One Number Off

For six years, I've been one-number-off. Danger Dan's Army Surplus store has a phone number that is one digit different from mine. There's a world of dyslexic dialers who constantly call and ask for directions, prices, and discounts; you name it, if it's related to Danger Dan's's inventory, I've heard about it. Saturday mornings brings the misdialers out en masse. Often, even after I've told them they have the wrong number, they continue with their requests about the cold-rating of the sleeping bags and the capabilities of the gas-masks.

After six years of offering the correct telephone number and sometimes assisting customers with directions to the store, my patience was growing thin, especially with the callers who chose me to complain about the quality of the merchandise at Danger Dan's. I mentioned my problem to Dan (who seemed more salesman-slick than dangerous), and he suggested I change my number. I informed him that I've had the same number for twenty-five years and occasionally get a thank-you call from Brenda Lee (in response to the practical gifts I send on her birthday; she loved the tube socks). And once, I got a return call from Connie Stevens when she had that TV show selling jewelry. I've mentioned, on numerous occasions, to both of those lovely ladies that I'm always here for them. And I'm not risking missing their calls by changing my number, should either one feel the urgent need to speak to me late at night. Dan was unsympathetic and offered nothing more than a shrug of his slippery shoulders.

Early one Saturday morning, a surly fellow called and woke me with a staccato of expletives, pushing me over the sleep-deprived edge:

--Me: Hello?
--Caller: Your kayak is sh*t!
--Me: I don't have a kayak.
--Caller: Of course you don't, you know how f***ing bad they are!
--Me: What if I told you you don't know how to dial a phone?
--Caller: I'll come down there and stick this phone up your ass!
--Me: What kind of Kayak did you buy?
--Caller: The inflatable rescue model.
--Me: What's the problem?
--Caller: It takes forever to inflate, and it's too slow. I got passed by a duck.
--Me: Well, when motivated, ducks can paddle like the dickens.
--Caller: No f***ing duck is gonna pass me! I want my f***ing money back!
--Me: I understand completely. Pack up the kayak, paddle and all, bring it to the store, and you'll get everything that's coming to you.
--Caller: I don't want some f***ing store credit!
--Me: At Danger Dan's, the customer is king. In fact, let me make a note to make you a "Danger Dan's Diamond Customer."
--Caller: What the hell is that?
--Me: A Diamond Customer has the right to return anything for a full refund, regardless of how long you've owned the item.
--Caller: I have some f****d-up hiking boots that are a few years old.
--Me: Pack 'em up with the kayak.
--Caller: What about the tent I bought five years ago. It has a big-ass rip.
--Me: Every purchase is guaranteed for life for Diamond Customers. Bring in the whole kit and caboodle.
--Caller: Do you expect me to find a f***ing receipt for the tent and boots after all these years?
--Me: Sir, you're a Diamond Customer. Your word is good enough for Danger Dan.
--Caller: I'll be right f***ing over.
--Me: Don't forget to ask about "Camo Gal."
--Caller: What the hell is that?
--Me: It's the ultimate camping companion, a life-size inflatable girlfriend, perfect for those long camping trips when loneliness can get the best of an outdoorsman. And it inflates quicker than that kayak, I can guarantee you that.
--Caller: No f***ing way!
--Me: We are required to keep Camo Gal behind the counter, so you'll have to ask for it when you're at the store. There's a model with heated lady parts that's very popular with ice fishermen. It's UL approved, so don't worry about that. Right now, it's on sale.
--Caller: I'll be right over!
--Me: You're the kind of customer that makes us pay attention to quality. Thank you for shopping at Danger Dan's, and don't forget to ask for Camo Gal. If she doesn't work out, she's f***ing returnable.

Wendy's Cakes

Every so often I stop in at Wendy's Cakes. It's a small shop that makes all sorts of fancy cakes for any occasion. Wendy Windbigler is the owner and cake decorator. There's a couple of guys who do the baking, but Wendy is always there to put the finishing touch on her creations. Sometimes I'll buy a small cake, but the real draw is Wendy. Her left leg is tattooed with cat-tracks that start at her ankle and go up to who-knows-where. And one of her ears has so many piercings, it looks like a pincushion. She's a former bike messenger, and as it happens, we have much in common: fondue, and our favorite part of a popsicle is the stick.

Wendy doesn't mind chatting while she works, and it's not uncommon for us to have long conversations while she decorates her cakes. One day, she was especially proud of her design and asked me to take a look. It was a stunning piece of work, with green leaves, stems, and vines wrapped in all their frosted glory around the cake. It was for the birthday of a woman who was an avid gardener. It honestly looked too good to eat, and while I was admiring it, I noticed something vaguely written in the design. Among the twisted vines, it seemed like one of the vines spelled "grow in peace." When I pointed this out to Wendy, she laughed and said, "Good for you, hardly anybody ever notices."

I felt so proud that, finally, my sensitive, appreciative side was revealing itself. "You do that with all your cakes?" I asked.
" Yep," she said while placing the cake on the rack with the other finished ones, "It's sort of a secret message to my customers."
"You mean like a subliminal thing."
"Yeah," she said, "I guess you could call it that."
"You mean that every cake that goes out of here has a secret message embedded in the frosting?" I was stunned, as I'd eaten plenty of Wendy's cakes and never noticed anything unusual in the decorations.
"Now don't go telling everybody." And she gave me one of those scornful, warning looks that spies receive before imparting on a top secret mission.

She let me see the cakes she decorated that day, and it took quite some time before any message revealed itself. One was for a fellow who liked to gamble, and among the frosted dice and playing cards was the small notation, "save your money." It almost looked like a trademark symbol. Another was for a woman who owned a dog, and embedded in the frosted doghouse were the words, "wag your tail." These messages were not easy to find among the swirls of frosting, and it was apparent that Wendy managed to extract clues for her writings from each of her customers.

I began to wonder if any of Wendy's customers unknowingly followed her advice. Did the gambler stop gambling, if only for a short while, and did the dog lady put some extra wiggle in her walk after eating the cake? I asked her about this and she said she tries to keep the messages positive, just in case. To test the theory, I asked her if she could make a small cake for my artist wife, and include a secret message that said, "sex with husband." She was more than a little apprehensive, but went ahead anyway, I think because, by accidentally stumbling onto her code, I'd become a member of her secret cake decorating society. "I'll let you know how this works out," I said while leaving the store with the cake box securely tied in string.

After dinner, upon presenting the cake, my wife gave me a big hug and exclaimed how pretty it looked. While admiring Wendy's work, I noticed that the secret message read "sleep with husband" instead of the requested "sex with husband." Around our house, "sleep" means just that, tired, pull the covers over your head and fade into dreamland. It was too late; there was nothing to do but wait. Very soon after eating the cake, we headed to the bedroom and changed into our pajamas. "That cake was beautiful. Thank Wendy for me," were the words she spoke while swiftly drifting off to sleep.

I returned to Wendy's the next day and told her how the secret message wasn't the secret message I requested, and instead of the intended aphrodisiac effect, it had a sleep-inducing effect, to which she replied that, for starters, she doesn't take requests. And secondly, I'd have to fill out a complaint form (of which there were none). To ease my disappointment, or perhaps to get rid of me, she decorated a free cupcake which I took home to examine, figuring there was a hidden message in there somewhere. It was her signature "cupcake grandeur," plenty big enough to house a secret or two. I looked at it from all angles and even squinted at it for a good half-hour, but could find nothing. I put it in the fridge and looked at it again the next day for about an hour, figuring a fresh approach would do the trick, then gave up and unwrapped the paper bottom and began to eat the cupcake. And there it was, written in pen on the bottom of the paper, "Some things are better left unsaid."

Artists, especially those who work in the ephemeral media of frosting, can be a little sensitive at times. By requesting the suggestive message on my wife's cake, I unknowingly intruded way too far into Wendy's secret cake decorating society. So I'm backing off, and the next time I need a cake, I'll act all nonchalant about it and pretend like the incident never happened. But to be sure, I'll be checking the cake for a sign that our friendship is on solid footing.

Opinionated Dog

In sympathy with the people of Japan who have suffered through a horrific tragedy, Opinionated Dog, a descendant of a loosely-knit group of idealistic dogs who, in the 1960's, lived in geodesic dog houses on a Colorado commune, expresses his feelings towards the nuclear power industry and all the potential harm it can bring to the planet.

Secrets

Lesley Gore played a great show the other night. She not only sang up a storm, had a tremendous amount of energy, looked terrific, but, between songs, she chatted it up about her sexual orientation. That's how I found out she is a lesbian. It was a legitimate forum, not some tawdry whisper campaign or graffiti scrawled in a public restroom.

It was an effort to be mature and pretend like this little piece of information shouldn't matter to open-minded people like those who I call my friends, but honestly, I was bursting at the seams to tell someone. The first person I called was Maxine Fish, owner of Together Girl, a shop celebrating women and, what some would call, "thought-provoking intimate items." When I revealed my juicy piece of gossip about Lesley Gore being on her team, Maxine asked me where I'd been for the last forty years. "Ancient news, rivaling the discovery of the pyramids" is how she put it. How, I asked myself, could I have not known this?

Of course, I'm on board with the ever-popular lesbian train, and think if I were a woman, I, too, would be a lesbian. As a matter of fact, I have enough respect for their no-nonsense taste that I initially gauge the quality of a restaurant by the number of its lesbian patrons. Some people think the benchmark of a good restaurant is the amount of trucks parked outside, assuming truckers know the value of good cuisine, but not me; I take a peek to see how many lesbians are enjoying their food. If I see a couple of women holding hands in a booth, that's the place for me.

The thing that gets me about Lesley Gore is everybody says they knew, even my wife, and her knowledge of popular music is so very limited that, if asked, she would tell you The British Invasion involved a considerable amount of troops and happened sometime before the year 1776. In fact, she would be hard pressed to name any two members of the Rolling Stones, but Lesley Gore..... she knew all about that.

Everyone is oh so cavalier about this, but I feel altogether left out, like this has been a secret everyone has been keeping from me since 1963. That's a long time to keep a secret, especially when it involves a size-able amount of the human population. Talk about the last to find out. Now I know why all those people, through the years, stopped talking when I entered a room. I actually began to believe I possessed a certain presence. Now, it's clear they were talking about the "Lesley Gore Secret," and clammed up at my appearance.

It's disorienting to a certain extent. I've been humming "Judy's Turn to Cry" for over forty years, never realizing the true meaning of the song and can only guess what other "surprises" people have in store for me. I don't know who or what to believe anymore. Now, whenever I hear laughter, whether it's at the store or the lobby of a movie theatre, I'm sure it's about me, another little secret that's passed me by.

While walking through the park the other day, there was a small group of teenagers, laughing, and I think they were looking in my direction. The kids were not old enough to know who Lesley Gore was, and I began to wonder if it's possible that these secrets are passed down through generations, and the holders of the secrets are instructed exactly who not to tell. I'm almost certain there's a list somewhere, and I'm making it my duty to find the list and memorize every one of the delectable secrets. Until then, I'm going to laugh like an insider with everyone I meet, pretending that I'm in on the whole deal.

Five Hundred Dollar Bill

Bill Higley has been my good friend for twenty-five years and four months. He plays the zither and is my only friend with red hair, so you'll never see us at the beach together on a sunny day; he declares his fair complexion is not beach-worthy. He says funny stuff like that all the time. For the entire twenty-five years, Bill has owed me five hundred dollars. It's not always the same five hundred dollars. Sometimes he pays it back only to borrow another five hundred again at a later date. Over the years, we've both become comfortable with the five hundred dollar mark. Sometimes, he'll borrow a small sum and return later to borrow more in order to equal five hundred. Like last year, he borrowed two hundred and seventy-three dollars to purchase an unusual Celtic zither, then showed up at my door a week later to ask for two hundred and twenty-seven dollars to buy an authentic zitherist parade costume, which brought the total to the familiar five hundred.

Bill enjoys promising his repayments by a specified holiday. For instance, while taking the cash and stuffing it in his pocket, he'll proclaim that it'll be returned by Halloween, Easter, Squirrel Appreciation Day, or some other holiday that sounds vaguely cooked-up. He knows lots of back-up holidays when he fails to make good by the initial one. I've become accustomed to the five hundred dollar hole in my wallet, and really don't think too much about it. When he shows up with the repayment, it almost seems like a gift, and I go on a little celebratory spending spree. Last January 23rd, on National Pie Day (which was a back-up repayment holiday for Christmas), I splurged on an embroidered and tastefully framed set of lyrics to "Hang on Sloopy," crafted by the trend-setting Peggy Wamsley, whose needlepoint pillows were once featured on an episode of "Three's Company."

I was under the impression that Bill had an exclusive borrowing arrangement with me until a list of names popped out of his glove compartment while I was rummaging around for a piece of hippy candy. Each name had one or more dollar signs after it, and my name, followed by a single dollar sign, was among them. After giving the matter some thought, it appeared each dollar sign indicated five hundred dollars, and Bill is running a friend-based Ponzi scheme but manages to occasionally make good on his chummy debts. The accidental disclosure was disheartening, and in addition to feeling betrayed, I began to feel sorry for the poor guys who had two and three dollar signs after their names.

This revelation is very puzzling; the zither is a friendly instrument, and for a zitherist to act in such a nefarious manner, surely some sort of folkloric tradition must have been breached. From all accounts, Bernie Madoff doesn't play the zither, but I'm guessing if he did, his client's money would still be safe in paper bags under his bed. The thing is, I enjoy Bill's company; our relationship has become symbiotic, like the oxpecker and the rhino, though it's not entirely clear who's the bird and who's the beast. Perhaps, twenty-five years ago, I unknowingly purchased a friend, and when amortized over the years, it comes out to just twenty dollars per year, which is not a bad deal, considering Bill's often lighthearted outlook and uplifting jokes, not to mention his riveting zither playing. I have trouble saying "no" to a friend, so I'm reluctantly calling it a waggish arrangement and will continue with the friendship loan cycle and Bill's quirky repayment dates. It's the least a rhino could do for his nit-picking friend, the oxpecker or........an oxpecker for his sturdy perch, the rhino.

TV Dreams

The three brothers from Bonanza crept into my dreams the other night, and Lorne Greene showed up while we were sitting around the campfire watching the glowing embers and exchanging glances. I don't know what the brothers were thinking, but I was concentrating on the fire and thinking we needed more wood (not that kind, I'm talking about wood for the fire). It was good that Lorne showed up when he did because Hoss had a glint in his eye that was very unsettling. Bonanza is a swell show, but I may have to stop watching it if these dreams continue.

The Bonanza dreams are more disturbing than the Golden Girl dreams that plague me on a regular basis, as I'm pretty sure I could outrun most any one of the Golden Girls. There is a possibility that Rue McClanahan could catch me, but if she did manage a surprising sprint, she'd likely be too winded to try anything untoward. Just to be on the safe side, I keep, at the very least, an arm's reach away from Bea Arthur. Without question, she likely possesses a grip like a gila monster, and once caught, it would be a frightening sentence of unwanted servitude, entailing more than just cleaning the pool.

The boys on Bonanza are an altogether different story. Those Cartwrights are fit as fiddles and I'm certain any one of them could catch me in a heartbeat. Even if I tried to escape on horseback, my feeling is they are skilled horsemen and would chase me down pronto, and worse, might try to lasso me. Then I'd be in real trouble. In future Bonanza dreams, I'm going to stick close to Lorne Greene's side. Rascals as those boys may be, they respect their father enough to stay out of trouble and keep their pants on while he's around.

There's also a recurring dream where the humorless Nancy Grace is at the front of a lynch mob. She has a noose in her hand and is getting the crowd all stirred up by telling them vicious lies about me. This particular dream takes place in a trailer park in the old west and no matter how fast I run among the trailers, she's right behind me hollering mean stuff and acting crazy and getting frothy. In desperation, I try shouting some cheerful knock-knock jokes over my shoulder, but she's all sweaty and worked up from the chase and refuses to listen and she's mad because she wants to take a call, but it's the old west and there are no telephones.

Hopefully, in future adventures, Thelma Lou and her sunny smile will materialize and usher in sweet dreams on the front porches of Mayberry. It would be a pleasant turn of events to be caught by Thelma Lou. I would even call her "Thel," and maybe ask if she'd like to go smoochin' up at Meyer's lake. We could be happy together once she learns that Barney got Juanita Beasley, the waitress at the Junction Cafe, pregnant. Thelma Lou is the girl for me, and after the Cartwright boys see us together, they'll find other ways to occupy their time and look elsewhere for a campfire buddy.

Mr. Good-Shoes

This whole thing started many years ago when cars were simple and people were helpful in general. It was February and the parking lot outside Phil's Rexall drugstore was full of ice and slush. There was a car with it's hood up, and a beard-wearing beatnik-looking guy, several years older than me, was staring into the engine compartment. I asked if he needed a jump, and he shrugged his shoulders and remarked that he'd always had trouble with red cars. He confessed to being an actor and had an important part that very evening in a play starring none other than Tony Dow, Wally, of "Leave it to Beaver" at The Mill Run Theatre where the stage actually spins around. Theatre-in-the-round they called it.

After taking a look at the luckless red car, it appeared that the starter was bad, but he mentioned that the key goes into the slot just fine. Actors: they can pretend to do stuff pretty well, but when it comes down to actually doing it, without a script, they're lost.

Recalling the pledge, "a scout is helpful," as endorsed by Mr. Wiggums, my long ago scoutmaster who seized every opportunity to wear his Smokey-the-Bear hat, even to the Ice Capades, it seemed only dutiful to help the stranded thespian. Using some tools from my trunk, I crawled underneath the car and removed the starter. It was dark, cold, and my back was immersed in a human-sized snow cone, but youth and a memory of childhood oaths was on my side. Using my car, we drove to the auto parts store, picked up a new starter, and you-know-who crawled back under the car, installed it, and the red car sprang to life. He thanked me over and over and asked what he could do to pay for the assistance, and I said to just give my best to Wally, to which he replied, "I would have helped you more, but I have my good shoes on." While telling this story to friends, I always referred to him as Mr. Good-Shoes.

The second part of the story takes place fifteen years later: I'd returned to college and signed up for an acting class. Being an actor was not my intention; the class was in a convenient time slot and had little homework attached to it, not to mention, the theatre building was close to the parking lot. And who should stroll into the classroom amid a flurry of applause, the infamous Mr. Good-Shoes, who, in fifteen years, had morphed into Professor Good-Shoes. Apparently he was quite distinguished and popular around campus. In his opening remarks, he stated that no one will get an "A" in the class. He went on to say that in his entire career, he'd only given one "A" and that was to an extraordinarily talented actor who has since devoted his life to acting in Shakespearean plays. When Professor Good-Shoes spoke of this man, he lowered his voice to that reverent tone that Ted Baxter often used on the Mary Tyler Moore show. He said the best of us should be happy with a "B."

The class consisted of us pairing up and acting out scenes from plays and films of our choosing. It was intimidating, as there were a considerable number of actors and actresses in the class who were very serious about their craft. My first scene was from a Tarzan movie. I was The King of the Jungle, and the prone-to-fainting Yvette Winston played Jane. I was nervous and figured that everybody would be judging me against the great Johnny Weissmuller, so at the last minute, I decided to make Tarzan gay, with a lisp, a limp wrist; the whole deal. Tarzan had suddenly become The Dandy of the Jungle, a worrier of how his loin cloth draped. My partner, Yvette, was not happy, and after our scene, she yelled out in disgust, "Tarzan was not gay!" The class agreed, and despite my feeble explanations that I was taking the character to a new dimension, a theatrical lynch mob formed. After that, it was not easy to find a partner for my following presentation, "Of Mice and Men," the slapstick version. Judging by Yvette's comment, "Your planet needs you back, soon," it, too, was poorly received.

After my performances, Professor Good-Shoes would scratch his beard and only say, "interesting approach," using that low, reverent, Ted Baxter tone. This made a few of the serious actresses very angry, as they thought I should have been admonished for my unorthodox acting ability. I, on the other hand, was just fine with "interesting approach." Professor Good-Shoes never gave any indication that he recognized me from all those years ago, and when the semester ended, everybody said their good-byes and went their separate ways.

Several weeks after the class, my grade arrived in the mail and it was an "A." I recalled Professor Good-Shoes' speech and was stunned to know I possessed the kind of talent worthy of his praise. This placed me akin to the Shakespeare guy, and I would be referred to in subsequent classes, in a reverent tone, as one of two "A's" the professor has given in his illustrious career. Naturally, plans for my theatrical career began taking shape. I'd begin by doing regional theatre, then move to off-Broadway where talent ambitiously waits to be discovered. I began rehearsing romantic scenes with a signed poster of Sheena Easton.

One evening, the following semester, I ran into Professor Good-Shoes in a campus hallway, and he said he'd like to talk to me. Certain he was going to ask me to perform a cameo in one of his legendary off-campus plays, I waited patiently for the offer. He began by saying that one cold February evening, fifteen years ago, some guy rescued him in a drugstore parking lot, enabling him to get to the theatre in time to keep his badly-needed job. He fumbled with some papers he was carrying and said, "It would be a compliment, indeed, to say your acting skills are limited. That "A" was my way of saying thank you for your help. It meant a great deal to me."

"Yeah," I said, mustering up the best of my acting ability, "I thought that was it. By the way, did you say hi to Wally for me?"
"Yes," he said, in that low, reverent tone, "I told him the whole story."