As the General Days of My Children's World Hospital Turns

Reading of late about the demise of the venerable daytime drama As the World Turns, my mind is drawn to a funny memory from the early days of my broadcasting career, at the ABC affiliate WSIL-TV, in southern Illinois.

A brief education about TV stations: Master Control is the room in a TV station through which all the stuff you see on a given channel passes. There is an audio/video switchboard that controls which a/v circuit is sent to the broadcast antenna, and then out to the viewing public. And, in some capacity, there is a human watching over that switchboard.

At WSIL, Master Control was almost 100 percent manual; the Master Control Operator had to manually load all the individual local commercials into individual videotape players, and had to manually cue up all the players, and had to manually roll them when their time came to play, and had to manually switch to them with the a/v switchboard when their commercials started. The Master Control Operator also had to monitor the signal for any errors that might be coming from our station, or our antenna, or even from the network, if a network program was on the air.

When I started as the Promotions Coordinator at WSIL, I was informed that I would also be a backup Master Control Operator, to fill in for the regulars when ill or on vacation. I already had master Control experience from my days as a student Master Control Op, working at the PBS station on campus. Nevertheless, I wasn’t too happy with the specter of Master Control hanging over my head again...and it was worse at advertiser-supported, ABC affiliate WSIL; PBS doesn’t have commercials!

Early one morning I received a phone call. God-awful early. That’s never good; I feared my father had quickly followed my mother into the grave. But, fortunately, no. It was merely to inform me that Vanessa, the sign-on – to – mid-day Master Control Operator had quit, effective immediately. I had to fill in for her that day...and every day until a replacement could be found, and until that replacement could be trained. By me.

Thus began the torturous schedule of 4:00am wake-ups for 5:30am sign-ons, and harrowing mornings of lining up and running the breaks for the morning newscasts, Good Morning, America news cut-ins, Live with Regis and Kathy Lee, some other morning shows, and the dreaded afternoon Daytime Dramas. But, actually, since the daytime dramas were pre-recorded, the network provided supremely accurate break schedule information, so they were vastly easier to do than the erratic, crazy Live with Regis and Kathy Lee! That show was sometimes next to impossible to run a clean break, especially near the end, when they had to cram in all the scheduled breaks they put off at the beginning!

So, when the daytime dramas started, it was actually a time to relax! And since it was my responsibility as the on-duty Master Control Operator to monitor the signal, I had to watch. And a funny thing happens when you have to watch daytime dramas: you get sucked in. When you’re resistant to them, like I was... am ...you don’t realize you’ve been sucked in until one or both of two things happen: there is a surprise plot twist in the story (and aren’t they all?), and you hear yourself say out loud, “Oh, SHIT!” or “You BITCH;” and someone who cares about a particular show asks you what happened in today’s episode. And you can answer them. In detail.

Jim showed up one morning behind my boss, Ron. I knew Jim from our days at Southern Illinois University in the Radio-TV curriculum as well as at the public TV station operated by the university. His circumstances had kept him in the area after he graduated, where he had been stuck in minimum wage jobs outside of our career field. Ron had brought Jim in to introduce him to me as Vanessa’s replacement, indicating silently that Jim had finally landed a minimum wage job within our industry. Training commenced the next day.

Having worked in Master Control at the public TV station, I was spared having to teach Jim the ethos behind the job. All that was left was the nuts and bolts of the job: turning on the transmitter, signing on the station, and familiarizing him with the beast that is Big Network television broadcast schedules.

I worked with Jim for a couple days, letting him just watch me, and involving him more and more with the routines: loading the commercial tapes on the rolling cart in the order of their scheduled airplay; marking the daily air log to show when the spots ran, and when there were errors or discrepancies; putting the air tapes away when they were finished; recording programs we were to air later in the day....

Then we switched chairs for the easier part of the day, and I let him run some breaks. More and more as the week progressed. By the end of the second week of his training, we had reversed roles, and I was watching him run the breaks and set everything else up, and helping him during the moments when he got overwhelmed.

Finally, after Ron asked me if I thought Jim was ready, Ron came in to Master Control and watched Jim work. After a couple breaks, Ron stood up, said, “Good,” smiled and walked out. I told Jim to just call me down any time he needed help or had a question. And then I asked him if he had any questions before I left him on his own. He didn’t, but he expressed concern about making it through the “stupid” daytime dramas each day without killing himself or, worse, falling asleep and missing a break.

I said, “Jim, inside of three weeks you will be so wrapped up in those stupid shows, you won’t believe it.”

Jim shot back, “Oh, HELL no! I can’t stand those things.”

I smiled at him. I said, “Okay. Whatever.”

I walked back to my desk, a seemingly alien place after a whole month in Master Control full-time, and I marked my calendar for three weeks to the day of my conversation with Jim: “Ask Jim about All My Children.”

A day before the event, I set my VCR at home to record All My Children, and that evening I watched it in order to catch up on what was happening on the show.

The next day, just as All My Children was about to end, I went in to Master Control under the pretense of checking to see if some promos had been updated. Then I asked Jim how things were going, how he liked it, and so on.

Then I “noticed” the program on the air, and I asked a pointed question, something like, “What did Erica say to so-and-so about his affair?”

Jim answered me quite readily, and with some attached emotion. So I asked a follow-up question, regarding another character, and again, with a bit of excitement, he answered me, without even a hint of curiosity about why I would ask. Then I smiled at him.

He looked at me. “What?” he asked, an uncertain smile crossing his face.

I pointed my finger at him. “Gotcha.”

He closed his eyes as the earlier moments of our conversation played back in his head. He was indeed wrapped up in the daytime dramas, and he knew I knew it.

We both had a good laugh, and I forgave him his failure, telling him I, too, had denied any possibility that I would care anything more about the soaps beyond whether or not our signal faded while they were on. But they’re irresistible; if you have them on and audible, as we were required to do, and you plop yourself down in front of them, you’re going to follow them. It’s juicy gossip of the most harmless kind, and you know everybody’s secrets, and you don’t have to worry over whom you might tell. It’s what made them so successful in the first place. It goes deep down into our collective social psyche.

The fortunate part is, once you are able to pull yourself away from them, their draw fades quickly. I was able to leave Master Control and move on with my life and my assigned duties. Jim didn’t have the luxury of training his way out of it until he was ready to move up or move on.

And, no. I don’t watch the daytime dramas any more.



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September Breeze

The wind across my nostrils
blows the fading sense of summer
the sweet and melancholy
air of moments gold and light which
keeps the night at bay.

A tickle of my mem’ry
calls the fleeting scents of summer
with resignation tender
thoughts of coming autumn tumble
‘cross the shortened day.

(I'm no poet. Please feel free to improve upon or add to it in the comments section!)

Careering

When does a job become a career? I had a job for eight years, and before that I had several other jobs, doing much the same thing, for another eight years. But early in 2009 that string stopped.

And one year ago I started driving a taxi.

I never wanted to be a taxi driver. Oh, at times it seemed like it would be an interesting job, and over the past year I learned that it can be an interesting job. But it’s not the job I want to do. The unfortunate truth, however, is that my chosen career seems to have abandoned me.

I used my new unemployment last year as my opportunity to pursue some dreams: acting, writing. But this job that supposedly allows me the flexibility of schedule demands so much time in order to earn a living income that the schedule is very inflexible, lest I starve, or choose between paying the rent or the electric bill. Where I had hoped to drive the taxi to fill in when the freelance video work and the paid acting gigs left gaps, it’s quite the other way around. There have been damnably few freelance production gigs, and the acting gigs to date have been pro bono.

Of course, a few relatively minor lifestyle changes could make being a taxi driver a little more comfortable. I could move into a smaller apartment; it’s not like I spend much time in my place, now. Or I could get a roommate; I would never get to know him or her, and neither of us would ever really be a bother to the other.

But I don’t want to be a taxi driver. Yet it’s what I am. For a year, already.

And counting.

Just. Like. That.

Little more than a year ago, not long after I was laid off from my job, I started meeting at a nearby Starbucks on Wednesdays with a group of people with the similar interest of video production. It is rather loosely helmed by a friend of mine, Sean, and we talk about all kinds of things, but generally about new media and content creation.

The group has never been large; there’s usually only the core group of about four or five of us, and everyone other than Sean — with whom I once worked with back in 1989 at the TV station at Southern Illinois University, and then again in 1993 at the ABC affiliate in southern Illinois, and with whom I have bumped into on and off in the intervening years — is someone I hadn’t known before I started meeting with the group.

One of the group was an older woman, Celina, who I had guessed was in her late fifties to early sixties. She was admittedly clueless about video production at all, let alone video for the digital age. While I found myself mildly annoyed that she would monopolize the day’s conversation with her efforts and questions to understand a concept of production or a trick in editing, I was also impressed at her dogged determination to learn something that was so far beyond the realm of her body of experience, as well as the many computer-age things she had incorporated into her otherwise old-fashioned world.

Celina was forever searching for client companies and organizations for which she could produce videos, and in March of this year I helped her shoot a video for the local chapter of a national sewing organization. The edit of that video became her new obsession, and the new distraction for our Wednesday morning group!

I never really knew Celina all that well. I recall from conversations that she had been an art teacher, but had retired. She and her husband, Ernie, had me over for lunch one Sunday afternoon in autumn last year, and it was a very cerebral experience in addition to the excellent chicken parmegiana that Celina made for the occasion. She wasn't a close friend, but she was a current friend, all the same.

Several weeks ago Celina went absent from our group due to a cracked rib she suffered moving a heavy item in her home, and she remained at home to recuperate. On pain medication, she didn’t want to drive under its influence.

Last week a get well card was passed around the group to send our wishes to Celina that she return to us soon. In my inimitable style, I wrote “Don’t die!” and then crossed it out as though to imply an afterthought, and then the pat, “Get well soon!” comment in its place.

The very next day the whole group and I received an e-mail from Ernie telling us that Celina had experienced a fall in their home the day before, which resulted in a severely broken arm and a broken neck. At the emergency room, tests and x-rays revealed, in addition to the broken bones, a mass in her lungs: stage 4 cancer which had metastasized and spread to her cervical spine and her brain.

There was nothing the doctors could do for her. It had already spread too far.

She opted against any life-saving measures — had there been any available to her — and chose instead comfort care, and was immediately sedated beyond coherence.

One of our group, Stephen, was able to use his status as a clergyman to visit Celina in the ICU where no one else other than family were allowed to visit. In addition to the comfort and support he provided to Ernie, he was able to give us an update on her condition. She was still heavily sedated and incoherent. As one would expect, the outlook was grim.

In reference to my suddenly callous-seeming comment on the get-well card, I had expressed the hope that the card had not yet been sent, but it had been. Stephen, in an attempt to head it off, or to head off any offense it might cause, mentioned the comment to Ernie. Stephen later reported that Ernie, in his characteristically warped good humor, said that Celina had opted not to take my advice. Regardless, I was still mortified, though relieved that he had taken it in stride.

Tuesday evening, around 11:30, I received from Ernie the message that Celina had passed away just after 8:00 that evening. “Shocked” does not even begin to describe my feelings about the whole progression.

Celina is the first friend I have lost. There have been other friends with whom I had lost touch years before and never re-established contact before their passing, and there have been friends of the family — of my siblings or of my parents — who passed away, and to whose families I came and provided support and comfort, but, until now, I had never lost a personal friend. The strange, sudden, and seemingly cruel manner in which she was taken has left me feeling quite hollow, and this bustling, noisy Starbucks today seems nonetheless quieter.

Celina was 62.



Celina Acquaro
September 25, 1948 - September 7, 2010
(photo: Sean McMenemy)


(edited to replace originally posted photo with a better one, above, and assign proper photo credit)

Sap

In case you’ve been reading here less frequently than I have been contributing here at fa·ra·go, you may not know that, a couple months ago, I began working out with the P90X Program.

I started another blog to chronicle that adventure, so I won’t bore you with that here. You can go there to let me bore you with that.

Instead, I’ll bore you with more fa·ra·go-style boredom, though somewhat related to working out and physical fitness.

The other day I was mildly procrastinating the start of the day’s workout. I believe I was attending to that all-important task of lint extraction from the seams in my office chair, when the thought occurred to me, ”Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to push me to work out?” I mean, Tony Horton, the workout maven in the P90X videos — even though he’s little more to me than an animated electronic flicker on my TV screen — keeps pushing me and encouraging me and praising me for such hard work during and after each workout. I need somebody — in the flesh or in the ether — prodding me and pushing me to get out of bed, to put on my workout clothes, and to tell me that investigating my Facebook friends’ new Facebook friends is NOT a necessary demand of my time.

And, in a brief flash, my mind fell back onto my “glory” days in the U. S. Air Force. Not to basic training where PT (physical training) seemed much less about fitness than about conformity, but to the tech school I was sent to a year and a half later, “en route” to my duty station in Germany. Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona, was, at that time, the training center for the Ground Launched Cruise Missile (GLCM, or, affectionately, “glickem”) program.

(During Desert Storm, and again during the unnecessary Iraq War, much to do was made of the Navy’s highly accurate “Tomahawk Cruise Missile,” launched from the decks of battleships in the Persian Gulf. The “Tomahawk” is the Navy’s sea-launched version of the BGM-109 cruise missile, and the same missile that the U.S. Air Force had in its arsenal during the late 1980s and into the ‘90s, only configured to be transported around in transporter-erector-launcher trucks, highly mobile and deployed stealthily throughout the pretty forests of Europe. The Air Force canceled the GLCM program in the mid-1990s, though I believe it still maintains the air-launched version.)

Upon the first day of training, we were informed that there would be PT every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at 5:30am sharp. For most of us in the program, who had been out of basic training for up to several years, this marked a drastic change to what likely most had ever known. Five-thirty?! Were these people crazy?

And sure enough, that first Wednesday the NCO squad leaders in training with the rest of us walked through the dorm banging on doors at 5:00 to get everybody up and outside for PT.

It was early October. It was Tucson, otherwise known as The Desert. It was dark. And? It was chilly outside, one of the surprises of The Desert. One of the instructors met us outside the dorms, the NCOs formed us up, and we marched to the PT field. Where basic training had us working out on asphalt or concrete PT pads, this was literally a grass field, dusty and dirty.

Still in formation, we spread out uniformly across the field with enough space between each man to allow for proper exercise form. And then we met our Tormentor.

I don’t remember the man’s name. Or his rank. As a matter of fact, I never saw the man in uniform, in the classrooms, or anywhere else any other time on base, except on the PT field. I really don’t know. He seemed kind of fat, and pretty old to me. Of course, I was 21; 35 was “old” to me. This guy was probably no more than 45 or 50. He may have even been a retiree to whom they gave the privilege to work out with us. I wouldn’t be surprised if I learned that he was only 40. But he was “old.” And he was the leader of our PT.

We still worked out with conformity, each man doing the exercises to the same count and cadence as everyone else. But the odd thing was — at least to my experience, which had been in Basic Training that the Training Instructors simply walked around us grunting recruits during PT, barking orders and watching us grunt — this old guy who nobody ever saw away from the PT field, did every rep of every exercise with us! Every push-up, every jumping jack, every sit-up, every evil stretch he made us do, he did himself, too. And? He was always ready for more! Despite his apparent girth, he was tremendously fit and strong, and he put most of us young kids to shame.

And he got me into the best shape of my life. In Montana, my duty station before I was sent to Davis-Monthan, I had ballooned from my highest, fittest, basic training weight of 165 lbs. up to my highest (at that time), fattest (at that time) weight of 177! Within a couple of weeks, I was back down to 165, but with less fat and more muscle than I had ever seen on my body since I joined the Air Force!

So I thought about that guy the other day, and I wondered — as I always wonder when I think about someone who sped past my eyes in my youth — whatever became of him. If he was as old as 50 then, he’s pushing 75 now! I wonder if he’s still alive.

Of course, this does nothing for my motivation issue today. While it was a small slice of Hell to have someone pound on my door at 5:00 in the morning three times a week, it represented no real conviction or dedication on my part to the cause of my own fitness. But, in hindsight, it was certainly convenient! And, if I recall correctly, the rude awakenings stopped when we all proved we could show up downstairs in time for the march to the field. We were not raw recruits, after all. But even at that, I had the pressure of conformity, not to mention the sounds of the other guys milling about in the hall, getting ready, to get me to haul my ass out of bed.

Oh, Motivation! How are ye disguised today?



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A Sunday in July

As is my usual excuse, I've been devoting my time to other, more time consuming tasks than writing, so far·ra·go sits on a back burner, barely simmering, with a slimy skin forming on the top....

Well, Shoot!
I worked last week in my chosen career, that of video production guy. I went to Omaha on Sunday July 11 for two nights. It was kind of weird doing that after not having done it for nearly a full year. Some things came to me like I had last done them yesterday, while others took some thought. Most frustrating was my intermittent inability to find certain non-essential-yet-still-crucial little buttons on the camera. But, in all, it was like getting on a bike again. I walked away kinda sweaty with a sore ass.

Don't go there.


P90Xtasy? Uh, no....
I've completed week number three of twelve in the P90X Extreme Home Fitness program. I'm still alive. I think my belly is slimming down a bit, but it's hard to tell. My pants are loose again. I think that's a good sign. Feel free to follow my progress, bitching, and moaning at my P90X blog, P90Xperiment



My Eye Queue
I've been squeezing in a few movies lately, chipping away slowly at my Netflix queue. Recent movies have been The Simpsons Movie, which I swear I had never seen before, but so much of it was familiar I doubt myself (but when did I see it?!); Million Dollar Baby; Ratatouille; and, just today, 3:10 to Yuma.

Million Dollar Baby
I have always taken Clint Eastwood — as a director — with a grain of salt. I come under the gun (to make a pun) with friends and film nuts alike whenever I give them my opinion of Eastwood's Unforgiven which was hailed as an instant classic in an era when the Western is all but dead. I saw it as pointless, a violent soapbox diatribe claiming to be against violence. I must be the only one.

So it was with a similar attitude that I watched my Blu-Ray player swallow the Million Dollar Baby disc. It was a likeable story about a determined young woman, played by Hillary Swank, whose dream was only to be trained as a fighter by her vision of the greatest trainer that ever lived, the old, worn-out boxing trainer portrayed by Eastwood, who thinks a woman training in his gym is bad for business. Of course, he's finally convinced, thanks to her tenacity, to take her on. Of course, he's dealing with the emotional loss of his daughter, estranged from him years ago and who refuses to communicate with him, and he feels a paternal tug toward this young woman who is otherwise alone.

So I expected a boxing movie, only with a woman in the ring kicking ass and making her way to the champeenship, which she of course wins.

Not.

This movie hits you with a surprise haymaker from your blind side, and redefines "unpredictable." I won't spoil it for anyone who has a worse record of movie-going than I do (this film was released in 2005!), But I will say that I'm not supposed to cry like that over a boxing film!

Mr. Eastwood, I bow to you and your directing prowess, and I give your film four Netflix stars. Million Dollar Baby deserves all the Academy Awards it received (Best Director, Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor (Morgan Freeman), and Best Actress (Swank)).

Unforgiven still blows, though. Thanks.

Ratatouille
Set aside the ridiculous proposition that a rat could be a culinary genius, communicating to an inept human the movements necessary to create impossibly delicious dishes. Okay... done?

This film was FANTASTIC! With each progression of digitally animated storytelling, Pixar Studios further hones the craft and sets the new standard for it. The detail in Ratatouille is mind-boggling, both in attention to character movement, as well as scenic background elements. There are several scenes of Paris exteriors that I had to pause the film to study, almost convinced that the background was at best a mix of actual photos/film of Paris street scenes. But no. It's all art work of unbelievable meticulousness and realism.

And the story. Aside from its preposterous premise (but how else to get the kids in the theater seats?), the story was sweet, dealing with relationships at both the human level and the rat, through conflict and motives, needs and desires. And the best part? No musical numbers! There's a good bit of slapstick — necessary for the ADHD set — and a nice balance of shtick and witty banter for the parents they dragged with them. There's also a bit of a surprise, as the usual happy ending isn't quite what you expect it to be. Great vocalizations carry the story comfortably, despite an inexplicable inconsistency of French accents (some have them, some don't; none of the rats do).

I thoroughly enjoyed Ratatouille, laughing out loud many times while watching it. If you like animated films, I highly recommend this one. If you don't like animated films, then screw you. Go watch Million Dollar Baby again.

3:10 to Yuma (spoiler alert!!)
Based on a 1957 film of the same title, and an Elmore Leonard short story, it's about a poor rancher who agrees to house a captured gang leader, and then assist with transporting him on a two-day ride to the town of Contention in order to put the prisoner on a train to Yuma.

Starring Russell Crowe and Christian Bale, this film is billed as a psychological drama against an Old West backdrop, but as such it falls short. This is an action-adventure film, with very little suspense or psychological intrigue, if any. If it doesn't act like a duck, don't call it a duck.

The film certainly lives up to its correctly identified genre, but that's about it. If you like shoot-em-ups with lots of exploding blood-packs and guys falling off horses, then you won't be disappointed. If you want a story that makes sense, look elsewhere. Crowe is cast as the fearsome bad guy, Ben Wade, who earns his gang's respect through terror and swift repercussions for less than exceptional work. He has made his fortune by repeatedly robbing the stagecoach that carries the railroad's payroll, haplessly guarded by Pinkerton's Security Services. Bale portrays the rancher, Dan Evans, who the land-hungry railroad agent has on the ropes by damming up a creek that would otherwise bring water to his cattle and his grassland.

Evans facilitates Wade's capture by stalling him in a saloon while the law and railroad men move in on him, and then he accepts their offer of money if he'll assist them in first housing Wade and then in transporting him to the nearest railroad town, a couple days' ride away.

Wade then commences a confusing dance of murdering some of his escorts while submitting to others. By the end, it's just Wade, Evans, Evans's son, and the weasely railroad agent waiting nervously in the town of Contention for the train to Yuma to arrive, as Wade's ruthless gang descend on the town to free him. Inexplicably, Wade assists Evans in getting him to the train through the gauntlet of lead sprayed around the town by Wade's men, despite several opportunities to either kill Evans or simply escape. And does Evans really do all this because his boy thinks he's a wuss? Apparently so. And all for naught, as Evans is finally gunned down by Wade's men just as Wade willingly gets into the cell-car of the train. And Wade's show of gratitude to his men? He kills them all. And then he gets back on the train to go to jail.

WTF?

Maybe Elmore Leonard's 4500 word short story explains it better. Maybe the original 1957 film does a better job of outlining why Wade doesn't kill Evans with the many opportunities the 2007 film offers him.

Maybe, if you've been wanting to see this film after missing its theatrical release (like I did), you'll just change your mind. The Simpsons Movie is more intellectually gratifying.



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Random Successes

I can't seem to put two thoughts together lately for a meaningful post. The taxi driving still provides fodder I think would make for great stories, but I think I'm suffering from sensory overload; they all just dissolve to a blurry background beyond the field of focus.

Instead, I'll just post pretty pictures. All mine, of course.



I finally completed a successful flip! Not 100% successful, as you can see upon close scrutiny, but the breaks "healed" almost instantaneously on the heat, and I had two "dunky" eggs for breakfast. The above photo was taken on July 6, 2010. I haven't had a successful one again since.



Crepuscular Rays. I got the term "Jacob's Ladder" from a Rush song of that name, off their Permanent Waves album. Kind of a neat song if you can find it and give it a listen (hint: YouTube). Sitting at the Arlington Heights train station, I was treated to this sight one late afternoon after a day of rain. Carrying my camera in the taxi finally paid off somewhat.



Tonight's dinner. And tomorrow's lunch. And meals for a good chunk of the week! Rubbed with olive oil, sprinkled with "Italian Seasoning," and roasted over indirect, 350° heat on my Weber gas grill, alternately turned 180° and flipped over every 15 minutes for an hour and a half, and the meat practically fell off the bone at my mere suggestion! It's the one culinary thing I'm actually good at! Can you say "Mmmmmmmmmmmm?"



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In re: Thematic Photographic #104 - Dotty

Carmi's theme this week was dotty things.


Exposed aggregate concrete • Hoffman Estates, Illinois
July 2, 2010



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Anthem

Oh! Say, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there!

Oh! Say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!


We Americans, I say with much hope, memorize the words to our national anthem, but I feel that seldom does anyone really pause to analyze the words and grasp their meaning.

The oft-maligned choice for our national anthem is criticized for its wide vocal range that the average citizen can’t cover and for its anachronistic poetic structure. But rather than wax eloquent about the beauty and bounty of our nation, as so many nations’ anthems do; or strut with musically arrogant pride about our power and might above all others, as so many other nations’ anthems do, ours highlights a mere moment in our history that typifies our collective resolve: we always come through in the clutch.

Written as a poem by Francis Scott Key, it was adopted as our National Anthem in 1931.

Key, sent as part of a party to a flotilla of British ships off of Baltimore harbor during the war of 1812 to secure the safe return of American prisoners of war, was then detained on the ship as plans were laid to bombard Fort McHenry. The bombardment lasted through the night and was so fierce that Key could only imagine total destruction of the fort. But, through the night the light from “the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof” that the American flag seen flying over the fort in “the twilight’s last gleaming” the evening before, was still there.

"Oh! Look there, in the light of the sunrise! You can see it, what we looked on so proudly last night — the brightly colored stars and stripes we saw flying over the ramparts during the battle as the sun went down!

"We could see in the red light of the rockets, and the bombs exploding around it all night, that our flag was still there!

"And now, as the battle is ended, we see that our flag still flies over the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

When I think of the song in terms of the story it tells, I’m filled with the pride Francis Scott Key must have felt that morning when he saw that flag flying “by the dawn’s early light.”

And yes, I cry.

Happy Birthday, USA!

(parts of this post lifted from a May 6, 2007 Farrago post)

The Signs, They Are A- ...Jumble?

I've been regularly taking my camera out on the road with me in the taxi in hopes of finding interesting things to shoot. As luck would have it, I saw something funny that deserved to be photographed, and then Carmi unleashed his most recent theme over at Written Inc.

Signs of the Times.

Here's my contribution...about a week late. My apologies.


Practice What You Preach, o sign master!

No Small Change

Yes, you're at the right blog. Well, that is, unless you landed here by accident. If you're actually here on purpose, welcome to the new and improved Farrago, now with less mystery and more... well, nothing more, really. I just changed some layout crap with Blogger's Layout Crap Changer. I hope you like it.

But there is more change in the air. Be careful...the quarters hurt most. Half-dollars cause the most damage, but who carries half-dollars any more, let alone flings them into the air?

But I digress. Where was I? Ah, yes. Change. We all change a little bit every day. Our cells regenerate themselves at a rate such that we are each really a completely different person than we were something like eight days before. Some of us endeavor never to change, but underwear has a way of falling apart if abused, and we have to put new ones on anyway. Not me. You. No. I mean, them.

I did it again. What am I getting at? What's this about change?

I've started a new blog. No, it's not a replacement of Farrago, nor will it necessarily be a permanent pastime. SHEESH! Take one look around here and you'll realize Farrago isn't even a permanent pastime of late! But my other blog is a diary of sorts, a documentary effort following my experiences with an extreme fitness regimen called P90X. I shared my weight loss and workout stories of last year here at Farrago, but I wanted a place where I could dedicate coverage to my renewed effort to lose weight (again) and achieve real fitness (once and for all).

And that place is P90Xperiment. There I'll comment about the workouts (I haven't started yet, but I hear they're intense), about how I'm feeling, aches and pains, successes, setbacks and whatever else comes to mind in the process of making myself the very picture of health, fitness, and hottitude. Of course, it will contain my usual pithy wit, replete with my wacky, inane, and — yes — moronic observations about things that don't matter to anyone. Not even me, really. But mostly, I'm sure, I'll complain about stuff like, why did I spend money on this thing, what was I thinking when I posted pictures of my fat, half-naked self on the internet despite the fact that anyone to whom I mentioned this idea said I should post before and after photos, I could really go for a jumbo hot dog right now.... No, I mean, really. I'm pretty hungry, as I spent most of the afternoon assembling a chin-up bar, taking pictures of my fat, half-naked self, and creating the new blog, that I forgot to eat dinner. HEY! I'm losing weight already!

So go read it, already. Comments are moderated to keep out cruel, obnoxious comments from strangers. Cruel, obnoxious comments from friends are ...uh ...welcome.



°

Void

.









°

Thematic Photographic #101

It's odd that I had taken the photos contained herein with a particular theme in mind, and then Carmi, over at Written, Inc., chose that same theme a couple months later.

In Thematic Photographic #101, Carmi asks his contributors to pay particular attention to the artificially lit nightscape.

And here I go...

Click on a photo to enlarge. All photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro.

Working the night shift gives me the opportunity to see things as
relatively few people see them, such as urban or semi-urban locales
as desolate, lonely landscapes. Not to mention the freedom to stand
in the middle of a four-lane highway to take a series of shots with-
out being mowed under by a speeding Cadillac!



Nocturnal Oasis. The night surrounds a little cocoon of light and
makes it appear a lonely outpost.



A mix of both artificial light and early morning twilight as the
distant, impending sunrise illuminates the high sky above.



°

Murphy's Kitchen

As both my readers are aware, I am not much of a cook, so much ...ehrm... not, that I occasionally blog about my kitchen exploits here, failures as well as successes.

Due to my wacky schedule, I haven't cooked breakfast at home for quite a while. I had the same bacon sitting in my refrigerator for at least two months and, gastrically daring as I am, even that seemed too dangerous today as I contemplated my options.

After my overnight shift in the taxi, I made a morning stop to stock up on a few grocery items. In a purely impulse shopping moment, my eyes alighted on a package of "breakfast links" in the cooler beside the butcher's counter...little sausages made (I believe) right on the premises at my local mom & pop (chain) store. "Hmmm," I thought. "A nice alternative to bacon," I thought. I also had some eggs that were getting old; the sell-by date on the carton is April 15. So I bought a dozen fresh.

Once home I threw away the old bacon. I opened the old carton of eggs only to reveal that it was an entire dozen. In the interest of not wasting an entire dozen eggs, I'm just daring enough to eat those. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger. What does kill me... well....

I got things going on the stove. I even opted to brew up a "pot" of French press coffee, rare for me since I gave up caffeine (again) a few weeks ago. I simmered up four breakfast links over a low-to-medium flame while the water heated up for the coffee and while I prepared the toast and cracked open the eggs (which looked and smelled just fine, by the way) and deposited them in a Pyrex measuring cup/bowl/glass-thing-with-a-handy-handle-and-pour-spout.

As the links heated up, the oils inside them began to bubble, and I noticed that the skin of one of them had expanded balloon-like, and I could actually see the oil pooling inside and boiling! No sooner had I noticed this, and thought to myself, "If that bubble bursts, oil is going to squirt out," the bubble burst and oil squirted out. And of all directions the oil could have squirted out, guess which direction it squirted...

Yes. Right. At. Me. It doused my shirt right at belly level, and now I look like some sort of greasy hillbilly with a greasy hillbilly belly. No offense to any greasy hillbillies among my readers, but I know both of you, and neither of you is a hillbilly. Well, not a greasy one, anyway....

I saw another of the links bubbling up the same way, so I rolled the bubble side to face away from me and watched it burst and douse the other sausages. Suckers!
Toast was done and buttered, I was sipping the first of the first coffee I had made at home in about two months, and the links were all but finished cooking — and squirting. It was now time for the eggs.

In the past I have waxed poetic about my attempts at The Flip, but it has become somewhat of an obsession with me to perfect the eggs-over flip without breaking the yolks, or dropping the whole heap on the floor, or the stove, or the sink...or the ceiling. Since it had been several months since I had cooked anything, I was feeling pretty rusty about the flip, which I haven't even gotten good at, yet, in the first place, even.

I poured the eggs into the pan of bubbling butter, and both the yolks slid toward one side of the pan, huddling together and elongating slightly, appearing almost as apprehensive eyes looking fearfully at me. Hey, I worked all night. I'm tired. I see what I see.

So, with sausagey hillbilly grease-stains on my shirt, I gripped the pan handle tightly, walked the bubbling, fearfully quivering eggs over to the sink, and prepared for the flip. The eggs slid easily back and forth around in the pan, looking at me now in sheer horror. And -FLIP- ...and the whole shebang went only half-way over, perpendicular to the world, and plopped into the pan, edge first, both yolks breaking as they plopped back into the butter.

DAMN.

The only thing worse would be if the damned aged things kill me after I ate them.

I seem to be fine so far.



°

Idle Moments

The Vanishing Points cast and crew were a playful bunch. During the run of dress rehearsals and performances at the tiny Boho Theatre and its especially cramped dressing room/makeup/backstage area (there was NO privacy! I saw the women in their underwear...and they saw me in mine, the poor things....), the director and the stage manager saw to it that our off-stage time was occupied with other pursuits so as to keep our voices from drifting out onto stage when they weren't wanted. On the first day of tech. rehearsals, the grueling sessions where the backstage crew cram into a couple of days what the actors have been drilling for weeks, we found in the dressing/makeup area a box full of magazines, puzzle- and coloring books, as well as a box each of coloring markers and Crayola crayons!


Backstage at Boho. In the left foreground are the objects of our
distraction. (Photo: Morgan Manasa)

I thought it was just silly at first, but as my boredom grew, I took a crayon in my hand and flipped through the coloring book, looking at a couple of samples that cast member Mark Penzien had already rendered. I noted that he had applied some shading to some of his works, an idea that had never crossed my mind for coloring books, as I hadn't colored in a coloring book since, maybe, age 8?

I found a picture to my liking and started filling in between the lines.

I discovered along the way that, either due to paying attention when I didn't think I was to my ex-wife's graphic art work, or something I just picked up along the way, I have sort of a knack for shading. Granted, they were just coloring book pictures, but some of them struck me as pretty darn good, if I may say so myself. And I just did.


This was the first one I did.


Since I had very small roles in the play, I had a LOT of down time....



I sorta goofed a little on this one....


I like the shading at the edges of the "fur" in this one.


I love how shading can add character to the
characters! The bug is a little crappy in
this one.


Probably my favorite of the bunch....

There are a few others, but I don't feel they're very good.



°

Vanishing Points

In September of 1972, Grand Island, Nebraska saw the grisly aftermath of a multiple murder in which three members of the Peak family — the parents and their 14 year old daughter — were shot to death in their home. A surviving, adult daughter was out of the home at the time, and that woman spent the ensuing years dealing with loss and guilt over the incident, and was the inspiration for a stage drama that fictionalized the events but spared none of the emotion. The resulting play is Vanishing Points by Martin Jones, a story of a young woman's journey through the tragedy and loss, and making her way back into the world.

The crime has never been solved.

The cast of Vanishing Points were:
Stacie Hauenstein (Beth)
Annie Slivinski (Carolyn/Peg)
Rick Levine (Walter/Cliff)
Victoria Bucknell (Barbara/Vicki)
Christopher Sanderson (Lenny/Caz)
Morgan Manasa (Fran)
Mark E. Penzien (Gary)
Tony Gasbarro (Policeman/Det. Sinfeld)

(click on any photo to see full size)


Working a scene with director, Dan Foss, and actors Stacie Hauen-
stein and Christopher Sanderson. (photos: Morgan Manasa)



Stage Manager Rachel Staelens
and Assistant Stage Manager
Derek Van Tassel feverishly scrib-
ble notes on everything from
actors' missed lines to light and
sound cues, to ideas on where to
go for drinks after rehearsal!!
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



Costumer Erica Hohn, left, creates
one of several "tattoos" for Vicki,
one of the characters portrayed by
Victoria Bucknell. Victoria's arm
is wrapped in cellophane, and then
covered with the altered pantyhose
she will wear onstage, upon which
the "tattoos" are drawn with indel-
ible ink. Rather ingenious, I
thought! (photo: Tony Gasbarro)



In our other rehearsal space, our
lead actress, Stacie Hauenstein,
runs a scene with Rick Levine.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



"Who's that comin' up the road...?"
An imagined conversation of the
victims in their last moments alive.
From left, Rick Levine, Victoria
Bucknell, Annie Slivinski.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



Meanwhile, Beth is getting high
and getting it on with her boy-
friend, Lenny, out in a field some-
where outside of town.... Christo-
pher Sanderson, left, and Stacie
Hauenstein. (photo: Tony Gasbarro)



Beth's dreams are haunted by her
dead parents and sister. One of
the more bizarre — and heart-
wrenching — scenes. Pictured:
Annie Slivinski.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



And the living begin to
haunt Beth's dreams,
too. Here, the image of
Beth's brother-in-law,
Gary, tears apart her art
work. Stacie Hauenstein,
left, and Mark Penzien.
(photo: Tony Gasbarro)



In our performance space, The
Boho Theatre at Heartland Studio,
Victoria "poses" for her chalk out-
line as the corpse of Barbara.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



Yours truly, in his first speaking
role on stage in more than ten
years, as the asshole cop. From
left, Christopher Sanderson, Tony
Gasbarro, Stacie Hauenstein.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



The full depth and breadth of the
audience space at Boho Theatre.
(photo: Morgan Manasa)



°

Cobwebs

Sunday. The day of rest.

Since I started driving the taxi, I haven't really taken many days off. Part of that was due to the fact that, at the same time I started driving the taxi, I also got a rash of roles in plays, the rehearsals for which took up a huge chunk of my time, significant in that said time was when I could be making solid change in the taxi. So I shifted my work hours to nights for a large portion of the "play" time in order to maximize my hours behind the wheel.

Autumn begat winter, and then winter gave way to spring. Lucky Stiff ended its run as the holidays began, and then, as the turkey and mimosas wore off, Vanishing Points went into rehearsals. The performance run hit its stride and the weather reluctantly warmed, and A Tale of Two Cities ground slowly into motion, opening after a somewhat harrowing rehearsal process a mere month after Vanishing Points closed.

I didn't have the creative burden some of the major characters bore on their players, but I subjected myself to a more demanding schedule, resulting in long shifts, sleeping in four-hour (or less) bursts, and by May 1, the final performance of A Tale of Two Cities, I was feeling nonetheless exhausted.

With a quarter of my day back in my hands I faced the option of taking that time to relax, or to hit the road in earnest to rake in as much money as I could.

I did both.

I shifted my working day to the early mornings and either straight through the day, or taking a break around 10:00am and heading back out around 1:00pm and finishing around 6:00, for a 12 hour day. On Friday and Saturday nights, however, I take advantage of the thriving bar scene in one of the towns in my area, starting in the late evening and working the night through, usually for a 14-hour shift each night.

Sunday is my day to transition back to the day shift, and is my day to rest. To my dismay, however, the extra sleep that day has consistently left me with a headache I can't shake until near the end of the day, just around bedtime!

And, finally, today I have taken some time to get back to blogging. Unfortunately for you, my one dear reader who hasn't yet abandoned me (which may, in fact, be only ME), my return to blogging is this creaking, rusty excuse for a post.

In the (Sun)days to come I hope to post more play photos and taxi stories. I started one and saved it somewhere, but have since been unable to find it.

I hope you're having a wonderful, reverent, peaceful Memorial Day weekend!



°

Coming Up For Air (and Lucky Stiff photos!)

A Tale of Two Cities is winding to a close this weekend. I've had the last four evenings free and have done an inordinate amount of nothing. Making like a vegetable can be quite fun...until the rot starts...

Anyhoo, as promised MONTHS ago, below are some shots from Lucky Stiff, with pithy, irreverent captions. Or not.

The Lucky Stiff cast: Ryan Gilbert, Kendel Lester, Lisa Cantwell, John Rodrick, Andy Berlien, Danna Marie Pantzke, Jesus Mata, Sarah Greenfield, Danny Shannon and Tony Gasbarro. All photos by David Ropinski. Click on a photo to embiggerate.


An early scene, as a commuter
(far left), after the death
scene, and before my appearance
as the corpse.


The ensemble number "It's Good
To Be Alive." I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: Danna, Danny, Farrago,
Ryan, Sarah.


A detail shot from "It's Good To
Be Alive." I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: John, Farrago, Ryan.


Another ensemble number,
"Speaking French," where I get me
some. Not a bad score for a dead
guy, huh? I'm in the wheelchair.
From left: Kendel, Ryan, Sarah,
Farrago, John, Danny, Jesus,
Danna.


Jesus Mata claims that Lucky
Stiff was his first musical ever. Re-
gardless, the man stole the show.
Here is a glimpse of his genius in
one of his many ensemble roles,
this time a much mustachioed nun.
This scene was a riot. I'm not
in the wheelchair. From left: Jesus,
Danny, Kendel, Ryan.


Shenanigans behind
my back...


The big climax. There was intrigue,
and guns, and... maid costumes!
From left: Andy, Sarah, Lisa,
Ryan, Farrago, Kendel, John.


Everybody loves Farrago. From left:
Lisa, John, Farrago, Ryan, Kendel.

Resurfacing II

Ooops. Here I am again.... It is embarrassing that I find myself compelled to apologize for the dearth of posts here at FARRAGO lately. I haven't often — if at all — mentioned the other play I was cast in during the run of Lucky Stiff, a drama called Vanishing Points, but we went into rehearsals in earnest mid-January. We closed a four-week run last night. (See reviews here.) Coupled with trying to make rent each month in the taxi, I am left with little time to write.

During the run of Vanishing Points (photos to soon follow) I was also cast in a return to NEIU's stage, an April production of A Tale of Two Cities in which I will portray the evil Marquis de St. Evremonde. Busy? To say the least.

Oddly enough, there haven't been too many new stories from the back seat to share here. Either nothing much of note has been happening, or I'm just becoming desensitized to what does happen back there. Either way, I haven't been inspired much to tell any tales. Perhaps I will.

In any case, I'll probably throw a few things up here in the coming weeks, but as ATOTC gains speed before take-off, be certain I'll disappear again. I'm considering taking the summer off from my pursuit of an acting career and focusing on earning a living, paying rent, and reconnecting with my other passions and friendships. Do stay with me, if I haven't lost you already.



°

The Awesome Absurd

I was treated to this sight Thursday morning as I finished my shift in the taxi. The surrounding landscape is a huge pile of snow thrown to the edge of my apartment complex parking lot. Apparently this had been attached to the front bumper of my taxi the night before and probably broke off when my weight hit the seat as I got in. Then, due to an interesting coincidence of timing, clear, cold weather, and the fact that my mind was blank enough to be distracted by such things, I saw it.


Photos ©2010 Tony Gasbarro.
Click on a photo to embiggerate.

The sun was up, but barely high enough to peek over the summit of the snow mountain. The small bluff upon which the "stalagmicicle" stands is just tall enough to be illuminated by the sun around the base of the structure.

The structure itself basks in the the sun, reflecting and diffracting its light in natural perfection.

I look at these photos and can't help but think that it looks like I deliberately lit this scene, but it was just there for me to take in. A little plebeian, I know, but you take joy where you can find it.



°

Why Can't America Do This Right?

It's chocolate milk, people. Milk, cocoa, sugar.

Why do we always have to add crap to stuff? Who demands that the simple be made complicated?



°

Kid Sniffles and the Unlucky Stiff

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

The snow came down in piles Thursday, and the cabbing was a non-stop affair. I had planned to work only until noon, but the longer I stayed logged onto the dispatch computer, the more fares came my way.

I picked up one guy at his home, and took him to his job at a hospital in Hoffman Estates. As he paid me, a man looking to be around age 30 made eye contact with me and asked, “Are you here for me?”

I shook my head. “Did you call for a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“This company?”

“I think so,” he said. “The receptionist at the E.R. called for me.”

If he had ordered from this company, I was reluctant to take him, as that would be stealing a fare from one of my company “brothers.” So I called our dispatcher, who checked for an order from that particular hospital and found none.

“Hop in,” I said to my new next fare, slightly dismayed since I was within a mile of my home and had planned to knock off for the day after the guy I dropped off at the hospital, though happy to put a few more dollars into my pocket. “Where to?”

“North Barrington.”

BONUS! That’s about a 12 mile trip across a couple different towns, so I could charge a higher rate!

He told me his address and we got underway, and began light conversation. He told me his name was Randy, and that he had spent two nights in the hospital due to what he said the doctors called alcohol poisoning, which Randy said was “Bullshit.”

With the weather falling down all around us and the traffic responding as traffic does around here, it took us nearly a half-hour to get to Miller Road, where he said he lived. Along the way Randy mentioned that so much snow had fallen, with more to come, but he hadn’t hired anyone to plow his driveway. When we finally turned on to Miller Road, Randy pointed to a street sign about 2 blocks ahead and said, “Turn in there.”

I nodded.

Then he blurted, “No, wait! It’s this one!” indicating the street which we had just passed.

I turned around in the gate area of a gated community, and he said, “I’m trying to sell my house. This economy is a bitch.” Then he warned me, “Don’t pull in the driveway or you might get stuck.”

I pulled up to his house, where the virgin snow in the driveway had been violated by one vehicle. The meter read $32.00

“Hey,” he said, “my keys and wallet are on top of my dresser in my bedroom. I’ll run in and get it, and I’ll be right back.”

I’ve done this several times over the three months that I’ve been driving a taxi. Pickups from hospital emergency rooms usually don’t have any cash or their credit cards on them, and I have no choice but to trust them to get their stuff and come back. And they usually do, no worries.

He trotted toward the house, but then, instead of going to the front door, he slipped around the side of the house. Three minutes later I started to get the feeling something was wrong. Another two minutes later and I was pretty sure.

“This guy stiffed me.”

I attempted to pull into the driveway against “Randy’s” warning, but I indeed almost got stuck in the six to eight inches of fresh snow. It struck me odd — if this guy was indeed not coming back — that he would have even that level of compassion. I aborted that attempt and instead drove down the narrow lane to a home where the driveway had been cleared of the deep snow, and I turned around there.

I returned to the house and again sat in front, thinking for a moment that maybe I was being a little hasty. But I looked at the place, and at the “For Sale” sign protruding from the snow, and then I recalled the address he had told me at the beginning of the trip: 611 Miller Road, North Barrington. This house wasn’t on Miller Road, but rather a street that intersects with Miller.

Son of a bitch.

I got out of the car and walked toward the house, tracing his footsteps around the side, ducking under the boughs of a snow-laden pine tree, the needles of which shed some of their burdensome flakes down the back of my jacket collar and onto my bare neck. Around to the back of the house I saw “Randy’s” footprints in the snow leading away from the house and across a field behind the house.

Bastard.

I returned to the car and entered 611 Miller Road into my GPS unit. My hope was that he hadn’t decided to stiff me until he saw how much the ride was going to cost, or until I let him leave the car with the trust that he would return, and that he assumed I wouldn’t remember his address. The GPS indicated that the address was very close, and estimated it would take me 17 seconds to get there!

I drove to the location as indicated by the GPS. The house was at the end of a line of houses, their mailboxes standing at the side of the road with their addresses affixed to the west sides of the boxes. Six-twenty-one, 615 and... At the house on the eastern end of the line of houses, the mailbox was missing from the steel signpost that stood beside the road. Was this 611?

The driveway there had indeed been plowed, so I pulled in and got out of the car. The front walk and porch had not been cleared. I walked around to the back of the house where I saw no cars (and three closed garage doors), and several thoughts occurred to me in the moment: he may have planned this from the start, and 611 may have been a bogus address. If it was, and I went pounding on the door at this place, and the innocent dweller was confronted by an irked cab driver, it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience for either of us. If it was the correct address, and “Randy” came to the door at all, it could get ugly, or even deadly. To me.

Asshole.

I returned to the cab and looked up the number to the local police. Fifteen minutes later, waiting at the same gate area where I had turned around earlier, a sheriff’s deputy arrived to take my statement. He said I would receive a call if they found the guy, or if they had any further questions.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

On another hospital emergency room pick-up I retrieved a father and son from the hospital in Arlington Heights. The father, from Argentina, spoke English with a heavy accent, which was at times difficult to decipher. Conversation, therefore, was limited. And that turned out to be very unfortunate. For me.

Though I am pretty nosy by nature, taxi company rules are explicit for drivers waving the company flag about asking personal questions. It’s none of your business. Don’t ask.

It became apparent that it was the kid, about ten years of age, who was the reason for the trip to the E.R., as I picked them up around 4:30 am, when I overheard him say to his father, “My throat still itches,” in perfect American kid English.

With snow still falling and the roads a mess, the going was slow on the approximately seven-mile trip.

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

[sniff!] [sniff!]

Whatever the kid had was running out of his nose.

A customer a few weeks ago — a family, actually — inadvertently left a box of facial tissue on the rear shelf above the back seat in my car. I thought it an adequate addition to the amenities I offer my customers, which consist mainly of... well... that box of facial tissues. Anyway, I said to the father, “There’s a box of tissues behind you, if he needs some.”

“Ten cue!” he said, and I heard him turn and take a tissue from the box. He said something to the kid, who, so it sounded, refused!

[sniff!] [sniff!]

At least one per minute, it seemed, sometimes coming in flurries of three or more in a matter of seconds.

[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]

After a few minutes, “Would you care to listen to the radio?” I asked the father.

“No. Ees okay. Ten cue.”

[sniff!] [sniff!]

[sniff!]

It became absurd. Absurd situations tend to give me the giggles. It was all I could do not to bust out laughing.

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

[sniff!]

I looked at the time display on the dispatch computer screen: 4:52.

[sniff!] One. I started counting.

[sniff!] [sniff!] Two. Three.

The drive dragged on through the fairly deserted streets upon which the snow fell so hard and fast that the village plows could not keep up to clear them.

[sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!] [sniff!]

Finally, the adult in the back seat instructed me to turn into a cul-de-sac where he pointed out his house.

[sniff!]

He handed me his credit card.

[sniff!] [sniff!]

I filled out the information [sniff!] and handed the slip for him to sign. [sniff!]

I swiped his card through the slot in the car’s computer and waited for the authorization number. [sniff!] [sniff!]

[sniff!]

“Here you are!” I turned in my seat and handed back his receipt and his credit card.

The man and his boy exited my taxi and entered the flaky white fray outside. The computer’s clock read 5:02. Exactly ten minutes. That was easily only 1/3 of the entire duration of the ride!!

I had counted sixty sniffs! I don’t know how the kid didn’t pass out from hyperventilating!

Somehow I have the feeling that, were the adult in the back seat the boy’s mother, and after his refusal to use a tissue, she would have forcefully wrapped an arm around his head, jammed a tissue in his face and yelled, “BLOW!”

Of course, my fantasies do tend toward the weird....



°

A Bit of a Problem

I recently had another repeat customer of note. I’ve had several repeat customers, but few affect me on our first meeting as this woman did. And I don’t mean it as a good thing.

Very early in this stint driving a cab, I received a late night call to the emergency room of a nearby hospital. Upon arrival I went in to the ER and announced that I was the taxi driver called in. One of the ER staff called out the woman’s name — for our purposes, Lana — and my attention was diverted to the slightly mannish figure I had passed on my way in (I originally thought she was a college-aged boy!), huddled in a chair, apparently sleeping, and wrapped in a hospital blanket. She got up without a word and staggered to the taxi, where she crawled into the back seat and lay down.

I got behind the wheel and asked, “Where to?”

Lana labored to tell me her address, which I entered into my GPS unit.

Several times throughout the 10-minute trip, Lana moaned or grunted. Her manner and apparent incoherence had all the earmarks of someone coming down from alcohol intoxication. And, from the looks and sounds of it, this woman had been several stations beyond hammered. I wasn’t certain, of course, but it was a strong hunch. So strong, that I feared with every moan or grunt that she would spew her stomach contents all over the inside of my cab. I also feared that she would be unconscious by the time I got her home, and that I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my cab.

We neared the point to which the GPS was directing me, and she sat up, and blurted, “Here. This is good.”

I looked around. We were at an intersection between a couple apartment complexes and some sort of commercial buildings. Lana whipped out a credit card.

While I filled out the slip, Lana lay back down in the seat. She signed with an unintelligible scribble, and I said “Thanks.”

Lana opened the rear seat door and leaned out. She grunted in what sounded like apprehension. “Can you help me?”

“Sure,” I said, and got out and went around to help her. She was doubled over and very unsteady on her feet, and I had no confidence she would make it to her home — wherever it was. “Where are you going?”

She pointed to a building that was at least 100 yards away, and atop a hill. She grunted and a word came out. “There.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you make it?”

“Help me.” It sounded more like a general plea than a specific request.

“Okay, let’s go.” I offered my arm.

Lana remained doubled over as we walked. Though it was late September, the night air was quite crisp and chilly, and Lana wore nothing more than a t-shirt, shorts and a pair of athletic shoes. Despite the concrete stair path about fifty yards away that led to her building’s door, Lana made a bee-line for the door up the grassy hill. We had made it about one-third of the way up when she stumbled and stopped.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Hold me.” Again, it sounded like it came from deep within her soul.

On her right side, I gripped her right wrist with my right hand and pulled, and I placed my left hand on her back and pushed.

At the door to her building I waited as she fumbled for her keys, got them in the door, and got it open. Without looking at me, she muttered, “Thank you,” and shuffled into the depths of her existence.

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Two months later I received an order to pick up on the same street. When I arrived I realized the address was the same building where I had dropped off Lana that bizarre, chilly night. And sure enough, when the door opened at the top of the hill, Lana came bounding down the stairs. Looking to be around 40, with sandy blond, short-cropped hair, she was a 180-degree turn from the last time I had seen her. Aside from a somewhat vacant, lost look in her eyes, one would never suspect at her appearance that she had any dirty secrets.

She got in the back seat and dictated directions to a destination I did not know. Only a minute or two into the ride she spoke. “Have you ever picked me up before?”

Attempting to sound as neutral as possible, I answered, “Yes. I picked you up at the emergency room one night, and brought you home.”

“Yeah. I thought you looked familiar. I’d remember a handsome guy like you.”

Right. I’m sure you do, I thought.

“You helped me get to the door. I appreciate that.”

Oops!

Her directions brought us to the door of a liquor store literally only about a mile from her apartment.

“Right here,” she said. And then, almost sheepishly, “I’ve got a bit of a problem.” She paused. Did she seek comment or acknowledgment? “I’ll be just a minute, and then you can take me right back home.”

She went in to the liquor store, and, neutrality no longer needed, I shook my head.

She emerged from the store only two minutes later, empty-handed. She got in the car and said, “Okay. Take me home.”

She offered no explanation. I had an array of possible scenarios, from she’s battling demons and she won this round by resisting the desire for liquor to the liquor store clerk recognizes she has a problem, and refused to sell to her. But I’m sure it’s somewhere between those possibilities.

At the bottom of the concrete stair path she again offered her credit card as payment. It was a few minutes to fill out the slip and process the card. She spoke.

“Do you have a card or something? I need cabs every now and then.”

I handed her my card, provided by the taxi company, with my name and mobile number hand-written on the back. I told her that my schedule varies, and to try to call me at least an hour before she needs a ride, if possible, to determine if I’ll be available to pick her up.

Her credit card was approved. I handed back her card and her receipt. She opened the door and spun on the seat to get out.

“Thanks!” she said, raising my calling card in a gesture to me. Then she smiled. “You’re a cutie!” And she was gone.

In a split-second my mind visited the possibilities present in entertaining her interest. “HELL NO!” I shouted in the otherwise empty car.

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Just a few nights ago, as I was outside the door of a customer awaiting pick-up, my mobile phone rang.

“[Farrago]? This is--”

“Yes?” I spoke over the voice, missing her name.

She gave the address. “I need a ride.”

“Who is this?” I asked, though I was certain I recognized the voice, perhaps instinctively.

“Oh,” came the voice on the other end. She reacted as if she had been told she had the wrong number.

“I’m with another customer right now.”

“I need you.”

“I’m not available right now,” I said.

“How long will you be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know where he wants me to take him. I’ll call you as soon as I’m done with him and see if you still need a cab.”

There came a couple of uncertain grunts from Lana, and she hung up.

The customer was a local ride, not too long, and as soon as I dropped him off I called Lana, her number saved in my mobile phone’s “Calls” list. There was no answer.

Just to be sure, I drove to Lana’s apartment building and tried to call her again, also banking on the possibility that she was waiting for me to arrive. There was still no answer, and she never came out.

It’s in our nature to recognize need in people and to want to help. Some problems are within our capacity to solve, or at least to offer possible solutions. Others are beyond our help. The taxi driver is often a confidante, sometimes a co-conspirator. There is no oath of secrecy or privacy, though it seems one is implied. Nor is there a Hippocratic oath to help those in need. The damning reality is recognizing when someone is desperately in need of help, and the chasm between ‘want’ and ‘can’ is impossible to bridge.



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