Please Allow Me to Share Some Teachable Moments.

 

There's a basin, a disconnected basin, in fact, that's in my garage next to the lawn mower. My wife has asked if I think it could be used for a particular purpose which she is loathe to discuss as long as I maintain a residence on the property. I have steadily repeated a noncommittal response and gone about my business as if nothing is wrong. Inside however, I can't help but feel a deep sense of betrayal and anomie. Once I can get my things together into a static pile and assess them for sentimental value and innate uselessness, I plan on seeking out a conversational partner, more than one in fact, with whom I can put my head together as a form of tribute to people whose fondness for results does not preclude an aversion to a mechanical way of speaking. The ladies in my book club have advised me to run for office somewhere in rural America since I have a good feeling for soil of all kinds.

In my job as a Supervisor at the Fitch College Dormitory, I am in charge of informing students and their hostile parents of what is to be expected of them in case of any kind of emergency, temporary or otherwise. On one occasion that sticks directly in my mind, I remember a group of them staring into the middle distance even as they required oxygen to upgrade their systems. It wasn't much to ask for but I did it anyway. And with gusto, I might add. The following year I saw them sneaking around a parking lot in Lewiston, Maine (this is about 300 miles Southeast of Fitch). They each held a postcard-sized piece of plastic made to look as if it was genuine wood.  The ringleader of the group appeared to be a dark-haired  woman named Sheila Ramiston. I realized I used to babysit for her retarded son when I was just a pip of a lad. We went out for coffee later that night and I got right to the point and laid my cards directly on the formica table. This is the same table upon which our coffee sat. Just to be clear, I had also ordered a doughnut.

Once Sheila saw the cards that I was holding, she folded like the cheap camera I always knew her to be deep down inside, where the sun don't shine, to put it quite bluntly. I took it upon myself to ask her point blank if anyone in her local neighborhood had ever expressed a profound disregard for folks caught up in situations for which their preparation was minimal at best. She hemmed and hawed and then proceeded to give me the phone number of a local person. I asked if she thought that would do any good. She started to cry. I lightly tapped the top of her head to try to bring her back into some semblance of contact with reality as we know it. It was all in vain. Also, it's important that anyone reading this knows that she herself is a very vain woman, always checking her chalky makeup etc. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back near the home of a convicted arsonist. It turned out he was Sheila's nephew, Wilburt Klertner. Klertner was a 'known quantity' in the neighborhood but I knew that giving up was not an option, no matter what. So, I gave up. Can anyone actually blame me? If so, just look me straight in the eye sometime. Then we'll know for sure.

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