equipment and a large shipment of loans from another bank. So I reached into my bag of tricks and messed with the masses one more time.

One morning I inquired of one my regulars if they had met Jasper. They told me they had not had the pleasure and asked if he was a new employee. In a sense, he was new, but not an employee. I told them that Jasper was my invisible monkey and I left him in the office after hours so no one would walk off with our new equipment. Again it took a while but pretty soon most everyone was talking about Jasper. If something was moved from its normal location, Jasper did it. If a file was missing he misfiled it. Just to keep the stuffed shirts guessing every once in awhile I would send Jasper on a trip to Africa to visit his relatives.

But alas all good things must come to an end. My immediate supervisor received a promotion and I was moved up into his position. I sent Jasper home to find himself a bride and I had to become a bit more of a conformist than I would have liked. Though I did manage to keep the masses on their toes and my Hawaiian shirts on my back.

scream

he roamed the outer fringes of sanity. preparing to protect his soul from the coming darkness. his weapons were few. aluminum foil, duct tape and a collection of barry manilow cd's.

he remembered nights spent at the copacabana with a blue-eyed beauty who had once shared a dance with him.

or had they shared matching straight jackets in the waiting room at Las Encinas. he did not know for his memory had been scrubbed clean with electric sandpaper in a room benignly labeled "utility closet" by a suit with a misguided sense of irony.

despite the wattage voices continued to call out "marco polo" as he blindly searched the emptiness for a moment's peace. beyond the horizon of what he once called reality little green gremlins chased away the sandman. leaving him to contemplate four white walls and a door less closet. where his sanity had been pressed and hung. useless armor against the sharpened needles; which promised a new tomorrow grasped in the gloved hands of doctors who promised sustenance. but he knew better. bitter experience had prepared him for the truth. behind the surgical masks were renaissance clowns laughing manically.

and he screamed

The Sock Monkey and The Robot

When I was three months old I received a Sock Monkey as a gift. Most likely it was my very first Christmas present. Some children have pacifiers. Some have security blankets. I had monkey. He went everywhere I went and he did everything I did. If I had to visit the doctor for a check up or vaccination monkey had to come along. When the doctor examined me I would insist that he examine monkey to. If I received a shot so did he.

As two turned into three and three into four my mother was sure some new toy would replace that monkey. She grew tired of washing him after a day or two of being drug threw the dirt by me. However, no matter what new gift I received monkey remained my one true love.

Then it happened, Christmas 1965, I stumbled sleepily into the living room wondering what magic Santa had performed the night before. The stockings were overflowing with knick-knacks but my young eyes had already zeroed in on the gift of all gifts.

Between the fireplace and the Christmas tree stood a three-foot tall robot. It was love at first sight. I was struck dumb. I slowly approached the robot with a mixture of awe and trepidation. I reached out a trembling hand and touched its arm. My mother reached behind the robots head and flipped a switch and it slowly began to roll forward. Its eyes flashed red and a rumble came from deep within its chest. At the push of another button its right arm raised and fired plastic missiles. Another button and the left arm raised and fired ping-pong balls.

I was so lost in playing with my robot that I do not to this day remember opening any other presents. I am sure I did but I have no idea what they were or what I did with them. That afternoon my best friend M. came over to compare gifts like kids are prone to do. When I saw him approaching, I took robot to greet him. The first thing M. saw when I opened the door was robots red flashing eyes as it rolled toward the door. He took one look at robot and ran screaming for his mother. From that day forward M. would not enter the house unless I assured him that robot was locked in the closet.

So my mother aided by Santa finally found a gift that came to mean as much to me as monkey. The battle wasn't over though. She kept insisting that now that my brother was two years old I should pass monkey on to him. Was she kidding if I gave monkey to my brother he would not last a month. I pleaded and I begged but my mother finally insisted and took monkey from me and gave him to my brother.

I was wrong about how long monkey would last in his hands, I predicted one month but monkey lasted three. One winter's day he left him outside and that night it rained cats and dogs. By morning monkey was no more.

For close to forty years I refused to let my mother forget her role in the destruction of sock monkey. Finally, she grew so sick of hearing me moan, groan and complain that she presented me with a new monkey for my fortieth birthday. One she made with her own two hands. Don't tell old monkey but I think like new monkey best.

As for robot his fate is unknown. I played with him for several years before he was relegated to the back of the closet with the other forgotten toys. For some reason to this day when I think of him I see cracked and tattered robot on top of a rubbish heap with single red tear glistening on a plastic cheek.

A Gift That Saved My Life

Final paragraph of "The Gift" posted on April 22, 2004

In the fourteen years since I have only removed it for x-rays and surgeries. Also I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

It was Thanksgiving Eve and I was on disability from my then employer due to recent knee surgery. Nothing major, just a scope to clean out some old debris. However, it was my third surgery on the same knee and my rehab was taking longer than planned. My range of movement and flexibility resembled the movements of a mime doing the old trapped in the box routine. My doctor had me in physical therapy four days a week and he also recommended a daily bike ride.

At the time I was living in North Hollywood so there were plenty of place to explore on my rehab rides. I spent most of my time riding in and around Griffith Park. For those of you who are not familiar with the Los Angeles area, Griffith Park is a huge tract of land left to the city on the condition that the land be preserved as is for future generations. Which for the most part it has.

On this particular ride I changed my normal routine and rode to my favorite use bookstore: The Iliad. A great place to browse with several overstuffed couches and books to suit every readers taste. A quick aside The Iliad just happens to be located adjacent to The Odyssey Video Store.

Upon finishing my browsing I hobbled out to my bike and began the ride home. Now in hindsight the following incident would most probably have been avoided if it wasn't rush hour and if I had chosen to ride with the traffic instead of against it.

I had ridden maybe two blocks stopping at each side street before crossing without problem. I came to the third block stopped and saw a car waiting to turn into traffic. Since traffic was heavy I assumed she would be awhile and left the curb. Unfortunately the driver of the car decided that the very small gap she saw was large enough for her to force her way into traffic. She accelerated and never even saw me.

Her car hit me broad side. My bike and I slid under the car and my tender skull seemed to be destined for a rather painful introduction to her right front tire. I closed my eyes and did my best to prepare for what I assumed to be imminent impact. Suddenly instead of sliding my entire body was jerked to a stop. I opened my eyes and her tire was coming to a stop well short of my skull. For a moment or two I just kind of laid there in a daze. As I began to pull myself together I realized that I had never hit the ground. It seems that my gold chain and crucifix had caught on the bumper and prevented my head from becoming a pancake.

When it was all said and done I walked away without any major injuries, just a sprained shoulder, a burn on my neck from the chain and various bumps and bruises.

The next day when I arrived at my mom's for Thanksgiving dinner I gave her a big hug and a kiss and thanked her for helping to save my life.

Baseball Cards

In 1969 my family moved away from the neighborhood in which I had spent most of my young life. The move was accomplished rather quickly leaving us less than a day to say good-by to all of our friends.

My best friend was a few years older than me. Our age differences really did not matter because we had so much in common. Especially our undying devotion to baseball and the Los Angeles Dodgers. Not a day went by that didn't include baseball somewhere on our agenda.

When I visited his house for the last time he presented me with a cardboard box full of baseball cards. We both had been collecting baseball cards for several years but my collection was a mere shadow of his. At first I refused to believe him but soon enough he had me convinced that he sincerely wanted me to have them.

In today's market the cards he had given me were worth several thousand dollars. We had no idea that these pieces of cardboard, smelling like bubble gum would someday be valuable. In 1969 a baseball card was something you either swapped with your friends or stuck between the spokes on your bicycle.

The collection I inherited from him represented some of the best to play the game in the 50's and the 60's. Over the next few years I continued to add to the collection. As each new baseball season began I would take my allowance money and buy as many packages of cards as I could afford.

By 1974 my collection contained well over three thousand cards but my enthusiasm for my chosen hobby had begun to wane. I still followed the Dodger's but the cards were boxed up and put away in the garage.

Several months passed without me giving my collection a second thought. One afternoon my brother and I had an argument, just a sibling shouting match nothing more. To this day I do not remember what we were arguing about. Whatever it was really ticked him off and he promised that he would pay me back. I never gave it a second thought but he must have given it a third and fourth thought because he did get his revenge.

We had a small hill in our back yard covered in shrubs and trees. A few weeks after our argument I was hiking about the hill when I stumbled upon a familiar looking box, soaking wet and covered in mildew. I removed the lid and there was my baseball card collection. The cards were damaged beyond repair.

When confronted my brother had completely forgotten that he had hidden the cards. He had assumed that I would notice the next day that they were missing. He had no idea that they had become part of my past.

The Gift

My mother has gift buying down to a science. She asks me what I want for my birthday or Christmas and than she buys it. Even though I know what the gift is she insists on wrapping it and presenting it to me on the special day.

Only once in the past twenty-five years has she broken with tradition and the gift I received means more to me than all of the others combined.

To understand its value a little background is necessary. My mother is not a religious woman. She was baptized and raised a Catholic. She took her first communion and was confirmed when she was in eighth grade. My father and her were married in the church and she continued to attend mass on a regular basis. That is until she divorced my father and was told she was no longer allowed to take communion. She attempted to explain that my father was an alcoholic and an unfit parent. Her arguments fell on deaf ears. The church "graciously" allowed her to attend mass but she was banned from participation. My mother chose to no longer attend mass.

On the other hand she baptized the three of us and sent us to Catholic school. She would drop us off at mass each Sunday and pick us up when the service was over. However the only time she would enter a church was on special occasions: baptisms, first communions, confirmations, weddings and funerals. Like I said by no means could you describe her as being religious.

As I grew older I began to question my beliefs and my spiritual journey has taken me down many different paths. I continued to attend mass with my grandmother more out of tradition than faith. I never disowned the church like my mother but I never developed the blind faith of my grandmother. For me religion was something to be explored not accepted at face value.

That being said, about fourteen years ago I began wearing a silver chain with an old crucifix on it. I no longer remember the reason. It may have been a gift from a girlfriend or just something I picked up. Over time the chain became tarnished and the crucifix began to look that it had survived the two millennia since Christ's birth.

The Christmas season arrived and I had presented my mother with my usual list.

Christmas day arrived and with it the usual family festivities. I gave my mom and stepfather their gifts and my mom presented me with a very small box. I was stumped, confused, bamboozled and speechless. My mother had broken with tradition. I knew that none of the gifts on my list would fit in such a small box consequently I had no idea what was in the box I was holding. I must have sat there for five minutes trying to unravel the mystery of what could be in the package.

My wits finally returned and I opened the present. The wrapping paper had been covering a box that resembled the type that rings come in. I knew it wasn't a ring so I was still confused. When I finally managed to get my fingers working again and opened the box I was stunned.

Inside was a fourteen caret gold crucifix and chain. My mother the affirmed agnostic had purchased a crucifix for me. My mother is not one to show emotions but when she saw the joy on my face I could swear I saw a tear or two in her eye. As I thanked her she tried to hide her feelings by explaining that she only bought it because she was tired of seeing the old one around my neck. I removed my old crucifix and chain and replaced it with the new one.

In the fourteen years since I have only removed it for x-rays and surgeries. Also, I can honestly say that this gold chain once saved my life but that is a tale for another day.

Dancing with Danger

Summer 1978: My mom was asleep on the couch she always fell asleep on the couch especially on Saturday nights when my stepfather was tending bar. I was watching the late movie. Knowing my taste it was probably a campy horror movie from the fifties.

I was lost in the movie when my stepfather walked into the room. It was all I could do to keep from screaming the whole front of his shirt and face were covered in blood. My first thought was that their had been trouble at the wedding he was working. Every once in awhile a fight would break out or someone would get stabbed. My mother always worried that something would happen to him while working a wedding. As I stared in shock at his appearance I thought to myself my mom was right to worry.

I scrambled to wake up my mother. She was always a heavy sleeper but when I explained that something had happened to Jay (my step dad) she snapped out of her dream world in a flash.

She jumped from the couch and ran to him, she grabbed him by the arms and searched his torso for some type of wound. It was than he explained to us that nothing had happened at the wedding. He had fallen asleep at the wheel driving home and missed the last turn before our street running into a tree. My mother than noticed the hole in his lip he had bit it right through. The amount of blood was due to the blood thinners he took for his bad heart.

The first order of business was to take him to the hospital but someone needed to stay with the car and talk to the police. That of course became my job. Just as we left our house we saw a patrol car slowly making its way up our street with a searchlight. It was fairly obvious that they were looking for the person or persons involved in the accident. My mom explained to them that she was taking Jay to the hospital and that he would answer all their questions there. She dropped me off at the accident scene and went on her way.

My step dad's car was a brand new white Cadillac with red leather upholstery. Not any more. The car had run head on into an old oak tree. It was totaled. The oak tree was barely damaged. From the cars appearance my stepfather was lucky to walk away with as few injuries as he did. The police officers remained at the scene with me for a few moments and asked my for Jay's basic info. They called a tow truck and informed me that it would probably be a half hour before one made it to my location. I thanked them and they headed to the hospital to complete their report.

As for me, I sat on the hood of the car and waited for the tow truck to arrive. It was chilly and I was only wearing a t-shirt. I began walking around the car to stay warm. Of course I would jump at every branch creak or owl hoot. Wondering what danger might be lurking around the corner. As it turned out I did not have long to wait.

After about ten minutes a car pulled up and a man got out. I had never believed in a sixth sense before but my senses began buzzing the moment I laid eyes on him. The weird part was that he did not look like trouble. He was dressed in jeans and a long sleeve shirt, tennis shoes and he was clean-shaven. His eyes though were like looking into an abyss. Before he spoke a word I knew that if I were to go off with him someplace I would never return.
As he approached the car I kept moving keeping my distance from him. He asked me if I was OK and I explained that my stepfather had been the driver and that he was at the hospital. I told the police and the tow truck driver would be here any minute to make their report and to tow the car.

He told me that I looked awfully cold and asked if I wanted to wait in his car. I explained that I wasn't cold just nervous and worried about my step dad. Yet again he offered me a seat in his car and again I turned him down. By now I was thinking to myself where in the hell is the tow truck, he better not be on a coffee break or something.

As much as I tried to keep a distance between us he kept slowly closing it without being obvious. He began talking about how hungry he was and asked me if I wanted to go with him to breakfast after the tow truck came. No, I don't think so I'm not hungry and I am to worried about my step dad. He would not take no for an answer. He kept on trying to convince me to go with him and I kept walking away and praying for someone, anyone to drive by.

The more he hung around the more my senses told me that my very existence was in danger. I knew I did not have much longer before he made a move and I began planning my response. Just than and not a moment to soon the tow truck driver arrived. Not just any driver but someone who was probably 220 pounds all muscle. My lurker took one look at him and knew that he had no chance. He made one last halfhearted effort to convince me to leave with him and when I turned him down he left.

Not knowing if he was really gone or lurking around the corner I chatted up the driver and asked him if he could give me a ride home. It was not far but I was not about to walk it alone. However, my request proved unnecessary just as he finished hooking up the car my parents returned from the ER. I was never more thankful to see them in my life.

To this day I have wondered about that guy. In the 70's no one really talked about serial killers and other horrors. Knowing what I know now I am convinced that he was one and that I was very lucky to get away with my life.