I’m taking a 1-2 week leave. I’m the treasurer of a condo and it’s our year end September 30, year end financial statements and audit papers to prepare. Be back soon.
The Book Worm
He was a book worm surrounded by birds of prey who waited to swoop the moment he emerged from his habitat. A child of solitude searching to find his way and survive in an overcrowded toxic world full of anger and hate. He knew they called it the law of the jungle, survival at all costs, who was he to judge, perhaps if he could not protect himself he did not deserve to exist.
His safe haven was the local church, four hundred years old, infused with centuries of prayer, incense and the smell of the beeswax from the votive stand remembering the spirits of loved ones long since passed. Here he could forget that other world and all its troubles, here his world was complete as he breathed in the same air as all the church goers that had gone before him.
He regretfully left the church building and crossed the bombed ruins to access the road leading to his house. His mind was still withdrawn from the world, walking in a dreamlike state, not noticing his environment. He suddenly felt a huge weight on his back which sent him crashing to the floor, the raptors had arrived in the shape of the Reagan brothers. He was now face down in the ruins with one Reagan slapping the side of his head while the other Reagan kicked him in the side. He did not utter a sound just curled into a fetal position while trying to protect his head with his arms. He ignored the pain but did not judge them, just wondered why they were doing this, what possible satisfaction they could get from this. The Reagan’s screaming at him with frustration
“ fight back you little turd”,
but he was oblivious to their screams.
He was suddenly alone, how long ago had the Reagan’s left, he hadn’t noticed. He rose painfully to his feet clutching his bruised ribs and staggered towards home. It cost him a great deal of pain to climb the stairs to his bedroom and thankfully collapse on his bed.
He returned again and again to the safety of the church constantly wary of the Reagan brothers. It was here that he read the notice on the bulletin board proclaiming there would be a retreat next weekend for boys to determine if they had a discernment for the priesthood.
Fifteen years later he was ordained a priest to serve the poor in London’s East End while the Reagan brothers served 30 years for armed robbery. God does have a plan for us.
The Wily Trout-Ciaran and Collette.
I’ve known Ciaran and Collette, the twins, since their birth, their father being my best friend, and I had the honour to be chosen as Ciaran’s godfather at his baptism.
Collette’s charm and out going manner was the perfect foil to Ciaran’s serious, unsmiling demeanour, while Collette was enjoying a cranberry vodka at 2:00 a.m. chatting up all within range, Ciaran, was stoically sitting quietly at a corner table waiting to drive her home.
I remember discussions around the family dinner table with Collette passionately defending the current most insane topic doing its round on social media, while Ciaran attended to his food ignoring the passionate back and forth from other family members.
Now that they were 21 year of age, neither of them academics, my best friend approached me relating that they could not find work and badly needed a job because they were eating him out of house and home.
I told him I would give them an interview, explain to them the job requirements and see if they were interested.
So I laid everything out for them, waiting on tables, clearing the tables, washing the dishes, sweeping the floor and tidying up, and they both agreed, and so they were hired, which left only a cook/chef remaining to complete my ensemble.
Opposites
The twins were identical in appearance but completely opposite in temperament. Mary was quiet, gentle and reserved, while Martha was loud, a smug know-it-all who craved attention and loved to party.
Mary and Martha were invited to a wedding celebration by their long time friend, Daphne, and assumed it would be a small affair, but were surprised to find 300 people attending. The noise was deafening as the DJ blasted his music to the delight of the young crowd singing along to the lyrics and gyrating on the dance floor.
Martha, rather the worse for drink, staggered over to Mary’s table, where Mary engrossed in her thoughts was wondering if she would have to wait for Martha until the bar closed and no more drinks were served. “I have a message for you” Martha slurred, “you’re not the one to tell me how to behave, you’re not my conscience, and you don’t judge me”.
Mary, calmly looking her sister in the eye, knowing she was going to make a scene, replied, “Why do you always have to be so unkind, I have never judged you, I have always loved you, perhaps it’s your conscience beginning to stir and you’re not content with your current lifestyle.”
Martha, raising her voice, started to attract attention, and Mary reminded her that as Daphne’s guest at the wedding she needed to rein it in and not cause a scene. Martha, shrugged, staggered away from the table and disappeared on the dance floor while Mary decided to go outside and get some fresh air.
It was a warm Summers night with a myriad of stars in the sky, and Mary welcomed the peace and quiet away from the blaring music. She knew she had to make a decision soon about whether to cut her ties with Martha and live her own life or to try and help Martha achieve some stability in her life. She sighed and went back inside.
The Wily Trout-Mahendra
I had just shown Bernadette the door when a smartly dressed Indian geezer squeezed into the bar and I gave him a look and told him we wouldn’t be opening for another month.
Undeterred he explained in a plummy English accent that he was frightfully sorry, and he knew it was an awful imposition, but would I be so kind as to give him a chance of personally explaining why he would be the best fit for this establishment.
Well he threw me for a loop, and all I could think of to say was, I didn’t think your lot were allowed alcohol.
He gave me a puzzled look, than with the hint of a smile replied that I might have mistaken him for a Muslim and his religion was actually Hindu and he did like the odd martini from time to time.
So I let out a sigh, sat him down, and he continued in a rush to state his case, explaining some unfortunate choices he had made and was thus in a little bit of a pickle, if you know what I mean, and needed to lay low for a bit, and this was exactly the type of environment where he could disappear.
He further explained that he was a mean martini mixer, and his friends at Oxford had nicknamed him Martini in lieu of Mahendra and he would willingly pass on his skills, and I sighed knowing I have a soft heart for people in trouble so I decided to hire him.
A Royal Couple
Duke Desmond of Ditchburn was madly in love with Princess Penelope, and annoyingly haunted the castle day and night, making a nuisance of himself, forever intruding on her privacy. Alas, his love was not returned as Penelope was quite happy with her own company and walking alone in the meadow picking a myriad of fresh flowers to grace her room.
One day as she was walking downhill towards a babbling brook, contentedly munching on a biscuit, welcoming the warmth of a Summer afternoon, she found herself face to face with a dragon.
“Oh my” she exclaimed, “I hope you bear me no ill will and can be my companion rather than consume me with your dragons breath”.
The dragon found this comment rather distressing and weepingly replied ” Why must people always stereotype, why are your first comments a slight against my species, I prefer to call it my sacred flame, dragons breath is such a crass statement to make to a dragon you have just met”.
Princess Penelope was immediately contrite and passed the dragon a handkerchief to wipe away his tears.
“ I’m so dreadfully sorry to have offended you dear dragon let’s be friends, I know we got off on the wrong foot just now but I vow to make it up to you somehow”.
The dragon accepted her apology and allowing the Princess to climb on his back he flapped his wings, took off and soared through the sky towards the castle.
Duke Desmond of Ditchburn was standing on the castles rampart when he spied the dragon flying out of the sun straight towards him. He went as white as a sheet and screaming for all his worth he ran for his life tripping over his curved sword, righting himself, jumping on his horse and galloping off to Ditchburn, never to be seen again.
Princess Penelope sighed contentedly she was rid of an unwelcome suitor and had gained a loyal companion. What a wonderful day it had turned out to be.
The Wily Trout-Bernadette
My next staff hire would be someone to assist Fred at the bar and so I revisited the resumes, looking for something out of the ordinary rather than a mundane listing of bar duty experience.
This time I got lucky, the irony inherent in the third resume I reviewed didn’t escape me, a degree in theology, an aspiration to become a Discalced Carmelite Nun (OCD), and so after two years discernment she entered a convent to become a postulant, then after another two years decided to leave before entering the noviciate which would lead to final vows. .
I was intrigued and reached for my cell to arrange an interview, the sooner the better..
Her name was, Bernadette, and she impressed with a quiet, self assured presence, always looking me straight in the eye and answering my questions with a thoughtful, measured response.
After two years of convent life Bernadette found the monotony and routine too confining and boring and her initial early fire and zeal gave way to ennui and so she made a decision to leave discerning that her place was in the world rather than locked away in a convent.
Of course I hired her on the spot, after all most of her job would be listening to the regulars, hearing their drunken confessions, and I could see her offering a thoughtful nod, a soft “I see”, and even more importantly be genuinely engaged with the regulars and concerned for their well being.
My Friend George
Let me introduce you to, George, a crocheted monkey affectionately named after Curious George owned by the Man with the Yellow Hat. I still fondly remember the episode where George made a grab for the man’s yellow hat and took a shovel to bury it by the trailer.
My 17 year old granddaughter, Brianna, was into crocheting, mainly making small animals for her friend’s birthday. They became so in demand among her school friends that she soon had a small cash business going . In order to encourage her I asked her to crochet me a monkey and I would pay her $50. Well imagine my surprise when she came up with a huge monkey instead of the small one I had imagined. I gave her a grin and said it was much more than I expected.
I took the monkey from her to carry it back to my house, and gave it its own chair. It has become a dear friend and companion and sits there patiently listening to me go on and on about the nastiness of social media and the ineptitude of politicians in general and never once interrupts.
George
The Wily Trout-Revisiting the SS Cafe and Bistro
Word was getting around of a poetry slam happening at the SS Cafe and Bistro, and never having been to one curiosity drove me to check out the place, once again.
I entered the SS Cafe and Bistro expecting a cover charge, but to my surprise I was casually waved in by a bloke puffing on a cigar, deep into a book, The Saviours of God: Spiritual Exercises, by Nicos Kazantzikas, this huge dog, maybe Cerberus, sitting at his feet giving me a searchimg stare.
I observed an enthusiastic crowd seated at tables surrounding a small stage, shouting encouragement to a red headed woman slamming poetry, and I’m sure I saw the ghost of Charles Bukowski hovering overhead, dragging on a cigarette , hoisting a beer, grinning from ear to ear.
Thinking this might be my only opportunity to explore the place and using the poetry slam as a distraction, I made my way past the managers office into the dark corridor beyond.
I stepped hesitantly into the corridor, my head spinning with the onset of claustrophobia as the walls pressed close on each side, it was unnaturally quiet, no sound intruding from the poetry slam, the air humid and electric as if announcing a pending storm.
Was that a soft footstep up ahead, I hesitated, should I go further or return, and my mind was made up as the lights flickered and then extinguished leaving me in total darkness, so I made a sensible withdrawal to the safe, comforting haven of the poetry slam, contrasting the sensory overload of happy vibes to the sensory deprivation of that dark corridor.
