The big moment was finally here. The ultimate test of all of my training, not to mention my willpower. I have trained for this race for six months. Every day, grinding it out, forcing myself to hit the trail. Or the treadmill, depending on what was on TV that night. No one would expect me to miss Grey’s Anatomy for some stupid run up hills around my neighborhood.
It seemed like such a good idea when I signed up. Of course, that was in the dead of winter, which I usually spend as a full time resident of couch-potato-land. Therefore, the idea that in a few months I would be forced to run 26.2 miles should be awesome motivation for getting lots of exercise and more than a little hard-core training. You would think, anyway. I know I did.
We all envision a more perfect future then we actually achieve. I am sure about that now. Well, at least I do. Cause I pictured me, fifty pounds lighter, super fit, cranking through this race like a dog after a squirrel. Not an old dog or a three-legged squirrel, but a silly energetic pup and a fully functional squirrel that lived to taunt the dog. That is what I really thought it would be like. Not so much, at least not so far. There is still time.
The start line was pretty exciting, all those people, mostly hopping up and down because it’s damn cold out at 7 AM and they’re dressed for the state they’ll be in twenty minutes after the gun goes off and the body starts to keep itself warm. Standing around in the morning is not that fun, but there was a lot of excitement in the air. It was palpable. There was even a host of giant bunnies there. They were people in bunny costumes and they all had different times posted on their over-sized ears. These were the pace bunnies. Apparently a bunch of people who had no larger goal in life than to run 26.2 miles at the exact speed that they claim, wearing a bunny costume. Lord, save me from the world’s overachievers, especially the ones with ginormous furry feet.
There must have been five thousand people here to run this race. Some of them, actually most of them, looked like they knew what they were doing and that they were about to kick some butt. I looked like I slept through 6 months of training and showed up to get my t-shirt. After all, I had paid $75 for that t-shirt. I was not leaving without it- that is true.
However, I was here to run this race. To challenge myself, mentally and physically for the first time. I could do this. I had trained and I had read everything I could find about running a marathon on-line while watching TV and carbing up- do you start that five months in advance? I wanted to be sure, so I did. King size Snickers count as carbs, right? Anyway…. I was as prepared as I would ever be. I had done what the books said, gotten in line for the bathroom upon arrival. Then, once I cleared the lovely porta-potty, I got right back in line, as that is what they say you should do. I have been hydrating for a few weeks now too, so you can imagine the results.
After a few trips through the “john”, I moseyed over to the other runners. They were stretching and prancing, preening even. They were all showing off as if they expected a pre-race talent scout to swoop down out of nowhere and offer them a contract on a new running reality show. Maybe called “Road to Nowhere”, or maybe “Roads Scholar”. That would be a good title. I would watch that. Maybe there were running scouts around; I guess you never know who is watching you.
I was trying not to get nervous. Trying to ignore the pressure building in my stomach. I have always been prone to the super-athlete’s curse of throwing up before a big event and while I had hoped that this would be different, I was not so sure. Remembering that running is 90% mental and 10% mental, I tried not to think of it, as though shutting out the symptoms would make the urge to purge go away. Don’t think about it….think of my happy place- a beach in Maui.
That’s better, maybe it will pass. And then it passed all right, passed right through my mouth and maybe even my nose and onto the shoes of all of the runners around me. And I’m pretty sure that my semi-digested breakfast soiled at least half of the pace bunnies’ furry feet, as I had eaten- still carbing up- a dozen scrambled eggs, ¾ of a pound of bacon (I could have eaten it all, but that seemed piggish), several slices of toast and half a gallon of OJ (hydrating). Those bunnies did not look at all amused and everyone moved away from me at warp speed. I took it personally. Like I had any control over that specific bodily function.
Anyway, it was time for the race to start. We all stood ready to go at the crack of the gun. Well, guns aren’t politically correct at races anymore, so they literally cracked a whip. Except the whip-cracker did not seem to have done it before and thus made several lame attempts before the runners just ran over him and his whip en masse. Maybe, if he recovers from 5,000 people running over him, he will think about perfecting his skills before the next marathon.
We were off. How exciting. I turned my iPod up- I like to hear my Barry Manilow loud when I am running- it helps me keep the tempo. So Barry was singing- it is possible that I was also, at least until I had to choose between breathing and singing. Then I chose breathing. The first several minutes I settled into a rhythm and my legs just pumped along. It was good. Many people were passing me, but I had expected that. I had not expected to be at the front of the pack, but rather the back and that’s okay. I am comfortable with my own pace.
Hours passed. Time slowed. It stood still. My mouth was dry, not to mention foul-tasting. Every step was a victory, as my muscles were starting to scream. I expected resistance eventually from my leg muscles, but was surprised that my feet hurt as much as they did and even more surprised when my arm muscles joined the chorus. My stomach was growling, as it has no source of energy whatsoever and it was not happy.
Remembering that it is all in my head helped. I ignored the torturous screaming of my body and instead focused on the tortuous screaming of Barry. I just kept plugging along- moving forward- one foot in front of the other. After what must have been several hours, I spied something in the distance. At last. I knew I could do this. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and soon I will be at the finish line. I approached, ready for the celebration. I wondered where the tents and all of the runners were. I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but surely they haven’t all gone home already?
Just a hundred more feet. I cannot read the sign yet, but I know what it says. Just keep laying one exhausted foot in front of the other. Never mind the legs that feel like rubber- that feel like they’re part of someone else’s body, as they’re not something that I have control over any longer. They‘re still moving but I have not felt them for the last 2 hours.
I am close enough to read the sign. Mile 1.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Ironman? Tinman? Strawman
Some people wouldn’t think that a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride—up and down 6,000-foot mountains—and a full marathon would be a great personal challenge. Maybe they’re the crazy ones. Maybe not.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
In order to thoroughly test my endurance, I travel 3,000 miles and three time zones in a little metal cylinder at 35,000 feet, subject to the whims of about a million people wearing uniforms of some type and tiny earphones. Earphones that are probably playing SnoopyDoggieDoo or whatever, but which they pretend are life support systems through which the airport god is whispering about what planes are currently allowed to board and which planes can take off. And which planes should be boarded while the flight crew pretends they will take off, but really will not.
Oh yeah, and I bring the family along because if everyone is not part of this feat, then it is no fun at all. Not to mention it’s not a significant accomplishment. It really is more of a weeklong logistical endurance test. I don’t know if you’ve traveled lately, but that alone is a test to one’s endurance, not to mention willpower in not whacking at least a dozen airline employees who have yet more bad news to share regarding getting to one’s destination. Or not getting there, as is more often the case.
Before it is time to squeeze the family into cramped seats on planes that are not actually going anywhere, I have to ship my bike 3,000 miles. I watch the UPS dude like a hawk to make sure that the bike actually makes it on the truck. For one thing, the bike is worth $8,000USD. And I’m thinking that the UPS dude will have it sold on eBay and out the door at the end of the day, just not to Penticton for the race. With a new shipping label (but me still paying for the shipping). As they load it, I run over to make sure that it is still addressed to the real venue and not the highest bidder. That was a full day’s vigilance. Training, if you will.
If my bike went AWOL, my backup is about two feet tall and has training wheels, streamers on the handlebars and noisemakers in the spokes. I am certain that a) I would not win and b) the other riders would mock me, at least until they thundered out of hearing distance. Therefore, the bike is a crucial element of these festivities.
Okay, the bike was on its way. Now to worry about the rest of the equipment—the bathing cap. I asked my son to get me a bathing cap out of the bathing cap drawer and throw it in my bag. I did not look to see what he chose, as I thought we had only normal, twentieth- century bathing caps. I could not have been more wrong. I spent seventeen-plus hours on race day wearing a bathing cap that most closely resembles a hideous multi-colored flower bouquet that couldn’t possibly have been attractive—nor comfortable—even back when it was made at the turn of the eighteenth century.
Upon arrival in Vancouver, after setting up our own tent city in two different airports as we await news of the next cancellation, the family passes out for some much-needed rest in the rental car. Life is good. And relaxing. Until I am awakened by blaring horns. It seems that someone, namely me, is snoozing while driving on the wrong side of the road (it IS part of the commonwealth- anyone could make that mistake). Crap. Well, everyone is wide-awake now. Double Crap.
Eventually, after a drive nearly as long as some legendary seventh day, we arrive at our destination, Ironman, 2007, Penticton, BC (that is in Canada). This is where it all happens. This is where the ironmen—and women—will be crowned. Some sooner than others. Much, much sooner. Time to relax a bit, explore the town, find a grocery store. Have some lunch and absorb the vibe of the race.
In the store, I am completely baffled by the labels. Everything is in French. How am I supposed to find the Kraft Dinner if I can’t read the box? Overhearing me swearing aloud, some helpful Canadian lady (is there any other kind?) shows me the dual language labels and thus the English side. Apparently some Ironman-hating (American hating?) Francophile employee has turned all products in the store to the French labels just to mess with the Americans. You do not need to speak or read a second language if you are an American. We use volume. We will pump it up until we cannot be ignored. Turns out American is THE International Language after all.
Shopping was done, naps taken, swings pushed and exploring was underway. Playing at the beach was a highlight for everyone. Something tells me that no one else in the family will fully appreciate the sixty-seven degree water for the couple of hours it will take me for a two-plus mile swim. Sure, it looks like fun, but it really is not. Really. Not. Fun.
Time for the mandatory athletes' meeting—the make up one. The one for those who missed the mandatory, mandatory meeting. At least I wasn’t alone. First thing of interest that I learned: be sure to show up at the correct lake. Apparently, there are two lakes, with Penticton between them. The Athletic Supporter (who wore his title proudly, BTW) said if you show up at the lake and you are the only one there, it is either the wrong lake or the wrong day. Mental note- follow the other 2,399 athletes and I couldn’t go wrong.
Second thing of interest that I learned: ALL THREE EVENTS ARE HELD ON THE SAME DAY, BACK TO BACK. No rest breaks, much less rest days, between them. I really have to start reading the fine print. We are here for a week, because someone told me that the events took place throughout the week. CRAP. This is so going to hurt. Maybe I can get started now?
What can I do? If I die en route, then the problem is solved. If I die on the bike ride, maybe a bear will drag me into the woods and I will become part of the ecosystem. I would be okay with that. If I do not die on the bike ride, then I will keep chugging along and hoping. Odds are good that I will die at some point out there and then the pain will end. Sooner would be so much better than later.
The morning dawns. It’s cool. We are in the BC interior in August, usually it sizzles here—a dry heat. However, we are lucky. It is going to be cool, cloudy. Perfect weather for an insane event like this
I am up at four AM. I cleverly planned for classical conditioning all night long in preparation for the full contact swim. Getting kicked and punched all night long by a sleeping but still unbelievably active five-year-old sharing my bed was excellent preparation for getting hit, beaten and kicked by 2,399 other swimmers. My stimulus response has been worn down to nothing. Makes for a great night’s sleep too. I now look and feel my very best. Too bad that the swimming is first, it will be hard to sneak under a bush to take a nap and keep breathing. If we started with the ride or the run, I would be sound asleep under the first bush like a monkey on crack.
Before even getting to the start, I get in a queue of 2,400 of my closest friends in order to get our numbers written on our bodies. Apparently they need to write our race numbers on our arms AND legs. In the (likely?) event that we are separated from one or the other, “they” will know to whom the appendage belongs.
In order to get our numbers, we first have to go through an “inspector” who sends us to one of the two lines, apparently based on how furry we are. Women are inspected and graded also. This guy was excessively cheery for five AM. He must have had a Tim Horton’s IV hooked up to his arm. In addition, I am guessing that he must be using the swimmers/riders bathroom. I was careful not to step in the puddle next to him. There would be plenty of time for that later.
The inspector sent me to the left with the furless crowd so I could have my number written in waterproof, raspberry-scented magic marker on my right arm and calf. The furry people went to the right, where they shaved their numbers into the fur covered arms and calves with a straight razor. I was glad that I had been practicing a fur-free lifestyle for the last few years and did not have to face the razor.
Finally, I get to the swimming start, where the “professionals” get a head start. Apparently, they need it, lest we common folk show them up or get ahead of them. They get their precious fifteen-minute head start, and then we get to go. Let the wrestling match begin. I adjust my bathing cap so the flowers point north and take a deep breath.
It is a beach start, so after the starting gun we move en masse, surging into the water as one body with many, many unsynchronized arms and legs. It is not deep enough to swim and we are moving forward solely by pushing off the bodies nearby. Until they flow forward by pushing back against us. It is an ugly system and no one really seems to gain any ground. And it doesn’t change once we’re fully engulfed in the water. This goes on for an hour and thirty minutes or so. For me anyway. Full contact distance swimming. Good thing I wore my cup. Several people tried to steal my bathing cap. I fought off their attacks, and one person claimed that he thought it was a life preserver, but I did not believe him.
There is absolutely no way to prepare for this event, unless you can get to a seal or penguin filled beach when a school f herring stops by for a visit. Even that will not work, because they can all dive deep and I just drifted along like the flotsam that I am. For lack of options, I devoted many evenings in the bathtub practicing my dog paddle. Turns out, this is NOT adequate training for this event.
Finally, I think I can see people walking….I can feel the ground under my knees. Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on—that would be odd, wouldn’t it? Therefore, I could not see anything through my goggles except for the blurry outline of the people whom I was hitting the most and the hardest. I don’t want to recognize them later, as I might hold a grudge. Or they might. It is just as well we are essentially anonymous in the water, except for the bathing caps.
I stagger out of the water. There is a one-armed guy is just ahead of me- I cannot believe that he have beat me. I really, really hate that. You would think that the one armed guy would at least swim slower than most of us two armed folks, but no. Huffing and puffing, I make my way into the transition area to find my bag. Funny, here the glasses would come in handy… but I have to find my bag to find my glasses.
A sympathetic volunteer, not the Francophile from Safeway, helps me find my bag. Then he takes me in a tent and tries to molest me. He is trying to take advantage of my exhaustion by removing my wetsuit and bathing suit. Pervert! This was NOT in the brochure and I cannot believe that the Athletic Supporters condone this perversion. Remarkably, I am too tired to care, so I let him do whatever he wants to me as I grab a catnap in the chair. Then he is shaking me awake and holding my shorts for me to step onto, just as I do for my son. I will not think about it, just do what everyone else is doing and let him pull my shorts up on me. They are tight biker shorts—you know the type. I do not think they will even let you in a race like this without spandex and lots of it. He neglects to remove my bathing cap and because I am now used to it, I do not even notice.
I follow the crowd to the bikes. I can see now, and can easily pick out “Black Beauty”. I can pick her out because she has a neon pink frame and electric green tire rims. I’m no fool, you know. Plus, if someone stole it…who am I kidding, no one would even consider stealing it. So I grab "Black Beauty” and take off. Sidesaddle. I’m tired, what can I tell you. If you have never tried to ride a bike sidesaddle, it CAN be done, carefully. You have to have the hoof holders on the pedals, though. Of course, the millions of spectators watching the bikes leave the transition zone are endlessly amused. Like they have never seen that before. They are exceedingly creative in their insults, especially for Canadians. Must be a mostly American crowd, that would explain it.
Almost eight painful hours later, the bike ride is nearing completion. I have not yet died, but am still hopeful. The flowers on my head are wilting. The winner has finished the marathon and set a record for 8:32:45. I am not even done with the bike yet. However, I have seen the one-armed guy—he ran by me on his way out in the run, as I was still fifty miles from the end of the bike ride. I am really starting to hate that guy. Showoff.
End of the bike ride. Hooray!! I couldn’t be happier. I can feel the flowers on my bathing cap perking up. At least now I’m less likely to hurt myself, as it’s not so far to fall, and it certainly won’t be at any significant speed. I can walk, or hobble 26.2 miles, I don’t know of I can do it by the end of the week, but as long as I keep moving forward, keep hoping to die, one or the other will happen.
It is a closed course, so I will not even have the opportunity to be hit by a car. I cannot hope to die that way in the next five hours. I guess I could take a wrong turn, find some traffic and hurl myself in front of it, but that sounds like a lot of work, and isn’t that promising. With my luck, I would be surrounded by helpful and friendly locals who would guide me back and make sure I did not get hurt. They would probably even feed me some TimBits. I would prefer Tiny Tim’s cinnamon doughnuts. This is when I wish I were racing in New York City. Those bastards would run me down in a heartbeat without spilling their mochachinos, or even pausing in their cell phone conversations.
I am making my final approach. I think I will actually make it and I am not yet crawling. The rules say crawling is an acceptable method of moving forward, though apparently rolling is not. I saw a few folks trying it and they got steamrolled.
I am 100 yards out….for the very first time, I think that I may actually make it. I’m very happy. And damn tired too. I have actually passed someone. The first time all friggin’ day. Of course, that “runner” was crawling, but that’s not important right now.
The cameras are on the runners, as we approach the finish line. I am now ten yards away and about to pass someone else. The crowd is going wild, and while I am not remotely sure why they are so excited for me, I am caught up in it. I am in a little clump of runners and as I raise my fists to celebrate with the crowd that clearly loves me, it is possible that I may have knocked over the tiny little woman on my left. I cross the finish line just as she hits the ground. I may have heard relics snapping like twigs. But I might not have. The crowd sours instantly and while I am still celebrating, they are now throwing all sorts of dangerous things at me, and I do not know why. Moreover, I am way too tired to duck.
I hear an announcement that the seventy-nine year Sister Mary Therese Maria Mary Patience, is down. I stop and turn back horrified. The crowd cheers and weeps as Sister Mary crawls on her broken legs across the finish line and they announce her time of 16:40:29. They do not announce my time.
I slither under the bleachers and stay there for three days.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
My Hat
My hat got stuck as I limped into the elevator. Again. And people were staring. You would think that they had never seen a man who limped before. It’s called a cane, it’s really not that novel.
As I walked out of the elevator, hitting my hat on the top of the doorframe, I noticed funny looks from people. But no one was rude enough to say anything, they just kept pointing and whispering and I tried not to acknowledge their rudeness. I cannot believe, in today’s climate, that a gentleman with a bad limp and a cane is cause for that much attention. It is a bit disturbing, I must say.
I reached the appointed room and signed in, receiving a guilty smile from the receptionist. I wondered what she was thinking? Apparently, she had also never seen a man with a bad limp and a cane.
I took my seat and began the painful process of waiting. Hoping that my name will be called next, so I could escape the purgatory that is the waiting room. No such luck. Luckily, I brought food and reading material, as I expected it to be a long, miserable wait. What I did not count on was the constant droning of Sally Jesse Raphael, Judge Judy and Montel Williams. When enveloped in my own little world, these programs simply do not exist, and it is always a rude awakening when I am forcefully subjected to them in a public place. The realization of their existence -and worse yet popularity- never cease to amaze me. I have surveyed all of my friends; I don’t know anyone who would go on one of those shows, so I can never figure out from where they get their ‘guests.’ And who watches this crap? I don’t know that either. Just further proof of the decline of civilization as we know it. Knew it.
After sitting for three hours, someone new came in with a list of names. I was hopeful that I was on the list. I was not so lucky. At the end of the day, they announced that if we were still there, and had not heard our names, we had to come back tomorrow. Talk about horror. I could not imagine going through that agony again, but I had no choice.
The second day started much the same as the first. People staring at the guy with the cane. Hitting my hat on the elevator followed by being unfairly subjected to the lowest possible denominator on TV and in the chairs around me. Nay, lower than the lowest common denominator. Though they were all common, that’s for sure, but they had little in common with me. And these are the people pointing and staring at me, because I have a cane.
I decided to bite the bullet, and asked my neighbor “How long are you in for?”
He said, “I’ve been here for 3 days so far. That guy snoring over there started with me. He was twenty years younger then, of course.”
“Doesn’t the TV blaring that crap bother you?” I asked.
He replied “It used to, but my IQ has decreased by at least fifty points since I’ve been coming here. I rather like it now. My worst fear is that they will call my name before Judge Judy has ruled. You’d be amazed at what you can get used to.”
I looked around. It was like a herd of cattle in there. We had been herded into our individual corrals and encouraged to stay there. If we got up from the chairs, as we had been neatly organized alphabetically and also by size and color, the attendant yelled out to sit back down. I saw one guy get up; it looked like he was pondering escape. The attendant ran over (I would not have thought a creature that big could be so nimble) and sat him back down. His shoes came off in the impact. It looked like the attendant was thinking of strapping him down, but the poor man help up his hands in supplication, and the attendant relented.
Oh….someone new with a list of names. Everyone sat at attention, hoping for sweet release.
Low and behold, they finally called my name. I was about to go into the inner sanctum, leaving Sally, Judy and Montel behind (I hoped). I was allowed to get up, and headed toward the door, to yet more whispering and snickering. I am still struck by the gall of these people. But they may be close personal friends of Judy, Sally and Montel and I certainly have them beat there.
I was told to go sit in a box along with a few fellow travelers. We were asked a series of questions. Others were taking notes. This was important stuff. We were being videotaped as well, so I tried to keep my good side to the camera. That was hard, because the camera was on the left side of the room, and my best side is definitely my right. I sat owl-like, with my head turned as close to 180 degrees as possible.
When it came my turn, it was very hard to answer their questions, while facing the camera with my good side, but I did my best. I think they appreciated my efforts. They asked if I had ever been on a jury before, did I study law (I am fairly certain that excepted Judge Judy in the waiting room), did I have any relatives who were law enforcement officers? They also asked about the nature of my disability, though I am not sure why. Why is everyone so interested in my cane? I gave them the short version, which included a dog, stairs, a hair dryer, cocoa butter and a rocking chair. It did not include hemp plants, doorknobs or sheet metal. They didn’t even flinch.
It appears that I was selected, but then I was asked if I would permit being sworn in on the King James Bible. Reaching under my wizard hat (which of course matched my magnificent robes), I pulled out my bible….Aqualung by Jethro Tull. And asked them to proceed.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
As I walked out of the elevator, hitting my hat on the top of the doorframe, I noticed funny looks from people. But no one was rude enough to say anything, they just kept pointing and whispering and I tried not to acknowledge their rudeness. I cannot believe, in today’s climate, that a gentleman with a bad limp and a cane is cause for that much attention. It is a bit disturbing, I must say.
I reached the appointed room and signed in, receiving a guilty smile from the receptionist. I wondered what she was thinking? Apparently, she had also never seen a man with a bad limp and a cane.
I took my seat and began the painful process of waiting. Hoping that my name will be called next, so I could escape the purgatory that is the waiting room. No such luck. Luckily, I brought food and reading material, as I expected it to be a long, miserable wait. What I did not count on was the constant droning of Sally Jesse Raphael, Judge Judy and Montel Williams. When enveloped in my own little world, these programs simply do not exist, and it is always a rude awakening when I am forcefully subjected to them in a public place. The realization of their existence -and worse yet popularity- never cease to amaze me. I have surveyed all of my friends; I don’t know anyone who would go on one of those shows, so I can never figure out from where they get their ‘guests.’ And who watches this crap? I don’t know that either. Just further proof of the decline of civilization as we know it. Knew it.
After sitting for three hours, someone new came in with a list of names. I was hopeful that I was on the list. I was not so lucky. At the end of the day, they announced that if we were still there, and had not heard our names, we had to come back tomorrow. Talk about horror. I could not imagine going through that agony again, but I had no choice.
The second day started much the same as the first. People staring at the guy with the cane. Hitting my hat on the elevator followed by being unfairly subjected to the lowest possible denominator on TV and in the chairs around me. Nay, lower than the lowest common denominator. Though they were all common, that’s for sure, but they had little in common with me. And these are the people pointing and staring at me, because I have a cane.
I decided to bite the bullet, and asked my neighbor “How long are you in for?”
He said, “I’ve been here for 3 days so far. That guy snoring over there started with me. He was twenty years younger then, of course.”
“Doesn’t the TV blaring that crap bother you?” I asked.
He replied “It used to, but my IQ has decreased by at least fifty points since I’ve been coming here. I rather like it now. My worst fear is that they will call my name before Judge Judy has ruled. You’d be amazed at what you can get used to.”
I looked around. It was like a herd of cattle in there. We had been herded into our individual corrals and encouraged to stay there. If we got up from the chairs, as we had been neatly organized alphabetically and also by size and color, the attendant yelled out to sit back down. I saw one guy get up; it looked like he was pondering escape. The attendant ran over (I would not have thought a creature that big could be so nimble) and sat him back down. His shoes came off in the impact. It looked like the attendant was thinking of strapping him down, but the poor man help up his hands in supplication, and the attendant relented.
Oh….someone new with a list of names. Everyone sat at attention, hoping for sweet release.
Low and behold, they finally called my name. I was about to go into the inner sanctum, leaving Sally, Judy and Montel behind (I hoped). I was allowed to get up, and headed toward the door, to yet more whispering and snickering. I am still struck by the gall of these people. But they may be close personal friends of Judy, Sally and Montel and I certainly have them beat there.
I was told to go sit in a box along with a few fellow travelers. We were asked a series of questions. Others were taking notes. This was important stuff. We were being videotaped as well, so I tried to keep my good side to the camera. That was hard, because the camera was on the left side of the room, and my best side is definitely my right. I sat owl-like, with my head turned as close to 180 degrees as possible.
When it came my turn, it was very hard to answer their questions, while facing the camera with my good side, but I did my best. I think they appreciated my efforts. They asked if I had ever been on a jury before, did I study law (I am fairly certain that excepted Judge Judy in the waiting room), did I have any relatives who were law enforcement officers? They also asked about the nature of my disability, though I am not sure why. Why is everyone so interested in my cane? I gave them the short version, which included a dog, stairs, a hair dryer, cocoa butter and a rocking chair. It did not include hemp plants, doorknobs or sheet metal. They didn’t even flinch.
It appears that I was selected, but then I was asked if I would permit being sworn in on the King James Bible. Reaching under my wizard hat (which of course matched my magnificent robes), I pulled out my bible….Aqualung by Jethro Tull. And asked them to proceed.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Capture
Harry rounded the corner. He knew his quarry was just ahead of him. He was sure he would catch him this time. He couldn’t stay hidden forever. He saw a shadow flit through his peripheral vision and heard the slapping of flip-flops on the concrete sidewalk. Bingo.
Harry froze, holding his breath, trying to see in the fog that enveloped him. Trying to hear the vermin that he was pursuing. The vermin froze too. This one is too smart—it’s going to be a long night, he could tell already. A career in law enforcement requires more dedication than most people realize. And self sacrifice, too.
Most of these hardened criminals, once Harry started after them, started to cry for their mommies and he could cuff them and take them down. However, this was a wily one. He might even have to miss his hourly doughnut break. He hated when that happened. If he didn’t have his hourly infusion of chocolate syrup, sickly sweet whipped cream, and bad coffee, he got the shakes. Never a good thing when one is packing heat.
Usually, the afternoons were quiet and he could nap uninterrupted in the car or in a carrel. He always had his tiny Curious George pillow with him, just in case he got to sneak in a four-hour nap. He tried napping without it, but it is hard to explain the imprint of the seatbelt on your cheek. Therefore, he had taken to bringing George with him everywhere he went. He had also taken to thinking of George as his partner, which just could prove to be a dangerous assumption.
He had also taken to asking George what he though ‘they’ should do. George was at best a listener, not a thinker. Of course, Harry wasn’t a much better thinker, but he was definitely a better speaker.
Harry was about to ask George what he thought they should do, but realized just in time that would give their position away to the hunted. Bad idea. They remained frozen in their tracks, until they heard it, the unmistakable pitter pat of flip-flops tiptoeing down the hall. They leaned around the corner and took aim. Still couldn’t see a damn thing.
Harry tried tiptoeing too. He fell over instantly. He always got confused about which side of his toes he should be walking on to tiptoe successfully. He had new sympathy for the ballerinas who were always standing on their toes- not that he had actually seen one up close and personal, but he had seen pictures. He gathered his wits together, no small feat, as you can imagine, and clambered back upright. Since he crashed to the ground, there was little need to be stealthy, so he sprinted after the culprit.
He sprinted at least fifteen feet before he collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, unable to get enough oxygen. His legs refused to carry his doughnut-riddled body one more step without his lungs. He watched his prey increase the distance. That guy probably thinks he’s seen the last of Harry, but he wasn’t counting on Harry’s secret weapon.
Harry steadied his breathing, closed his eyes, focused his energies and took a step. Then another. He pulled an inhaler-like apparatus out of his pocket. He took a hit. Then another. One more good one and he was ready to carry on. Much better. He took off running after his quarry, with nearly super-human strength. At least super-Harry strength. He closed the gap, not even breathing hard. And, he had his lime-green crocs on, with the little loop across the heel, so they stayed snug, even when running. The flip-flops didn’t stand a chance against the turbo-charged Harry and his crocs. And George (but he was Harry’s little secret). Harry could not lose.
He was so close now; he could see the terror in the perp’s eyes. They reflected a crazed, sweat-covered mini-Harry with white stuff all over his mouth and Harry—though unnerved by the sight—kept his cool. He slapped the cuffs on just as he had a million times before. Except that, he wound up with one on him and one on the perp. Okay, that had only happened about 200,000 times before, not every time. He still got so excited at cuffing someone that his gross motor skills stalled sometimes.
At least he was in control, which was the important thing. He slammed the perp into the wall, nearly breaking his wrist in doing so as he realized too late that he was still wearing the other cuff. He had lost the key the other day, while practicing cuffing the dog. Well, he didn’t really lose it- the dog ate it in retribution and he hadn’t had the time, nor the inclination, to look for it yet. Luckily, Fluffy lacked wrists and was able to shed the cuffs without difficulty.
Once he had the vermin up against a car, he frisked him as well as he could with one hand. Apparently a bit too roughly, as suddenly the horn began a desperate chorus and the headlights started flashing frantically. Damn. He half ran, half dragged the perp to another car so that he could pretend to have no idea why the car’s alarm was going off.
Finally, Harry completed his left-handed search and found all the evidence that he needed. George read the perp his rights, while Harry looked on. The perp looked scared. Harry held up the cell phone in his cuffed hand, asking the perp if he knew the penalty for taking a call in the library (and waking Harry from a perfectly sound nap). The penalty is being escorted from the library, and, one’s name put on a watch list.
With his other hand, he brought up his inhaler, marked “powdered doughnuts” and inhaled deeply.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Harry froze, holding his breath, trying to see in the fog that enveloped him. Trying to hear the vermin that he was pursuing. The vermin froze too. This one is too smart—it’s going to be a long night, he could tell already. A career in law enforcement requires more dedication than most people realize. And self sacrifice, too.
Most of these hardened criminals, once Harry started after them, started to cry for their mommies and he could cuff them and take them down. However, this was a wily one. He might even have to miss his hourly doughnut break. He hated when that happened. If he didn’t have his hourly infusion of chocolate syrup, sickly sweet whipped cream, and bad coffee, he got the shakes. Never a good thing when one is packing heat.
Usually, the afternoons were quiet and he could nap uninterrupted in the car or in a carrel. He always had his tiny Curious George pillow with him, just in case he got to sneak in a four-hour nap. He tried napping without it, but it is hard to explain the imprint of the seatbelt on your cheek. Therefore, he had taken to bringing George with him everywhere he went. He had also taken to thinking of George as his partner, which just could prove to be a dangerous assumption.
He had also taken to asking George what he though ‘they’ should do. George was at best a listener, not a thinker. Of course, Harry wasn’t a much better thinker, but he was definitely a better speaker.
Harry was about to ask George what he thought they should do, but realized just in time that would give their position away to the hunted. Bad idea. They remained frozen in their tracks, until they heard it, the unmistakable pitter pat of flip-flops tiptoeing down the hall. They leaned around the corner and took aim. Still couldn’t see a damn thing.
Harry tried tiptoeing too. He fell over instantly. He always got confused about which side of his toes he should be walking on to tiptoe successfully. He had new sympathy for the ballerinas who were always standing on their toes- not that he had actually seen one up close and personal, but he had seen pictures. He gathered his wits together, no small feat, as you can imagine, and clambered back upright. Since he crashed to the ground, there was little need to be stealthy, so he sprinted after the culprit.
He sprinted at least fifteen feet before he collapsed against the wall, chest heaving, unable to get enough oxygen. His legs refused to carry his doughnut-riddled body one more step without his lungs. He watched his prey increase the distance. That guy probably thinks he’s seen the last of Harry, but he wasn’t counting on Harry’s secret weapon.
Harry steadied his breathing, closed his eyes, focused his energies and took a step. Then another. He pulled an inhaler-like apparatus out of his pocket. He took a hit. Then another. One more good one and he was ready to carry on. Much better. He took off running after his quarry, with nearly super-human strength. At least super-Harry strength. He closed the gap, not even breathing hard. And, he had his lime-green crocs on, with the little loop across the heel, so they stayed snug, even when running. The flip-flops didn’t stand a chance against the turbo-charged Harry and his crocs. And George (but he was Harry’s little secret). Harry could not lose.
He was so close now; he could see the terror in the perp’s eyes. They reflected a crazed, sweat-covered mini-Harry with white stuff all over his mouth and Harry—though unnerved by the sight—kept his cool. He slapped the cuffs on just as he had a million times before. Except that, he wound up with one on him and one on the perp. Okay, that had only happened about 200,000 times before, not every time. He still got so excited at cuffing someone that his gross motor skills stalled sometimes.
At least he was in control, which was the important thing. He slammed the perp into the wall, nearly breaking his wrist in doing so as he realized too late that he was still wearing the other cuff. He had lost the key the other day, while practicing cuffing the dog. Well, he didn’t really lose it- the dog ate it in retribution and he hadn’t had the time, nor the inclination, to look for it yet. Luckily, Fluffy lacked wrists and was able to shed the cuffs without difficulty.
Once he had the vermin up against a car, he frisked him as well as he could with one hand. Apparently a bit too roughly, as suddenly the horn began a desperate chorus and the headlights started flashing frantically. Damn. He half ran, half dragged the perp to another car so that he could pretend to have no idea why the car’s alarm was going off.
Finally, Harry completed his left-handed search and found all the evidence that he needed. George read the perp his rights, while Harry looked on. The perp looked scared. Harry held up the cell phone in his cuffed hand, asking the perp if he knew the penalty for taking a call in the library (and waking Harry from a perfectly sound nap). The penalty is being escorted from the library, and, one’s name put on a watch list.
With his other hand, he brought up his inhaler, marked “powdered doughnuts” and inhaled deeply.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Stud
Septimus S. Schwartz looked all around him as he scurried from his car to the door. He was convinced that someone was watching, that someone was plotting against him, even now. There is no way that anyone could know, but he still felt the piercing of others’ eyes boring into his skull. Even when he couldn’t see anyone at all.
He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.
One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.
Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.
Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.
Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.
He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.
He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.
When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.
The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.
In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.
They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.
It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.
He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.
He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.
He clutched the broken CD case tighter.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.
One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.
Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.
Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.
Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.
He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.
He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.
When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.
The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.
In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.
They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.
It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.
He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.
He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.
He clutched the broken CD case tighter.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
The Herd
The herd ran in unison. Manes flew behind them as they stampeded in their panic. There was no way to tell where one animal began and another ended, the herd had become one. One large, frightened pack of animals that was unsure which way to turn. Which way to safety. Those in the lead took their best guess, but they had no real idea and they were oft overtaken by those whose terror was greater than their own. It was bedlam. Smaller and slower animals were being left behind. A fine example of the survival of the fittest. Those less fit may not last long enough to pass their genes on.
The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.
The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.
The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.
One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.
The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.
The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.
Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.
The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.
He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.
He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.
And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
The invader moved closer. He could feel the ground shake with each crescendo in their symphony of flight. He got braver after seeing the herd’s response to the initial thrust. Now for the parry. He watched as the herd flowed back and forth across the field, unsure how to escape. Aware that they were trapped, like animals. Oh. Realizing they were trapped, their panic abated, mostly because they tired of running across the field, then wheeling and tearing back, only to do it all over again, with no well-defined goals.
The invader studied their pattern. Their anarchy. This should be an easy score. They are far too panicked to even try to defend themselves. Yet they could. If they had the appropriate leadership, they could use their strength of numbers to easily defend against the invader. Maybe an experienced animal, someone to serve as a coach to the rest, especially the flighty younger ones would help. A captain. But the invader wasn’t up for giving teambuilding advice to his prey.
The young ones, those who perceive and then propagate even a hint of a rumor to make it larger than life and thus scare the crap out of themselves and everyone else in the herd. They were the problem. Well, not for the invader. The elders in the herd still spooked, but not as readily and they were more likely to stand their ground. They were after all, veterans of at least a few campaigns and were much better at gathering and weighing evidence, as opposed to running willy-nilly around the enclosure for the next hour after someone got nervous.
One thing the herd members never learned in school about a stampede was that once it started, if you were anywhere near it, you had to run too, as though your life depended on it. It does. If you are staring up looking for a Sasquatch formation in the clouds when it starts, then you’ll be pavement after the concrete wall of the herd hits you. The old timers knew this, and thus tried to leave a safe distance between the spastic youth and themselves so they could avoid the false starts. But there were limits. If the spaces in the herd were too big, the invaders could start picking off individuals. This defeated the herd mentality entirely.
The elders have found, through trial, errors and more than a little attrition, that you had to try to contain the youngsters, keep them occupied, so that they weren’t reacting to every leaf that fell in their paths. They had to try to maintain order in the ranks. Easier said than done, but they had limited options out there on the battlefield.
The herd grew tired of the dance, so they stopped. Almost all at once. Except the littlest member. She had been running with her head down, determined to keep up with the others and she didn’t stop until she slammed full force into one of the biggest members, then bounced off and fell to the ground. She lay there for a moment stunned. No one came to her aid. With quiet cries, she picked herself back up and held her head high, as the rest of the herd averted their eyes. They could not bear to acknowledge weakness. Then they all melded together and she was lost in the sea of anonymity.
Now that they had stopped, and were tired, they took the time to reassess the threat. The invader was still there, and nowhere near as tired as they were. Apparently, the invader was better at planning. And waiting. They had taken the bait and fell for the feint, exhausting themselves before the game was even underway. The invader preferred a bit more sport than this, as he hardly had to do anything. Nevertheless, he had thoroughly enjoyed the show and pondered letting them rest up in order to do it again, but the clock was ticking and he was getting hungry. It was time to strike.
The invader started to run. Hard. The herd, too tired to stampede, scattered instead. Then, borne of a thousand generations, an ancient voice deep in their minds, told them to be proactive. To attack their attacker. To make his game plan their own. The plan was communicated telepathically between them and suddenly, the invader found himself surrounded by the herd. They were kicking at him. All of them at once. Ouch, that hurts.
He saw some daylight through the circle and he dashed for it. But as they were all still kicking him with their rubber tipped feet, they tripped him. As he fell, his life flashed before his eyes, certain that the end was as near as the feet whistling by his head.
He was surprised when the herd evaporated. The kicking stopped. He raised his head, sure that he couldn’t be dead, as there had been little pain.
And then he saw it, the ball had come loose when he fell, and the other team, both teams,
actually, had converged on the ball twenty feet away and it was another scrum of five year old future David Beckhams. Or not.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
A Nasty Business
The rain fell so hard that each drop left its imprint in the sand. After a few minutes, the drops in the sand turned to rivers flowing down the hill. The rivers carried the sand and the carnage left from a life poorly lived.
As today intersected with tomorrow, Filbert, or what was left of Filbert, dribbled away bit by bit. All that remained, when tomorrow dawned, was the imprint Filbert’s soles left on his coworkers. There wasn’t enough rain in the universe to wash that stain away.
It had started innocently enough--Filbert filching quarters for the pop machine from the admin’s desk. He grew bold branching out to other desks; he grew comfortable with the rest of the department funding his caffeine habit. Then, like an addict in need of a higher dose, he escalated to chocolate. You would be surprised at how many folks have chocolate and other great snacks in their drawers. Filbert was.
From there it morphed to open season. Once Filbert realized that he was the first one in the office by at least an hour, he became empowered. He realized that he could do whatever he wanted in that hour and that the cleaning staff would always get the blame.
He developed a system. He would start on the far side of the department and work his way through all of the cubicles over a period of a few weeks. Each morning was a different cubicle. He became intimately familiar with everyone’s personal life. He would scout out all of their drawers, fondle their family photos and then he would spin around in their chair until he barfed. He usually selected a file at the back in the bottom drawer for that act. That way they had all of the benefits without the mess. Initially, it took at least a week for them to figure out the source of the stench. Except during heat waves, they figured it out much faster then.
Just to allay suspicion, he was forced to occasionally ‘sit and spin’ in his own cubicle as well. However, he didn’t wait for the telltale signs as the others did. After a month or so, people were catching on. They would check their drawers as soon as they arrived. The winner, or rather the loser, would be the person whose folder had been barfed in. Everyone else would clap and cheer—thrilled that it wasn’t their useless documents that had been victimized by the barfer. It was team building, in a new and interesting way.
Filbert grew tired of that game, and of gorging himself to the point of retching every morning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, his constant and whiny calls to the cleaning agency were endlessly entertaining. He had their number on speed dial and he would call them every hour with an update on who was barfed on and any other detail he could make up.
In order to keep people on their toes, he frequently strayed into other departments to do his work. This was riskier, but if only the engineering department suffered from the puker, someone, somewhere, may eventually see a pattern. You know how engineers are.
Eventually, folks tired of his games and started their own. One person set up a camera. Filbert never saw it coming. Late one afternoon, he got an anonymous e-mail with a link to a ‘hysterical YouTube clip.’ He was horrified to see himself sitting naked in Margaret’s cube, snarfing down her pretzels with both hands and then spinning and spinning and spinning, followed by barfing in her drawer. That was Filbert’s second last ‘sit and spin’- the last having taken place that very morning. It was the highest viewed clip on YouTube that week. It even made it on CNN and the Today Show.
The next morning, Filbert arrived as usual, but he was worried that the axe would fall. Figuratively, anyway. He had reason to worry, as he pulled into the lot, his co-workers surrounded him. They all wore gloves and were wearing haz-mat suits. He thought that was odd. And may not be a good sign. Then he realized that they were all armed with desk supplies. Realization that he wouldn’t be laughing this off with his co-workers set in.
They advanced. He saw staplers, tape dispensers, a wall mounted pencil sharpener (without the wall), heavy-duty file folders, and then some sharp implements- scissors, letter openers and paper cutters with rotary blades. Ouch.
Luckily, after the paper cuts across his chest and the stapling of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet, he lost consciousness. He didn’t even get to see the grand finale with the paper shredder.
He would have been impressed with their creativity.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
As today intersected with tomorrow, Filbert, or what was left of Filbert, dribbled away bit by bit. All that remained, when tomorrow dawned, was the imprint Filbert’s soles left on his coworkers. There wasn’t enough rain in the universe to wash that stain away.
It had started innocently enough--Filbert filching quarters for the pop machine from the admin’s desk. He grew bold branching out to other desks; he grew comfortable with the rest of the department funding his caffeine habit. Then, like an addict in need of a higher dose, he escalated to chocolate. You would be surprised at how many folks have chocolate and other great snacks in their drawers. Filbert was.
From there it morphed to open season. Once Filbert realized that he was the first one in the office by at least an hour, he became empowered. He realized that he could do whatever he wanted in that hour and that the cleaning staff would always get the blame.
He developed a system. He would start on the far side of the department and work his way through all of the cubicles over a period of a few weeks. Each morning was a different cubicle. He became intimately familiar with everyone’s personal life. He would scout out all of their drawers, fondle their family photos and then he would spin around in their chair until he barfed. He usually selected a file at the back in the bottom drawer for that act. That way they had all of the benefits without the mess. Initially, it took at least a week for them to figure out the source of the stench. Except during heat waves, they figured it out much faster then.
Just to allay suspicion, he was forced to occasionally ‘sit and spin’ in his own cubicle as well. However, he didn’t wait for the telltale signs as the others did. After a month or so, people were catching on. They would check their drawers as soon as they arrived. The winner, or rather the loser, would be the person whose folder had been barfed in. Everyone else would clap and cheer—thrilled that it wasn’t their useless documents that had been victimized by the barfer. It was team building, in a new and interesting way.
Filbert grew tired of that game, and of gorging himself to the point of retching every morning. It left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless, his constant and whiny calls to the cleaning agency were endlessly entertaining. He had their number on speed dial and he would call them every hour with an update on who was barfed on and any other detail he could make up.
In order to keep people on their toes, he frequently strayed into other departments to do his work. This was riskier, but if only the engineering department suffered from the puker, someone, somewhere, may eventually see a pattern. You know how engineers are.
Eventually, folks tired of his games and started their own. One person set up a camera. Filbert never saw it coming. Late one afternoon, he got an anonymous e-mail with a link to a ‘hysterical YouTube clip.’ He was horrified to see himself sitting naked in Margaret’s cube, snarfing down her pretzels with both hands and then spinning and spinning and spinning, followed by barfing in her drawer. That was Filbert’s second last ‘sit and spin’- the last having taken place that very morning. It was the highest viewed clip on YouTube that week. It even made it on CNN and the Today Show.
The next morning, Filbert arrived as usual, but he was worried that the axe would fall. Figuratively, anyway. He had reason to worry, as he pulled into the lot, his co-workers surrounded him. They all wore gloves and were wearing haz-mat suits. He thought that was odd. And may not be a good sign. Then he realized that they were all armed with desk supplies. Realization that he wouldn’t be laughing this off with his co-workers set in.
They advanced. He saw staplers, tape dispensers, a wall mounted pencil sharpener (without the wall), heavy-duty file folders, and then some sharp implements- scissors, letter openers and paper cutters with rotary blades. Ouch.
Luckily, after the paper cuts across his chest and the stapling of his fingers to the bottoms of his feet, he lost consciousness. He didn’t even get to see the grand finale with the paper shredder.
He would have been impressed with their creativity.
Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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