Not Exactly a Chase From "The French Connection"

When I got home from town Saturday around 1:00, my heydar went off.

Uh huh. You heard me. Heydar. Some folks have gaydar. Val Thevictorian has heydar. It's a Spidey sense that tells her something is not what it seems. That she (or somebody braver than her) needs to holler, "HEY! What do you think you're doing?"

Yes, heydar is an awareness most likely attributed to Mrs. Thevictorian's career in the trenches with teenagers. Forewarned is forearmed. Like that time I saw a look on a kid's face as he walked in and calmly put down his book, and followed him back into the hall, motioning to my cross-hall compatriot, and caught up to him just in time to put the kibosh on a beat-down. I can't say HOW I perceive imminent shenanigans. It's just an inkling.

So there I was, coasting down the final hill to Mailbox Row, with my right turn signal blinking that I was about to stop in the road beside EmBee. That's how we do around here. No place to pull off, so you put on your signal and stop in the road. Nobody wants to get OFF the road and walk a few extra yards. That's barbaric. Stop tut-tutting our laziness, you civilization-dwellers who need only to open your door and reach your arm around the jamb to pick up your mail.

A maroon pickup truck was coming toward me from the other side of the low water bridge. I waited for it to pass before throwing open my door. But it did not pass! It turned onto the gravel road that leads into the compound where the homestead is located, and parked. Let the record show that Val was none too eager to jump out at Mailbox Row with a truck freshly stopped. You can't be too careful around these parts, after that portable meth lab was abandoned on our gravel road a few years ago, and more recently, that headless body put in a septic tank. So I waited. To see what that truck was up to. It was loaded with a pile of cedar limbs. Kind of like dismembered Christmas trees.

Let the record further show that people dump their trash on our gravel road. Sometimes personal garbage in trash bags. Sometimes old refrigerators. The aforementioned meth paraphernalia and body. And sometimes in the form of yard trash. Like a dump truck full of branches that a tree trimmer left blocking the entrance to the gravel road.

Two men got out and walked over by the creek bank. They were consciously avoiding looking in my direction. I got out and extracted my mail from EmBee's gullet. I jumped back inside T-Hoe and looked again. Still, the men were moseying around. Not looking my direction. I picked up my cell phone and put on the camera. Darn those men! They had parked just far enough up the gravel road that I could not get their license plate.

The driver turned and started toward the bridge. Toward me. I held my phone up like I was taking pictures of the bridge and creek. You know. Just so he could see that I had my phone to record evidence if needed, but that at this moment, I was only a nature lover. I had a feeling they had planned to drop that load of cedars on our road.

The Dismemberers didn't stay long. Maybe two minutes, tops. Just to look at the creek, you know, which has about an inch of water in it right now. They got back in their truck and started up our gravel road. Of course I followed. I live there, you know. I have a right to be there. Nobody who lives up in there is going to bring a load of cedar limbs from some other piece of land and put it on their own property. That's crazy. They would trim their own cedars to dump in a pond for fish habitat. And I don't known anybody out here with a pond.

Val's private eye skills are not on par with her readin' and writin' skills. I tried to get a picture while hot on the tail of The Dismemberers. Let's face it. Val's phone photos are nothing to write home about when she is stationary and using TWO hands.

My goal was to get a picture of the license plate. I was gaining on them! But funny thing about jouncing along a gravel road. You're jouncing. And even though I hit my picture-snapping button at just the perfect instant...my phone has a little delay before it takes the photo.

As you can see, The Dismemberers had cleverly draped their dismembered limbs so that they hung over the license plate. They continued up around the bend, and over the small low water bridge on the way past our other 10 acres up on the hill. The gravel road comes out on another blacktop county road in about 2 miles. I turned to go to the homestead.

Val needs a refresher course in private-eyeing before she can take a bite out of crime.

Sometimes Life Makes Val Swim Upstream

Val Thevictorian did not have a good day. The universe was conspiring extra-hard against her this morning. And by morning, I mean 11:30-ish.

Off to Save A Lot for some staples (not actual metal staples, because even Backroads High supplies them for us). No, I mean for a case of water and some foodstuffs. Not a large haul. With it being the first weekend of the month, I was leery of crowds. No problem in that arena. I guess they were all at Walmart. Still, there was only one parking spot available on the store side of Save A Lot's lot. Oh, there were THREE handicapped spots. But Val is not handicapped. So I took the one two spaces down from the handicapped.

The shopping was fairly uneventful, except that the boy checker thought he was doing me a favor. I asked him, you see, if we could just use the cart I was pushing, since the case of water was in the basket. My intention being that I set my eight other items on the conveyor, and he ring up the water, then let me push my cart in place of the waiting empty cart, so he could set my scanned items down in with the water. But no. He took my empty box that I had scammed from the freezer case by laying out three bags of shrimp on the shelf (boxes are hard to come by at Save A Lot on Saturdays), and put my items in the box, and then, while I was swiping my debit card, PUT THAT BOX IN THE CHILD SEAT OF THE CART.

That's not right, people! You have to balance the full box on top of the water case, or across the cart handle and the child seat. When you put the box IN the child seat, it gets stuck on the thick metal wire thingies, as well as skews out of shape, so it's like wrestling a bloated cardboard alligator to get your box out of the cart and into the rear of your T-Hoe.

Imagine my surprise, after plowing through the Girl Scout Cookie sellers on the way out, to see a woman getting into a little red sports car in the closest handicapped spot. She was younger than me, and faster than me, but I daresay I had more insurance. Anyhoo...she was busy texting while she got out her keys to click open her little red sports car with an Illinois plate and no handicapped tag or mirror-hanger. She was not pulling an oxygen tank. I am still puzzled over the nature of her handicap. Perhaps I should stop watching Parking Wars every morning before school.

Off to the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz Diet Coke. I also had a $50 scratch-off ticket to cash in. I poured my Diet Coke and stood in line, unable to get around a guy leaning on the chicken counter. Still, he had to wait for his food and chicken ticket, so I knew I was next after the two little old ladies buying lottery. Then it happened!

A veteran came caning down my aisle. I took a step back, lest I get toe-stabbed by his cane. I figured he had forgotten some condiments for his chicken meal. He was carrying a plastic bag on his arm, like the one they put the box of chicken in. Indeed, he caned around the butt of the chicken-waiter, and reached over to the counter, and GRABBED FOUR BAGS OF M&Ms! Those are not condiments! THEN he proceeded to turn and cane himself to the counter, AHEAD OF ME!

Far be it from Val to call out a veteran on line-cutting. IF he was really a veteran. Just because he was wearing a white cap that said VETERAN doesn't mean he actually was one, I guess. Come to think of it, maybe he didn't even need that cane! Maybe that's just his M.O. for cutting lines all across the county!

The VET also bought some lottery. Then he fumbled in his pockets for the money. The clerk was the new young guy who is slower than Methuselah's great-grandpappy. In fact, by the time I got my turn, there were at least five customers lined up behind me. They probably would have tried to jump in front, having seen how meek Val was, except they didn't have canes, and she kind of takes up the span of the aisle. I was not having it. No way was I cashing in my ticket with slowpoke, and making new selections. I just gave him my correct 44 oz change and hit the road, ticket under my arm.

Off to Orb K for my lottery transaction, which at least garnered me more tickets and a $25 win. Better than nothing. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes you get back half of the non-money you spend.

THEN it was off to the homestead. I had to contend with drivers turning left from the right-hand lane. And I discovered suspicious activity at mailbox row.

But that's a story for tomorrow.

Back-of-the-Book Blurb Friday #4

Blog buddy Sioux is hosting Back-of-the-Book Blurb Friday. I have 150 words to entice you to buy my fake book. If you like to live in the fake past, this week's fake book is for you! Think of it as Snidely Whiplash in cahoots with a hipster doofus. There. You're dying to get your fake hands on it already, aren't you? Send that fake cash my way. I take coins, bills, PayPal, magic beans, and chicken (gas station or the real live peckers). Heh, heh. We won't mention what I just said.

Railway to Not-Heaven

 

Sal Thethicktorian rides the rails, headed for a weekend in The Hamptons. Her last vacation, a trek in the Pyrenees, left a bad taste in her mouth. Like stale wine. This holiday will be different. Her pals promise.

Kosmer Kramo, a friend of her buddy Gerry Fineseld, is getting his conductor’s license. Poor vision be darned! The glasses he picked up at the going-out-of-business movie theater were a godsend. He brought snacks for the trip, too! Sal unwraps a hot dog from the now-defunct concessions warmer. Yum! Those JujyFruits will have to wait.

THUMP! Sal is jolted out of her comfort zone. These tracks sure need repair! She could swear Kosmer is headed in the wrong direction. He keeps making all the stops, and that last station looked like it bore the name Cabool…

When will Sal realize that she’s on a railway to not-heaven? (149 words)

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Fake Reviews For My Fake Book

Humpty Dumpty with a Melon Head: "Forget about READING it. This book is so good, I would violate confidentiality at a video store to find out who currently has the movie, and foist myself on that family to enjoy it on the end of a white couch with grape juice and a bowl of nuts."

Horse Face, Big Teeth, and Flared Nostrils: "A great read. I'm tempted to keep it under my gym locker for 20 years."

Face Like a Frying Pan, Big Wall of Hair: "I tried to get Pendant Publishing into a bidding war for this manuscript. But then I forgot it in Gerry's apartment, and the flea bomb prevented me from retrieving it."

Ben the Family Doctor: "It's breathtaking."

The Hick Tromps Unquietly at 6:00 a.m.

Can you believe that Hick told me I lead a cushy life? I know, right? Coming from the La-Z-Boy who called the couch cushy!

Here’s the deal. I had the nerve to inform Hick, at 6:00 a.m. on a Saturday, that I did not appreciate being woken just for him to say goodbye as he left for work.

“Great. I can see it now. A whole seven months of never getting to sleep in, just because I’m retired and you’re not.”

“Oh, come on. You can go right back to sleep.”

“No. It’s not that easy. Now I can’t get back to sleep. I’ll have to get up and start my chores.”

“Huh. Chores. You lead a cushy life.”

“ME? You are the definition of living the cushy dream! You don’t know how good you’ve got it, with me paying the bills as soon as they come in, and not putting antifreeze in your tea. You should be THANKING me for the life you lead. For LIFE.”

Let the record show that Hick says his previous wife hid the bills under the bed (which would explain the collection agency we paid off the first year after we were married) and put antifreeze in his iced tea every evening (which could explain why he was in the hospital for tests during their marriage).

“Well…okay. I AM alive, and you DO pay the bills. Oh! I need to call Cindy and see if they got my application.”

Let the record further show that Hick plans to get a job after he retires in December, just for something to do, and a little auction money, and he has his sights set on driving a pharmacy delivery car. He has even discussed the process with the employees at his drugstore, CeilingReds.

“Who’s Cindy?”

“A gal I know. She used to be married to a guy I know, then they got a divorce.”

“So…she works at CeilingReds?”

“No. She works at Casey’s.”

“What’s she got to do with an application? Did you apply at Casey’s?”

“No. At the pharmacy.”

“CeilingReds.”

“No. It’s another one. In the plaza.”

“There’s no drugstore in the plaza.”

“There is, but they don’t want people to know. They don’t even have up a sign.”

“That sounds SO sketchy.”

“No. They don’t want people to break in and steal the drugs.”

So, if you’re keeping up…Hick has put in an application (for when he retires in December) to work for a pharmacy that operates out of an unmarked building in Backroads Plaza, which has ZERO businesses open, having been closed for nigh on 15 years, ever since the movie theater and the Chinese restaurant next door folded a couple years after the grocery store, furniture store, and nightclub…and he is checking on whether that application has been received by Cindy, who works at the convenience store, Casey’s. Which is not even in the plaza.

Sometimes I think Hick is a government operative, deep undercover. I shall keep my ears pricked (heh, heh, I said PRICKed) for any caller-unknown messages like, “The fox trots quietly at midnight.”

A Case of the Apple Jumping Back on the Limb

We have been arguing a moot point here at Thevictorian’s homestead.

Sunday, I made one of The Pony’s favorite dishes: Chef Boyardee deep dish pizza. From the box mix. That crust is like catnip to The Pony.

When I opened the box and set out the ingredients, I didn’t notice the issue at first. Once that dough was rising on the back of the stove in a brown plastic bowl covered by a pizza pan, I turned to open the sauce, and noticed that

THE CAN WAS DENTED!

Now that shouldn’t surprise Val at all, what with The Pony’s penchant for rounding up vittles with damaged packaging. When I pointed out that he had, in fact, done it again, keeping his record of an injured item each week...The Pony balked.

“I didn’t pick that out! You did! You bought it as a surprise for me. Well. For me and Genius. When he was home for Christmas.”

Okay. That sounded vaguely familiar. And like something I would do. Not that I’d wrap Chef Boyardee and put him under the tree, of course. But I would bring a delicacy into the house to please my boys. And it doesn't matter one whit if the can is dented. Right? Nothing is leaking out. I don't think a colony of botulism bacteria can grow big enough to kill a Pony between December and February 28th.

So…it is really not an example of the apple not falling far from the tree. I don’t have a history of buying raggedy merchandise--The Pony does.

So it’s like a case of the apple jumping back on the limb, and infecting the ol’ tree with his raggedy blight.

Sometimes, There Are Simply No Words

One of those times was Sunday.

The Pony and I completed the weekly shopping at Walmart. We stashed the purchases in T-Hoe's rear. As I pushed the button to close the hatch, The Pony took the cart to the cart corral.

Oh, dear.

I know I said there are no words. But Val likes a challenge.

The Pony is usually one of those kids you don't notice. He wears slacks in black or khaki, solid polo shirts, a navy blue hoodie. He blends into the woodwork. Sidles along the wall. Nothing makes him stand out. You could walk right by him five or six times and not remember him. Unless you saw him Sunday returning the cart.

The temperature was 65 degrees, so The Pony opted for shorts. Not that he consciously chose them, but that he put on what I tossed on the back of the couch from the laundry room. It was a pair of royal blue athletic shorts with a white stripe, and a matching (close enough) royal blue knit shirt. The thin kind that dries fast. Completing his ensemble were his navy blue Adidas slides with the white stripe. No socks.

Let the record show that The Pony is loath to shave on the weekend. So he had a little chin stubble, and a scraggly patch under his right ear. He is also loath to trim his toenails, which jutted like raptor talons from the ends of his great toes. Further let the record show that The Pony refuses to pilot a cart in Walmart, no matter how many items I send him after with his own list. He makes four or five trips across the store, arms piled full, until he is finished. No matter how many times I ask him if he would like to take a cart, his answer is "NO!"

Apparently, pushing a cart is more desirable in the parking lot. The Pony grabbed our empty basket and wheeled it around to start his descent past five parking spaces, and across the parking aisle to the cart corral. At first I thought he was going to give it a push, then stand on the back, like I've seen other mothers' helpers do in the past. Uh huh. I thought he was just getting that little run at it, and was going to jump on and ride it down the hill. In fact, I was so certain that I worried a little that he might turn that thing over backwards and crack his skull on the pavement. My worries were unfounded.

OH, DEAR!

The Pony took off with both hands on the cart handle. His head was tilted back in joy, catching the warm rays of the sun. His Terrible-Cuts-needing curly tresses bounced in the breeze. Light reflected off his glasses while he trotted down the parking aisle, his Adidas flapping on the blacktop.

Oh, how he trotted! Like a cross between a Royal Lipizzaner Stallion in the throes of a dressage routine, and a goose-stepping soldier on parade. While still pushing the cart! Indeed! His hand position on the cart handle, and the tilt of his head, were very much like these ragamuffin street urchins playing pretend steeds in the first minute of this clip from the 1968 Best Picture, Oliver!

OH, DEAR!

There he went, in a controlled careen across the asphalt. Or...as it turned out...not so controlled a careen.

THE PONY SLAMMED THAT CART INTO THE HOLLOW METAL RAIL OF THE CART CORRAL!

The cart rebounded, almost upending The Pony. As it were, he was jolted to a stop, that cart shoving him back a good two feet.

The Law of Conservation of Momentum is a harsh taskmaster.

There was a 30-something woman strapping a baby into the back seat of her car, which was parked on the downhill side of the cart corral. She looked over her car roof at the approaching Pony. When he came to a sudden, unintended stop, the expression on her face was priceless. She looked up the hill at me. Like, "Is he yours?" Or, perhaps, "What is wrong with him?"

The Pony galloped back to T-Hoe and climbed into his regular seat behind me. "That kind of hurt. I think my ankle is swelling. It might leave a bruise."

Oh, how I wished technology was my friend! I could have had a viral video, but for my ineptitude. I laughed so hard I almost cried. Even now, I'm chuckling. As I did all day Monday, on the way to school, in the classroom, on the way home...every time the subject came up. The Pony gave me unrestricted permission to tell whomever I desire.

And I desire a lot.