In January I decided to get on a game show. The reference desk at the library led me to a website. There I found an ad for Catch 21 auditions and an email addy. I was to send a photo and my telephone number. About an hour after I sent in the required information, I got a call from the show’s casting director. We set up a date for an audition.
Three weeks later I arrived at Sony TV Studios in Hollywood for my audition. There were about 30 people there, most young males. We talked about ourselves, sang and danced, and played a mock up of the game. At the end of that day, Bev, the casting director, told me that she was going to cast me in the show. It seems that what she wanted most were middle aged folks.
The main requirement was that you have a “big personality” . That means you had to be very animated, with a loud voice, and a high energy level. They told us that TV makes contestants look like a blobs of wet laundry, so one had to be very grand in everything they did. All I knew was that I was expected to act like an idiot.
My taping was scheduled for March. I was told to list 3 “interesting” things about myself. First I told my best trucking story, when I got stuck under a bridge in Chicago. Second I told them that I had been an astrologer for 35 years. Thirdly I told them that I have done a lot of world travel….6 times to Africa…3 times to India.
Last Tuesday I taped the show.
Catch 21 is a relatively new show. It premiered in July of 2008, on the Game Show Network (GSN). It had been picked up for a second season. They were taping 65 new episodes on their new, updated set. It was hosted by Alfonso Ribeiro, who had been on the Fresh Prince of Bel Air show previously.
The show was created by a Merrill Heatter. He had invented other game shows such as Gambit, Top Card, and most famously, Hollywood Squares. Merrill, originally from New York, was now elderly but still active in the game show industry. He certainly did have a talent for inventing entertaining shows. The new Catch 21 shows were now up 118% in popularity.
I was scheduled for the afternoon taping, which began at 2PM. There were eight other contestants. For the first 3 hours, we practiced playing the game. Apparently the earlier tapings had been disappointing in that contestants hadn’t really understood the game, and made stupid mistakes. I was told to bring 3 changes of clothing. Bev choose a dark blue dress shirt and a black sports jacket.
At 5:30 we were sent down for a light dinner, and then it was off to the set. The sound stage they used was just across the alley from the one that had been used to tape most of the “I Love Lucy” shows.
As we walked onto the stage, the audience was already in place. I was afraid I would have a bad case of stage fright, but it did not work out that way. There were two other contestants. Alex was a middle aged red head and part time actress. Larry was a greybeard who was in the entertainment business himself.
We stood behind our podiums and tested the buzzers. I was “miked” up. The stage manager came up and gave us directions on where to stand.
Finally Alfonso arrived and the show began. We would told to say something about ourselves.
I said: “I am from Maryland, and for many years was a cross country truck driver. But now I am a limousine driver in beautiful, sunny Los Angeles.”
Alfonso read the first question. I didn’t have a chance. All the questions were celebrity gossip types.
“Who is Jimmy Kimmel’s latest romantic interest?”
“What color was Madonna’s dress at her second wedding?”
“Angelina Jolie’s father is what famous actor?”
“Garth Brooks is married to what country western singer?”
On most of them Larry could give the answer before Alfonso had even finished reading. I knew to have a chance I had to be fast.
I got one question “George Washington’s plantation in Virginia is…..”
I yelled out “Mount Vernon”…… but there was a sudden stillness on the set. I sensed that something was wrong. Unfortunately I had forgotten to hit the buzzer and allow Alfonso to recognize me. So I hit the buzzer, Alfonso said my name, and I repeated the answer.
The game is a combination of 21 and Trivial Pursuits. When you answer questions you get a card from the deck and either try to hit 21 yourself, or give them to others and “bust them out.”
In round 1, Larry and Alex fought it out. Apparently I was not perceived to be a threat in the celebrity gossip category. Larry busted Alex, and play continued. I got lucky when Larry miscounted his cards and gave himself a 10 when he already had a 13. He busted out. Of course this was my greatest fear, even more than freezing up----to make a bone-head play in front of a national audience. So I won the first round and got 500 points.
During the pause, the make up guy came over to me. Usually guys don’t get any make up, it is only the girls that might get some lip stick. I was sweating because of the hot lights and was wiping off with my handkerchief. The guy was a youngish black dude and told me to keep on using my handkerchief. “Yes, that way” I said “ I will keep that gleam off the globe” He looked at me and smiled. I guess he had never heard that one before.
In round 2 it was Larry and me. Larry quickly got a 20 and froze his hand. I had to get a 21 exactly or lose. I had an 8, and got a 7, which made 15. I needed a 6 to win, and got a 7. Larry went off to the bonus round. They took me over to the front row of the audience where I sat next to Alex. They had strong lights on us, and filmed us as we rooted for Larry.
There is a guy on every show whose job it is to pump up the crowd, and get them making lots of noise. During a pause, he walked over to me and said on the mike “So you’re a truck driver.” .
I spoke into the mike. “Yes,” I said “for many years I drove cross country for Fed Ex.”
“So you really have that white line fever.”
“Yes, I do, I might as well have it tattooed on my forehead it is that important to me.”
While chatting with Alex, I saw this older fellow in a dark green corduroy jacket. He was aimlessly wandering around the set.
I motioned him over. “Are you important?” I asked….”Or are you the coffee guy, because if you are, I sure could use a latte.”
“Well, I guess you could say I’m important” he said “this is my show.” It was Merrill Heatter himself. I asked him if he had really thought this game up all by himself, and he said yes, he had. Then I told him how courteously his casting people had treated us. He thanked me and ambled off.
Finally the show ended and my 15 minutes of fame were over. I went back up to the “green room”, got my things, and was escorted off the lot. I didn’t win any money, didn’t even get a gift. The only souvenir I have for my time is this parking stub from the Sony lot.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
SHORT STORY --- IT'S TIME TO DIE
Even before the sun had risen, Anna knew that her days were numbered.
She knew more than that, she knew this would be her last day.
Not that she was unwell, just that more than others, she knew when enough was enough.
She would invite her loved ones to come to her bedside,
Inform them of her imminent death, close her eyes and die.
Her husband would make her coffin….. her sister would lay her out with her usual dignity.
There would be nothing to be ashamed of at all.
She got out of bed to begin the last day of her life.
How can you know when you wake up that today is your last day?
It had all begun innocently enough, just 8 months ago. Anna was at a dinner party that her college friend Margaret was giving. The ensemble had just started the second course. That was when one middle aged gentlemen, supposedly an eminent scientist, mentioned that he had seen a item in the scientific journal New Life.
It claimed that scientists now thought that they had discovered the death gene. Of course the results were, at this time, entirely preliminary. Yet the research was showing great promise. Apparently, the research showed there was a gene called D4DR that was the triggering agent for heart attacks. The reason for this was surprisingly simple. It appears that at birth individuals are born with only so many days to live. When those days have passed, this gene triggers a heart attack
Of course, if yours was a family that died of cancer, this information did not apply to you. But if your family had a history of heart disease, the investigators claimed, then it was now possible to determine the time of death.
When the team first discovered the gene, they thought the indicated time of death would be so vague as to be unusable. They thought that the window of opportunity would be in the range of many years.
But as the research progressed, it was found that the complete opposite was true. That the time of death, the actual day of death, could be pinned down to 24 hours.
Preposterous, Anna expostulated, a woman of science herself. This sounds just too ridiculous. This is probably nothing more than an obscure group of researchers, at a little known university, trying to grab some attention and generate some research grants.
The history of science is full of dilettantes, charlatans, fraudsters or even outright crooks, who make outrageous claims that could not possibly be true. She thought back to 1989 when two Utah scientists claimed that they had achieved fusion at room temperature. Patently absurd on the face of it, and of course that is exactly what cold fusion turned out to be. Complete dishonesty and balderdash.
Of course she didn’t know that much about genetics. Her field was zoology. She did know that in 2001 the complete sequence of the human genome had been published, and it showed that the human animal carried 34,000 genes.
The visiting scientist who had mentioned the item, in the face of the Anna’s stern invective, backed down immediately and changed the subject. But before he did he mentioned that anyone could take these charlatans up on their absurd premise. All they had to do was wipe a Q tip across their tongue and send it, along with $20, to the Medical Research Department at the University of Vermont.
It wasn’t until a few days later that Anna remembered that dinner table conversation. It made her blood boil to think that good scientists, every day, were getting black eyes from fraudsters who made preposterous claims…..none of which would ever be duplicated in respected laboratories. Why should these charlatans get all the glorified press coverage, even if it was only in the supermarket tabloids.
It was then that she got an idea. Someone has got to stand up to this kind of incompetence. Someone has to stop this kind of black magic science…and I guess that someone will be me.
She thought.
“I will send in a sample. If the research team hasn’t yet been laughed out of town, I will hopefully get their response. Then I will expose the entire fraud at a press conference. I will shut these clowns down, and hopefully they will never have the courage to show their face in the scientific community again.”
And so it went. By noon the next day, the Q tip, and the $20 bill, were in the mail
THE LETTER
The letter came a week later. She was surprised how fast it had come. She had thought that , once she had called their bluff, there would be no response at all. She thought these charlatans had either made up this research out of whole cloth, or had massively deluded themselves with the possible implications of their findings. She thought they would now recognize their mistake and quietly go away. After all, they knew who she was. She was well known in the scientific community. She was in the Who’s Who of American Scientists. At one time she had been kind of famous in the literature for debunking fraudulent research.
It was rather a plain envelope….just the University of Vermont logo in the corner.
She opened it. It wasn’t a letter. Actually it was just a pre-printed form on a card.
It said:
“In the matter of the Death Date of Anna Sorensen. According to the DNA provided , we have determined that the Date of Death will be:
October 15, 2018
Stunned, she looked at the date. There it was in black and white…. very plain. Supposedly the date that she will die by heart attack.
But what really shocked her is that she was already living in the year 2018, and October was only 7 months away.
She knew more than that, she knew this would be her last day.
Not that she was unwell, just that more than others, she knew when enough was enough.
She would invite her loved ones to come to her bedside,
Inform them of her imminent death, close her eyes and die.
Her husband would make her coffin….. her sister would lay her out with her usual dignity.
There would be nothing to be ashamed of at all.
She got out of bed to begin the last day of her life.
How can you know when you wake up that today is your last day?
It had all begun innocently enough, just 8 months ago. Anna was at a dinner party that her college friend Margaret was giving. The ensemble had just started the second course. That was when one middle aged gentlemen, supposedly an eminent scientist, mentioned that he had seen a item in the scientific journal New Life.
It claimed that scientists now thought that they had discovered the death gene. Of course the results were, at this time, entirely preliminary. Yet the research was showing great promise. Apparently, the research showed there was a gene called D4DR that was the triggering agent for heart attacks. The reason for this was surprisingly simple. It appears that at birth individuals are born with only so many days to live. When those days have passed, this gene triggers a heart attack
Of course, if yours was a family that died of cancer, this information did not apply to you. But if your family had a history of heart disease, the investigators claimed, then it was now possible to determine the time of death.
When the team first discovered the gene, they thought the indicated time of death would be so vague as to be unusable. They thought that the window of opportunity would be in the range of many years.
But as the research progressed, it was found that the complete opposite was true. That the time of death, the actual day of death, could be pinned down to 24 hours.
Preposterous, Anna expostulated, a woman of science herself. This sounds just too ridiculous. This is probably nothing more than an obscure group of researchers, at a little known university, trying to grab some attention and generate some research grants.
The history of science is full of dilettantes, charlatans, fraudsters or even outright crooks, who make outrageous claims that could not possibly be true. She thought back to 1989 when two Utah scientists claimed that they had achieved fusion at room temperature. Patently absurd on the face of it, and of course that is exactly what cold fusion turned out to be. Complete dishonesty and balderdash.
Of course she didn’t know that much about genetics. Her field was zoology. She did know that in 2001 the complete sequence of the human genome had been published, and it showed that the human animal carried 34,000 genes.
The visiting scientist who had mentioned the item, in the face of the Anna’s stern invective, backed down immediately and changed the subject. But before he did he mentioned that anyone could take these charlatans up on their absurd premise. All they had to do was wipe a Q tip across their tongue and send it, along with $20, to the Medical Research Department at the University of Vermont.
It wasn’t until a few days later that Anna remembered that dinner table conversation. It made her blood boil to think that good scientists, every day, were getting black eyes from fraudsters who made preposterous claims…..none of which would ever be duplicated in respected laboratories. Why should these charlatans get all the glorified press coverage, even if it was only in the supermarket tabloids.
It was then that she got an idea. Someone has got to stand up to this kind of incompetence. Someone has to stop this kind of black magic science…and I guess that someone will be me.
She thought.
“I will send in a sample. If the research team hasn’t yet been laughed out of town, I will hopefully get their response. Then I will expose the entire fraud at a press conference. I will shut these clowns down, and hopefully they will never have the courage to show their face in the scientific community again.”
And so it went. By noon the next day, the Q tip, and the $20 bill, were in the mail
THE LETTER
The letter came a week later. She was surprised how fast it had come. She had thought that , once she had called their bluff, there would be no response at all. She thought these charlatans had either made up this research out of whole cloth, or had massively deluded themselves with the possible implications of their findings. She thought they would now recognize their mistake and quietly go away. After all, they knew who she was. She was well known in the scientific community. She was in the Who’s Who of American Scientists. At one time she had been kind of famous in the literature for debunking fraudulent research.
It was rather a plain envelope….just the University of Vermont logo in the corner.
She opened it. It wasn’t a letter. Actually it was just a pre-printed form on a card.
It said:
“In the matter of the Death Date of Anna Sorensen. According to the DNA provided , we have determined that the Date of Death will be:
October 15, 2018
Stunned, she looked at the date. There it was in black and white…. very plain. Supposedly the date that she will die by heart attack.
But what really shocked her is that she was already living in the year 2018, and October was only 7 months away.
LIMOUSINE SERVICE IN LOS ANGLES
A while ago, a friend told me that he had never seen any photos of the limousines I drive. So I thought the best way to make photos available was to post them to my blog.
All Star Limousine has 18 vehicles that they rent out. Although the company has a number of traditional black Lincolns, I am only showing pictures of the stretch Hummers, and the new Limo Coach. I drive the larger vehicles because of my experience as a truck driver, handling large vehicles.
For many years, the stretch Hummer was our best people mover. We could carry about 20 people, and they made great party vehicles. Now all of that has changed with the arrival of the new Limo Coach, which is manufactured here in Los Angeles. All Star has four Limo Coaches.
The Limo Coach is the wave of the future in the limo industry. People love it. It carries more people, is easier to get in and out of, is more luxurious and has a state-of-the-art sound and light system. There is ample seating, and three bars. They rent for about $250 an hour, but if you get all your friends to chip in, it turns out to be reasonable.
If you need to move a lot of people for a wedding, birthday party, formal prom, bachelor party or other huge event, then the Limo Coach is the way to go. People often ask me how many people the Limo Coach will hold. I tell them that it will carry 30 adults, 35 kids, or 40 drunk adults. That is my best joke, but pretty much true. You can even have a stripper’s pole installed. In LA, the customer gets what he wants.
All Star Limousine has 18 vehicles that they rent out. Although the company has a number of traditional black Lincolns, I am only showing pictures of the stretch Hummers, and the new Limo Coach. I drive the larger vehicles because of my experience as a truck driver, handling large vehicles.
For many years, the stretch Hummer was our best people mover. We could carry about 20 people, and they made great party vehicles. Now all of that has changed with the arrival of the new Limo Coach, which is manufactured here in Los Angeles. All Star has four Limo Coaches.
The Limo Coach is the wave of the future in the limo industry. People love it. It carries more people, is easier to get in and out of, is more luxurious and has a state-of-the-art sound and light system. There is ample seating, and three bars. They rent for about $250 an hour, but if you get all your friends to chip in, it turns out to be reasonable.
If you need to move a lot of people for a wedding, birthday party, formal prom, bachelor party or other huge event, then the Limo Coach is the way to go. People often ask me how many people the Limo Coach will hold. I tell them that it will carry 30 adults, 35 kids, or 40 drunk adults. That is my best joke, but pretty much true. You can even have a stripper’s pole installed. In LA, the customer gets what he wants.
COLONOSCOPY CARNIVAL
Well, it was an early day at the VA Hospital for me. My arrival was anticipated. The USC marching band was there to welcome me, they had my monogrammed hospital gown waiting, and Channel 7 News was on hand to record the event for posterity. Or maybe that was all part of the dream I had the night before.
After in-processing I had an interview with Dr. Morgan, who would be doing the procedure. The first thing I did was ask him how he had chosen this specialty. I wanted to find out when he had discovered his fascination with, of all parts of the body, this particular part. He said he wasn’t really sure. All he knew is that he didn’t like sputum.
Then, unprompted, he made a stunning admission. He said that medical wisdom dictates that every person get a colonoscopy by age 50. Dr Morgan was 55 yet it was only a year ago that he allowed them to “stick one of those things up my backside.” I am using his exact medical lingo. I told him I was so relieved. Now, for me, the earth had been put back on its axis, and I could die in peace. I now knew for sure that medical professionals did not follow the same advice they gave their patients.
Next he did an examination. On my back, he discovered the large scar from the removal of a melanoma 30 years ago. I told him the real reason, and then told him what I tell people who see the scar at the beach: I tell them it is the last time I am ever going to a Polish medical clinic for a vasectomy.
Soon I was whisked away to the prep room. The gown came in two stunning colors, grey and gray. The inadequacies of this garment were apparent from the beginning. It had by no means the wrap around comfort of a generous bathrobe. Instead the paucity of material reminded me more of a memory from my childhood. Whenever our family drove from Maryland to Pittsburgh to spend Christmas with my grandparents, we would always get on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at a town called BREEZEWAY.
In no time I am on my gurney, being prepped by ‘Arvey….a gay Latin man. I asked him how his weekend had been. He told me he had 2 herniated discs which gave him a lot of pain, and he couldn’t sleep. So I told him I was a healer, put my hand on the small of his back and said a blessing. He wasn’t quite sure what to think, but he said Thank You.
Next I was rushed down the hallway, in a routine Code Brown emergency scene, to the surgery amphitheater.
The nurse arrived next.
“Hello, Mr. Redding” she said. She was a Philippina lady with a saucy style and a big smile. Behind her was a younger woman. I think she was a trainee.
“Hello, my love, where have you been all my life?” I said, “My God, nothing but pretty nurses, all in a row.”
"Yes, nothing but pretty nurses for Mr. Redding.” she said.
I said “Well, all pretty nurses are invited to my birthday party.”
At this, Marie leans over and whispers in my ear “And who is going to blow out your candles?” Without missing a beat I told her “Well, you’ve just volunteered.”
After flirting with all the nurses, Dr Morgan arrived. Before the festivities could begin I told my best doctor joke.
“An absent minded doctor is doing paperwork at a nurses’ station. A nurse arrives and asks to use his pen. He reaches into his coat pocket, and hands it to her. The nurse says: Doctor, this isn’t a pen, it’s a rectal thermometer. The Doctor says: Dammit, now someone has my pen.”
My reward is an injection of Happyland chemicals into my IV. The last time I had a colonoscopy I was given a general anesthetic. What a wonderful procedure. You go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything is magically fixed with no fuss or bother. But that was at a private hospital, and not to be the case at the VA. I was given a light sedative, which left me just conscious enough to enjoy the pressure of the large size container of gas they were going to pump into me.
Half way through the procedure, I thought, maybe they had forgotten something. I asked: “I thought I was going to get a General”. Dr Morgan, was merrily probing away, and occasionally expostulating such outbursts as “Oh, my God,” and “will you look at that whopper”. He responded by saying: “ Yes, we have a general here, and it is Marie the Head Nurse, who tells everyone what to do.”
Before I knew it, my 3 hours on the probing table were over, and I was being rushed down the hallway to the recovery room.
There I was parked, like a semi-truck , in a long line of groaning middle aged men. I said hello again to Rosa. We had met earlier in the day, when she installed my IV.
I remembered then the look of consternation on her face as she tried to find a vein. I have always had deep veins. Rosa said they were “sleeping”. First, she tied the rubber tie around one bicep, then the other. I made my hand into a fist and pumped with all my might. Then she slapped the arm, hoping a vein would appear.
“Come on vein” I thought, “now is the time to make a showing.” I remembered back many years ago when I had broken my leg. It took the nurse 4 tries to get an IV started. I still remembered the blood dripping down my hand from the impale marks.
I tried sympathizing with Rosa. What a shame. Here it was first thing on a Monday morning, and Rosa was faced with a real test of her medical skill. Life is so unfair.
Finally, she stuck it in. I screamed in pain. She said “There it is, no problem.”
I said: ”Wow, I didn’t feel a thing”
In the Recovery Room, Rosa paraded up and down her row of patients, encouraging all of us to start farting.
I was half out of it, but that was not my real problem. My real problem was that even though I was filled with enough gas to float the Hindenburg, none of it showed any inclination to re-vent.
I must have laid there for an hour, but nothing would come out. Cramping pains came and went. I was on left side, my back, then my right side. Rosa came over and pumped up the gurney and quickly let it drop…… an old nurse’s trick. Nothing happened.
Finally Rosa comes over to me and says: “Why aren’t you farting, are you ashamed to pass gas?”
“No,” I said, “actually I am very proud of my farting.”
That’s when the guy in the bed next to me started laughing. “Now look what you’ve done” admonished Rosa in mock anger …”you’ve made the other patient laugh.”
Finally, Rosa had had enough. She turned me over to the No-Nonsense nurse. Every ward has one, and she wasn't playing games. I did not have a chance to read her nametag, or engage in charming banter. She shot over, and tipped the gurney 30 degrees head down. As the blood rushed to my head I thought: “Now this is a novel approach, but at least I have gravity on my side.”
And sure enough, it was not long before I let go. God, what a relief that was. Soon after I was farting like a schoolboy champion, and my disposition was rapidly improving.
It was not long before my little pleasure stay at the hospital was over, and my friend Mel came and picked me up. It turned out that the doctor removed 3 polyps, so it was a good thing that I had the procedure. When cancer runs in your family you have to be vigilant. Colon cancer is a nasty way to die. I came home and slept, and dreamt of breakfast. So that was my fun day at the hospital.
After in-processing I had an interview with Dr. Morgan, who would be doing the procedure. The first thing I did was ask him how he had chosen this specialty. I wanted to find out when he had discovered his fascination with, of all parts of the body, this particular part. He said he wasn’t really sure. All he knew is that he didn’t like sputum.
Then, unprompted, he made a stunning admission. He said that medical wisdom dictates that every person get a colonoscopy by age 50. Dr Morgan was 55 yet it was only a year ago that he allowed them to “stick one of those things up my backside.” I am using his exact medical lingo. I told him I was so relieved. Now, for me, the earth had been put back on its axis, and I could die in peace. I now knew for sure that medical professionals did not follow the same advice they gave their patients.
Next he did an examination. On my back, he discovered the large scar from the removal of a melanoma 30 years ago. I told him the real reason, and then told him what I tell people who see the scar at the beach: I tell them it is the last time I am ever going to a Polish medical clinic for a vasectomy.
Soon I was whisked away to the prep room. The gown came in two stunning colors, grey and gray. The inadequacies of this garment were apparent from the beginning. It had by no means the wrap around comfort of a generous bathrobe. Instead the paucity of material reminded me more of a memory from my childhood. Whenever our family drove from Maryland to Pittsburgh to spend Christmas with my grandparents, we would always get on the Pennsylvania Turnpike at a town called BREEZEWAY.
In no time I am on my gurney, being prepped by ‘Arvey….a gay Latin man. I asked him how his weekend had been. He told me he had 2 herniated discs which gave him a lot of pain, and he couldn’t sleep. So I told him I was a healer, put my hand on the small of his back and said a blessing. He wasn’t quite sure what to think, but he said Thank You.
Next I was rushed down the hallway, in a routine Code Brown emergency scene, to the surgery amphitheater.
The nurse arrived next.
“Hello, Mr. Redding” she said. She was a Philippina lady with a saucy style and a big smile. Behind her was a younger woman. I think she was a trainee.
“Hello, my love, where have you been all my life?” I said, “My God, nothing but pretty nurses, all in a row.”
"Yes, nothing but pretty nurses for Mr. Redding.” she said.
I said “Well, all pretty nurses are invited to my birthday party.”
At this, Marie leans over and whispers in my ear “And who is going to blow out your candles?” Without missing a beat I told her “Well, you’ve just volunteered.”
After flirting with all the nurses, Dr Morgan arrived. Before the festivities could begin I told my best doctor joke.
“An absent minded doctor is doing paperwork at a nurses’ station. A nurse arrives and asks to use his pen. He reaches into his coat pocket, and hands it to her. The nurse says: Doctor, this isn’t a pen, it’s a rectal thermometer. The Doctor says: Dammit, now someone has my pen.”
My reward is an injection of Happyland chemicals into my IV. The last time I had a colonoscopy I was given a general anesthetic. What a wonderful procedure. You go to sleep, and when you wake up, everything is magically fixed with no fuss or bother. But that was at a private hospital, and not to be the case at the VA. I was given a light sedative, which left me just conscious enough to enjoy the pressure of the large size container of gas they were going to pump into me.
Half way through the procedure, I thought, maybe they had forgotten something. I asked: “I thought I was going to get a General”. Dr Morgan, was merrily probing away, and occasionally expostulating such outbursts as “Oh, my God,” and “will you look at that whopper”. He responded by saying: “ Yes, we have a general here, and it is Marie the Head Nurse, who tells everyone what to do.”
Before I knew it, my 3 hours on the probing table were over, and I was being rushed down the hallway to the recovery room.
There I was parked, like a semi-truck , in a long line of groaning middle aged men. I said hello again to Rosa. We had met earlier in the day, when she installed my IV.
I remembered then the look of consternation on her face as she tried to find a vein. I have always had deep veins. Rosa said they were “sleeping”. First, she tied the rubber tie around one bicep, then the other. I made my hand into a fist and pumped with all my might. Then she slapped the arm, hoping a vein would appear.
“Come on vein” I thought, “now is the time to make a showing.” I remembered back many years ago when I had broken my leg. It took the nurse 4 tries to get an IV started. I still remembered the blood dripping down my hand from the impale marks.
I tried sympathizing with Rosa. What a shame. Here it was first thing on a Monday morning, and Rosa was faced with a real test of her medical skill. Life is so unfair.
Finally, she stuck it in. I screamed in pain. She said “There it is, no problem.”
I said: ”Wow, I didn’t feel a thing”
In the Recovery Room, Rosa paraded up and down her row of patients, encouraging all of us to start farting.
I was half out of it, but that was not my real problem. My real problem was that even though I was filled with enough gas to float the Hindenburg, none of it showed any inclination to re-vent.
I must have laid there for an hour, but nothing would come out. Cramping pains came and went. I was on left side, my back, then my right side. Rosa came over and pumped up the gurney and quickly let it drop…… an old nurse’s trick. Nothing happened.
Finally Rosa comes over to me and says: “Why aren’t you farting, are you ashamed to pass gas?”
“No,” I said, “actually I am very proud of my farting.”
That’s when the guy in the bed next to me started laughing. “Now look what you’ve done” admonished Rosa in mock anger …”you’ve made the other patient laugh.”
Finally, Rosa had had enough. She turned me over to the No-Nonsense nurse. Every ward has one, and she wasn't playing games. I did not have a chance to read her nametag, or engage in charming banter. She shot over, and tipped the gurney 30 degrees head down. As the blood rushed to my head I thought: “Now this is a novel approach, but at least I have gravity on my side.”
And sure enough, it was not long before I let go. God, what a relief that was. Soon after I was farting like a schoolboy champion, and my disposition was rapidly improving.
It was not long before my little pleasure stay at the hospital was over, and my friend Mel came and picked me up. It turned out that the doctor removed 3 polyps, so it was a good thing that I had the procedure. When cancer runs in your family you have to be vigilant. Colon cancer is a nasty way to die. I came home and slept, and dreamt of breakfast. So that was my fun day at the hospital.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
BANGKOK PETER
When in India, be ready for the shocking.
Peter was the foreign correspondent for the German paper Die Welt in Asia. He was stationed in Bangkok. It was Peter’s job to travel throughout Southeast Asia, covering political hotspots. His reports on the economic and political stability of these regional problems influenced investment decisions by his pro-business readership.
Gloria and I met him under a hotel umbrella on a beach in Sri Lanka. He was drinking a glass of whisky at 10 o’clock in the morning. The bottle stood nearby. He told us that it was only because of his aching foot that he had taken relief in alcoholic medication. He had crushed the big toe in a motorbike accident and now it was infected. He gingerly undid the dressing to show us the toe. The nail seemed to float loosely on an abscess of puss. Infection in the tropics is never a good sign.
He was tall and thin, clad in jeans and tennis shoes, and was a tremendously congenial guy. He was in Sri Lanka to report on the ever-simmering war between government troops and the Tamil rebels. Being a reporter, he had to be available to follow any late-breaking events. He would often get a call from his editor with instructions to immediately jump on a plane. He would fly to some strange town in some remote country, and interview some news-making person. After gathering all the facts, he would throw it together in a 300-line article for a 9AM deadline.
“I’ve always worked under deadline” he said “but don’t find it to be a problem.” Today he was on his way to the northern port town of Jaffre to interview rebel leaders. Afterward he would write a feature column for dispatch back to Germany.
I was enjoying our conversation as we hid from the sun under that far spreading umbrella.
Yet, as I looked into his face, I could not help but think that Peter had sad eyes. Somehow, he seemed to have the cares of the world on his shoulders. I suppose that is understandable, considering that it was his job to report on some of the more unsavory aspects of human nature. His was a stressful profession. All the time under the gun, having to travel, find the right people, get interviews and then produce a coherent article.
When traveling along the ‘gringo trail’ that most tourists take through Asia, one meets lots of new people. In a way, that is a lot of the reason why people choose to travel. Between some of these new acquaintances, there forms an instant friendship, leading to a bond of earnest camaraderie. With these new friends, you know that you would never be at a loss for conversation and affectionate conviviality. Gloria and I immediately felt this way about Peter.
Well, for a couple of hours, the three of us had a swell time together under that umbrella. We swapped travel stories and made lots of stupid jokes. Finally Peter’s car arrived. He was off to the world of political reality after a short break on the beach. Before he left he gave us his card and told us to give him a call when we got to Bangkok. We swore it would be the first thing we did upon arrival. In reality, none of us really expected a subsequent meeting to take place.
BANGKOK
Two months later we were in our Bangkok hotel room and I came across Peter’s card. I thought why not give him a call. He might be in town. A half-hour later I was talking to Peter on the phone. He said he was pleased to hear from us. We made plans for lunch the next day in downtown Bangkok.
We got up early the next morning to see the King’s Golden Palace. We thought we had allotted plenty of time for the cab ride to the luncheon hotel. Unfortunately, it took us 45 minutes of heat and fumes to go two miles in that terrible Bangkok traffic.
We finally arrived at the swanky Dusit Hotel in the heart of Bangkok’s commercial and shopping district. Peter met us in the lobby. Congenial as ever, he was still wearing his oxford button-down shirt, jeans and sneakers. He took us to the top floor, where the Foreign Correspondents Club had their restaurant.
After seven weeks in India, it was quite a thrill to see a fancy western restaurant again. Linen tablecloths, gleaming flat wear, carpeted floors, and a line-up of freshly starched waiters at your beck and call. All surrounded by the 15th story view of the great alluvial plain upon which Bangkok is built. A view grandly presented through the floor to ceiling windows.
Over a mug of beer, and a great view from a window table, we caught up on our news. Peter listened attentively to our travel stories of India, a country he had lived in for three years.
I had started with a story about the “Black Hole” of Calcutta. Then I told a story about an adventure we’d had in the holy city of Varanasi.
VARANASI
Varanasi is the most sacred of all cities to the Hindu. It is to the Hindu what Jerusalem is to the Christians. It is on the banks of the Ganges River. Devout Hindus will gain merit if they can, once in their lives, make a pilgrimage to Varanasi and bathe in the river’s holy waters.
This is what one traveler wrote about Varanasi. “Varanasi is the oldest living city in the world and it reeks of humanity in every way. Its labyrinthine stone alleyways swallow you into complete disorientation and propels you from fear to amazement to disgust and horror, and absolute awe. If makes you want to run from it, but it’s also a wonderland of beauty that makes you want to stay and to understand why it exists.
Varanasi is not for everyone. She offers herself warts and all and doesn’t expect you to understand her or judge her. You will need a strong stomach and a sturdy heart, but your rewards will be infinite. Love her or loathe her, it’s impossible to be indifferent to her. More than any other city on Earth, she demands an emotional response.
It’s the place where a Hindu Indian most wants to die. Being cremated here and finishing one’s life in the River Ganges brings release from the cycle of reincarnation. It’s a place of continual celebration among ancient architecture; where pilgrims make puja en masse at dawn, at dusk, at any time, to the constant beating of drums and to the Indian string instruments and to the sounds of vendors taking advantage of their market.
It’s a place where the laundry wallahs beat their clothes in the river as the remains of a cremation are dispatched to the bliss of the waters, mixing with the sewerage of the city and the flowers and candles that each Hindu sets to float in prayer; where thousands of people bathe every single day.
It’s a place where boys play cricket meters from a funeral pyre and fireworks maim a beggar; where a rickshaw wallah proudly claims that he beats his wife and a sadhu tells you why peace is his goal.
Varanasi…simply the most fascinating city in the most fascinating country in the world.” Robin Crago
Hindus will incur special merit if they can manage to die there. After they are cremated, their ashes will be thrown into the river. Because so many people come to Varanasi to die, the town is loaded with old folks, close to death. Most of them live in Death Houses. Crowded together in large rooms, they patiently wait to meet their maker.
BURNING GHATS
I was telling Peter about my walk among the ghats, which are the stone stairways along the river. Here, 24 hours a day, cremating pyres burn. There is usually a good-sized crowd of observers. You can watch the whole process from beginning to end a number of times in an afternoon. There might be four or five fires going at the same time. I couldn’t help but think that it might be the biggest BBQ in the world.
This is what you will see. First, workers carry a load of firewood to a platform close to the river. They build a pyre about four feet long and two feet high. After death, the body is wrapped in a shroud and carried by three men, usually overhead to avoid the crowds, down the narrow alleys to the river’s edge. There it is placed on the pyre. Flammable powder is liberally added to the firewood to accelerate combustion. Usually family members are in attendance, uttering prayers.
When all is ready, the attendant lights the wood with a torch. The fire quickly spreads the length of the pyre and engulfs the body in flame. Attendants soon back off as the power of the roaring flames gains strength. Before long the shroud has burned and just the blackened corpse is left. As the human flesh begins to sizzle, a sick-sweet aroma wafts up the bank to the spectators. It is a smell not unlike barbecued liver.
In the old days, if the departed was a married man, the widow would climb into the crematory flames, and burn along with her husband. This practice was called ‘seti’. The reason was quite simple. In impoverished India, where famine was always a menace, there was no place for a woman who could not feed herself. After the death of the husband, the assets of the marriage would invariably go back to the husband’s family. For a widow to have to live with her children, where she would have been a burden, or to become a street beggar, was a fate worse than death. The widows of India understood the choice they had to make and usually opted for ‘seti’. To fortify the widow at this trying time, she received a large dose of a powerful narcotic, usually hashish. Now, ‘seti’ has been made illegal by the national government. Yet it is still practiced in some of the remote villages, where the burden of another mouth to feed is still onerous.
The fire rages for about a half-hour and then begins to subside. If the fire is not burning well, the attendant will add more powder. Otherwise he stands by, holding a bamboo pole. I do not know the reason, but occasionally an arm or leg will suddenly fling itself out of the fire. There it lies….. smoking….hanging limply outside the flames. The attendant will then use the pole to push the limb back into the fire.
As the fire burns down, the attendant stirs it continuously to get as complete a burn as possible. When all is done he picks out the remains, mostly bone fragments, and casts them into the river.
BATHING GHATS
On either side of the burning ghats are the bathing ghats. All day long, they are crowded with bathers and worshippers. As these pilgrims say their prayers and drink the holy waters, they can easily watch the death drama unfolding nearby. One day, if they are lucky, these worshippers might have their bodies cremated on the banks of the Ganges. Lucky because many of the poor cannot afford the price of the firewood, which has to be barged down the river and is stored in locked warehouses.
Families that cannot afford the wood will simply hire a boat to take the corpse into the middle of the river. There it is lowered into the depths. In time the current will sweep the body downriver past the town, and into the mouths of the huge crocodiles and snapping turtles that wait to feed.
If there is no money for firewood or a boat, then the corpse is unceremoniously thrown into the slack water at the river’s edge. There it bobs along in the choppy waters and slowly makes its way down the river. Eventually it sinks. However, after three days the decomposing body produces enough gas to re-float the corpse. The remains will then re-emerge, frequently right next to the bathing ghats. After three days the flesh has softened to the point that it is an attractive meal for a vulture. These birds will land on the shoulders of the floating corpse and feed upon the meat around the neck.
I noticed that Peter had suddenly gone very quiet. I thought I had seen him wince when I mentioned Varanasi
His lips drew up tight, as if a bitter memory was flashing through his mind. He didn’t like Varanasi, he said. He said he had been there one day with his wife. They were walking through town and were approaching the ghats along the river’s edge. Out of the crowd came a small, swarthy woman. She was dressed in dark rags. With one arm she clutched a baby to her breast. It was wrapped in swaddling clothes.
The woman headed straight for them and held out her hand for alms. When neither of them responded, she suddenly held out the baby with both arms to Peter’s wife. For some reason, instinctively, Peter’s wife unfolded her arms and accepted the youth into her hands.
But a sickening feeling filled her stomach as she sensed the unusual form inside. There was something very wrong here. She slid the cloth off the baby’s face and her suspicious were confirmed. The tiny baby was dead.
“Oh, God” she gasped, as she shoved the carcass back into the arms of the beggar woman. She wailed miserably as she turned on her heel and plunged away through the crowd. When Peter finally caught up with he, she was in hysterics. She was sobbing uncontrollably and screaming. A small crowd gathered to watch. Peter tried to calm her, to comfort her…but in vain.
She said: that was it. She’d had enough. She tried to do her best, but she couldn’t take it any more. She’d tried to adjust to living in India, but this was the last straw. She just couldn’t take it any more. She wanted to leave and she wanted to leave now. Back to Germany, and away from the horrible place called India.
The blare of the news program coming out of the restaurant’s TV set filled the awkward pause in the conversation. The clink of glasses and the subdued murmurs of business lunch floated through the room. Streaming sunshine cascaded through the widows, as businessmen conducted their affairs over drinks and lobster. The glorious view beckoned the eye as life in Bangkok hurriedly went about its way.
“I guess you could say that was the beginning of the end.” Peter continued. “Maria had never been happy overseas and that day, well…she’d just had enough. She left India for good ten days later, and six months after that we were divorced.” I stared at my drink, playing with the glass, feeling Peter’s pain.
“But enough of that,” he continued, as he drained his second beer and motioned the waiter for another. “So tell me about Agra. How did you like the Taj Mahal?”
When I returned to the United States I searched diligently for Peter’s business card. Unfortunately I never found it. I was going to send him a thank you note for taking us to lunch. Now I suppose I will never talk to him again.
POSTSCRIPT: 2 years later
In February of 1993, I found Peter’s card. I had used it as a bookmark in Krishnamurti’s "The Flight of the Eagle." I was happy to have found it again. I wrote him a note and included a booklet of “True Life Trucking Stories” that I had written a number of years before. I mailed it to his old Bangkok address. I have yet to hear from him. So I suppose he is still wandering the globe, still sticking his nose into other’s people’s business, and still hitting that deadline. I wish him the best.
Peter was the foreign correspondent for the German paper Die Welt in Asia. He was stationed in Bangkok. It was Peter’s job to travel throughout Southeast Asia, covering political hotspots. His reports on the economic and political stability of these regional problems influenced investment decisions by his pro-business readership.
Gloria and I met him under a hotel umbrella on a beach in Sri Lanka. He was drinking a glass of whisky at 10 o’clock in the morning. The bottle stood nearby. He told us that it was only because of his aching foot that he had taken relief in alcoholic medication. He had crushed the big toe in a motorbike accident and now it was infected. He gingerly undid the dressing to show us the toe. The nail seemed to float loosely on an abscess of puss. Infection in the tropics is never a good sign.
He was tall and thin, clad in jeans and tennis shoes, and was a tremendously congenial guy. He was in Sri Lanka to report on the ever-simmering war between government troops and the Tamil rebels. Being a reporter, he had to be available to follow any late-breaking events. He would often get a call from his editor with instructions to immediately jump on a plane. He would fly to some strange town in some remote country, and interview some news-making person. After gathering all the facts, he would throw it together in a 300-line article for a 9AM deadline.
“I’ve always worked under deadline” he said “but don’t find it to be a problem.” Today he was on his way to the northern port town of Jaffre to interview rebel leaders. Afterward he would write a feature column for dispatch back to Germany.
I was enjoying our conversation as we hid from the sun under that far spreading umbrella.
Yet, as I looked into his face, I could not help but think that Peter had sad eyes. Somehow, he seemed to have the cares of the world on his shoulders. I suppose that is understandable, considering that it was his job to report on some of the more unsavory aspects of human nature. His was a stressful profession. All the time under the gun, having to travel, find the right people, get interviews and then produce a coherent article.
When traveling along the ‘gringo trail’ that most tourists take through Asia, one meets lots of new people. In a way, that is a lot of the reason why people choose to travel. Between some of these new acquaintances, there forms an instant friendship, leading to a bond of earnest camaraderie. With these new friends, you know that you would never be at a loss for conversation and affectionate conviviality. Gloria and I immediately felt this way about Peter.
Well, for a couple of hours, the three of us had a swell time together under that umbrella. We swapped travel stories and made lots of stupid jokes. Finally Peter’s car arrived. He was off to the world of political reality after a short break on the beach. Before he left he gave us his card and told us to give him a call when we got to Bangkok. We swore it would be the first thing we did upon arrival. In reality, none of us really expected a subsequent meeting to take place.
BANGKOK
Two months later we were in our Bangkok hotel room and I came across Peter’s card. I thought why not give him a call. He might be in town. A half-hour later I was talking to Peter on the phone. He said he was pleased to hear from us. We made plans for lunch the next day in downtown Bangkok.
We got up early the next morning to see the King’s Golden Palace. We thought we had allotted plenty of time for the cab ride to the luncheon hotel. Unfortunately, it took us 45 minutes of heat and fumes to go two miles in that terrible Bangkok traffic.
We finally arrived at the swanky Dusit Hotel in the heart of Bangkok’s commercial and shopping district. Peter met us in the lobby. Congenial as ever, he was still wearing his oxford button-down shirt, jeans and sneakers. He took us to the top floor, where the Foreign Correspondents Club had their restaurant.
After seven weeks in India, it was quite a thrill to see a fancy western restaurant again. Linen tablecloths, gleaming flat wear, carpeted floors, and a line-up of freshly starched waiters at your beck and call. All surrounded by the 15th story view of the great alluvial plain upon which Bangkok is built. A view grandly presented through the floor to ceiling windows.
Over a mug of beer, and a great view from a window table, we caught up on our news. Peter listened attentively to our travel stories of India, a country he had lived in for three years.
I had started with a story about the “Black Hole” of Calcutta. Then I told a story about an adventure we’d had in the holy city of Varanasi.
VARANASI
Varanasi is the most sacred of all cities to the Hindu. It is to the Hindu what Jerusalem is to the Christians. It is on the banks of the Ganges River. Devout Hindus will gain merit if they can, once in their lives, make a pilgrimage to Varanasi and bathe in the river’s holy waters.
This is what one traveler wrote about Varanasi. “Varanasi is the oldest living city in the world and it reeks of humanity in every way. Its labyrinthine stone alleyways swallow you into complete disorientation and propels you from fear to amazement to disgust and horror, and absolute awe. If makes you want to run from it, but it’s also a wonderland of beauty that makes you want to stay and to understand why it exists.
Varanasi is not for everyone. She offers herself warts and all and doesn’t expect you to understand her or judge her. You will need a strong stomach and a sturdy heart, but your rewards will be infinite. Love her or loathe her, it’s impossible to be indifferent to her. More than any other city on Earth, she demands an emotional response.
It’s the place where a Hindu Indian most wants to die. Being cremated here and finishing one’s life in the River Ganges brings release from the cycle of reincarnation. It’s a place of continual celebration among ancient architecture; where pilgrims make puja en masse at dawn, at dusk, at any time, to the constant beating of drums and to the Indian string instruments and to the sounds of vendors taking advantage of their market.
It’s a place where the laundry wallahs beat their clothes in the river as the remains of a cremation are dispatched to the bliss of the waters, mixing with the sewerage of the city and the flowers and candles that each Hindu sets to float in prayer; where thousands of people bathe every single day.
It’s a place where boys play cricket meters from a funeral pyre and fireworks maim a beggar; where a rickshaw wallah proudly claims that he beats his wife and a sadhu tells you why peace is his goal.
Varanasi…simply the most fascinating city in the most fascinating country in the world.” Robin Crago
Hindus will incur special merit if they can manage to die there. After they are cremated, their ashes will be thrown into the river. Because so many people come to Varanasi to die, the town is loaded with old folks, close to death. Most of them live in Death Houses. Crowded together in large rooms, they patiently wait to meet their maker.
BURNING GHATS
I was telling Peter about my walk among the ghats, which are the stone stairways along the river. Here, 24 hours a day, cremating pyres burn. There is usually a good-sized crowd of observers. You can watch the whole process from beginning to end a number of times in an afternoon. There might be four or five fires going at the same time. I couldn’t help but think that it might be the biggest BBQ in the world.
This is what you will see. First, workers carry a load of firewood to a platform close to the river. They build a pyre about four feet long and two feet high. After death, the body is wrapped in a shroud and carried by three men, usually overhead to avoid the crowds, down the narrow alleys to the river’s edge. There it is placed on the pyre. Flammable powder is liberally added to the firewood to accelerate combustion. Usually family members are in attendance, uttering prayers.
When all is ready, the attendant lights the wood with a torch. The fire quickly spreads the length of the pyre and engulfs the body in flame. Attendants soon back off as the power of the roaring flames gains strength. Before long the shroud has burned and just the blackened corpse is left. As the human flesh begins to sizzle, a sick-sweet aroma wafts up the bank to the spectators. It is a smell not unlike barbecued liver.
In the old days, if the departed was a married man, the widow would climb into the crematory flames, and burn along with her husband. This practice was called ‘seti’. The reason was quite simple. In impoverished India, where famine was always a menace, there was no place for a woman who could not feed herself. After the death of the husband, the assets of the marriage would invariably go back to the husband’s family. For a widow to have to live with her children, where she would have been a burden, or to become a street beggar, was a fate worse than death. The widows of India understood the choice they had to make and usually opted for ‘seti’. To fortify the widow at this trying time, she received a large dose of a powerful narcotic, usually hashish. Now, ‘seti’ has been made illegal by the national government. Yet it is still practiced in some of the remote villages, where the burden of another mouth to feed is still onerous.
The fire rages for about a half-hour and then begins to subside. If the fire is not burning well, the attendant will add more powder. Otherwise he stands by, holding a bamboo pole. I do not know the reason, but occasionally an arm or leg will suddenly fling itself out of the fire. There it lies….. smoking….hanging limply outside the flames. The attendant will then use the pole to push the limb back into the fire.
As the fire burns down, the attendant stirs it continuously to get as complete a burn as possible. When all is done he picks out the remains, mostly bone fragments, and casts them into the river.
BATHING GHATS
On either side of the burning ghats are the bathing ghats. All day long, they are crowded with bathers and worshippers. As these pilgrims say their prayers and drink the holy waters, they can easily watch the death drama unfolding nearby. One day, if they are lucky, these worshippers might have their bodies cremated on the banks of the Ganges. Lucky because many of the poor cannot afford the price of the firewood, which has to be barged down the river and is stored in locked warehouses.
Families that cannot afford the wood will simply hire a boat to take the corpse into the middle of the river. There it is lowered into the depths. In time the current will sweep the body downriver past the town, and into the mouths of the huge crocodiles and snapping turtles that wait to feed.
If there is no money for firewood or a boat, then the corpse is unceremoniously thrown into the slack water at the river’s edge. There it bobs along in the choppy waters and slowly makes its way down the river. Eventually it sinks. However, after three days the decomposing body produces enough gas to re-float the corpse. The remains will then re-emerge, frequently right next to the bathing ghats. After three days the flesh has softened to the point that it is an attractive meal for a vulture. These birds will land on the shoulders of the floating corpse and feed upon the meat around the neck.
I noticed that Peter had suddenly gone very quiet. I thought I had seen him wince when I mentioned Varanasi
His lips drew up tight, as if a bitter memory was flashing through his mind. He didn’t like Varanasi, he said. He said he had been there one day with his wife. They were walking through town and were approaching the ghats along the river’s edge. Out of the crowd came a small, swarthy woman. She was dressed in dark rags. With one arm she clutched a baby to her breast. It was wrapped in swaddling clothes.
The woman headed straight for them and held out her hand for alms. When neither of them responded, she suddenly held out the baby with both arms to Peter’s wife. For some reason, instinctively, Peter’s wife unfolded her arms and accepted the youth into her hands.
But a sickening feeling filled her stomach as she sensed the unusual form inside. There was something very wrong here. She slid the cloth off the baby’s face and her suspicious were confirmed. The tiny baby was dead.
“Oh, God” she gasped, as she shoved the carcass back into the arms of the beggar woman. She wailed miserably as she turned on her heel and plunged away through the crowd. When Peter finally caught up with he, she was in hysterics. She was sobbing uncontrollably and screaming. A small crowd gathered to watch. Peter tried to calm her, to comfort her…but in vain.
She said: that was it. She’d had enough. She tried to do her best, but she couldn’t take it any more. She’d tried to adjust to living in India, but this was the last straw. She just couldn’t take it any more. She wanted to leave and she wanted to leave now. Back to Germany, and away from the horrible place called India.
The blare of the news program coming out of the restaurant’s TV set filled the awkward pause in the conversation. The clink of glasses and the subdued murmurs of business lunch floated through the room. Streaming sunshine cascaded through the widows, as businessmen conducted their affairs over drinks and lobster. The glorious view beckoned the eye as life in Bangkok hurriedly went about its way.
“I guess you could say that was the beginning of the end.” Peter continued. “Maria had never been happy overseas and that day, well…she’d just had enough. She left India for good ten days later, and six months after that we were divorced.” I stared at my drink, playing with the glass, feeling Peter’s pain.
“But enough of that,” he continued, as he drained his second beer and motioned the waiter for another. “So tell me about Agra. How did you like the Taj Mahal?”
When I returned to the United States I searched diligently for Peter’s business card. Unfortunately I never found it. I was going to send him a thank you note for taking us to lunch. Now I suppose I will never talk to him again.
POSTSCRIPT: 2 years later
In February of 1993, I found Peter’s card. I had used it as a bookmark in Krishnamurti’s "The Flight of the Eagle." I was happy to have found it again. I wrote him a note and included a booklet of “True Life Trucking Stories” that I had written a number of years before. I mailed it to his old Bangkok address. I have yet to hear from him. So I suppose he is still wandering the globe, still sticking his nose into other’s people’s business, and still hitting that deadline. I wish him the best.
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