At the big box store he found some fencing that was sturdy and cheap-looking but not cheap.  He bought it.  When he got home he discovered a discarded Christmas tree lying across his violas. Maurice thought of Christmas like he thought of dogs; a good idea which had gotten out of hand.  He dragged it to the side.

During the installation of his fence, the sideways tree occupied his mind. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, one thought kept coming back in the form of a question: was it a hostile act, or merely an inconsiderate one?  If hostile, any number of neighbors were suspects…half, maybe even as many as two-thirds…he tried again to suppress the thought.

Some time in the night that tree and another at the end of the block were set aflame.  Black smoke from the charred remains greeted the rising sun. Some neighbors couldn’t help but wonder if the burning was related to Maurice’s opposition to dogs.  That theory overlooked the fact that the other fire was next to an empty storefront. Everyone was grateful that no one was injured, and the fires hadn’t spread.

The following night some other trees were set on fire; there were different accounts as to the number.  Rumors of origin bubbled up and burst in puffs of noxious gas.  It was the work of an arsonist, a tree-hugger, a religious fundamentalist, a high school loiterer.  Everything was plausible; a Petri dish for paranoia.  Even Eric and Jane were affected.  They cancelled the upcoming meeting.  Jane had changed her mind about the broken planter.  She was having it rebuilt, with reinforcing steel.  She had heard a story of a car sent rolling down a street in Bernal Heights intentionally. She wasn’t crazy enough to think that was what had happened; the brakes had failed, but if it could happen once—you had to be safe.

Then Lexi, ever the rabble-rouser though ensconced in the plushest chair of the room because of her bad hip, raised her cane high to get attention and said, “I’m bloody sick of finding bags of feces in my garbage cans.  Hey dog owners, take your stinking feces to your own damn house.”

Whoops and a short fusillade of applause gratified her, and she sank back into plushness.

Vince took his turn.  He said the whole park stank of dog.  He didn’t have a solution, he was just saying it.  Arlen had a suggestion, that dog owners stop treating their dogs like children, start treating them like dogs.  Arlen had dogs and children both, and his dogs were better behaved than his children, so nobody had any idea what he meant.  Millicent guiltily thought of the $400 she spent getting Spangles’ teeth cleaned, money her son could use. Sam the collegian was strategizing about what to do if Lexi’s garbage can was no longer an option. His lease stipulated no pets.  Let Strider loose on the street?  He’d done that, but it was risky.  Rick the gardener, in a lame stab at humor, offered that the two big lies his clients told him were that they would hand-water and they’d clean up after their dogs.  The meeting was getting out of hand.

A history of perceived oppression breeds reactive militancy, and the hands that rested on the necks of Neener, Spangles, Honey and Clarissa squeezed tighter. The dog lovers were feeling piled upon.  Sides were forming, though it was not clear who was where.  As in the first Civil War, families were split.

Jane, alarmed at the direction the meeting had taken, a tango of grievance and self-defense, signaled Eric to do something, so he stood and spread his arms to calm the waters.  “People, people,” he paused until everyone was listening, “obviously there are strong feelings here.  Surely we are not going to find all the solutions tonight, maybe there are no solutions, but what we need to do is keep the communication flowing and not to let things go off track, like what happened between Suellen and Maurice.”

Hearing his name as the subject of hearsay gave Maurice a shock.  Even worse was to be cited as an example of unfortunate behavior. He turned flaming red. He thought it could get no worse, but then Dwight the psycho roared, “Yeah, what about him,” he pointed at Maurice, “why doesn’t he rake those leaves that keep blowing on my property?  Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Dwight got scattered hoots and claps and some yaps from the yorkie.  The subset of humanity that relished conflict, called “fire-eaters” in the first Civil War, was having fun.  Almost everyone else was appalled, especially the other dog owners, who didn’t want Dwight, ever, to be a spokesman for their side.  They all avoided him and his dog.  Many had gotten involved in vicious shouting matches with him.  Mild Jane once said, I think he has that dog so he can yank it around.”

Maurice noticed that Suellen was one of the ones applauding.  Communication was well and good, but that did it for him. She was cut off.

Eric soon declared the meeting over.  People rose and ambled out the door into the street.  The moon was full; the air a bath of electrolytes.  Even the tipsy felt it, the weird vibration.  A Rubicon had been crossed.

to be continued

“Honey,” Maurice screamed, causing Honey, cake half baked, to leap into into the air and scurry to Suellen who too had been horribly startled.  Suellen had a tetchy heart and was huffing like a teapot. She was afraid the unnatural abbreviation of what ought to have been a simple function might have long-term effects on Honey’s well-being.  She opened the door.  “Go inside, darling.  Let’s get away from this rude old man.”

Honey had already recovered—she had gotten yelled at plenty of times before—which dog hasn’t?—and was eager to commence their customary walk to the park.  What was confusing now was Suellen yelling at her, “Get inside” when clearly she wanted to go for a walk, insisted and begged to go for a walk.  Suellen had never refused her anything.  At last she shambled inside, and Suellen followed with a dramatic rendition of shutting the door.

Maurice felt bad.  He was about to apologize when Suellen made her comment. He wasn’t old.  And talk about rude.   Who gave dog people the right to foul other people’s violas? He could easily have washed the half-deposit into the gutter (where the next person getting into a blue Pathfinder would step or not), but decided against it.  Suellen would deal with it, then they would make up. She was one of the most fastidious dog owners on the planet.

Two days, 3 days, it sat there, turning gray.  Maurice wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid when he sensed a chilliness from some neighbors.  He encountered Suellen twice, and each time she lifted her nose as if she was the one smelling something nasty. Honey as always, tried to nuzzle his shin for some petting.  “See,” he wanted to say to Suellen, “your dog isn’t petty,” relishing the pun.

As in all wars, accidents greatly factored into the play of events.  The accident, in this case, was literal.  A car with failed brakes plowed into the brick planter in front of Eric and Jane’s ranch-style house at the end of the block. They were fortunate in that the planter stopped the car, which would have ended up in their living room otherwise.  Jane was rather delighted about it, never having liked the brick planter, and now insurance was going to pay to replace it.  What she really wanted was to get rid of it, take out some concrete and grow vegetables, lettuce, spinach, kale.  Their back yard was far too shady for vegetables.

When Jane mentioned her plan to Maurice, he said as gently as possible,  “You’re not going to want to eat anything growing there.  Do you have any idea how many dogs will go by and pee?”  Ruefully he recounted the incident with Suellen.

Jane’s most salient characteristic was her idealism, kept alive by infusions of optimism, and she said, “We’ll just ask dog owners to be more aware.”

Jane’s husband Eric was the street’s “mayor”.  He was the one who set up an email network of its residents, and together they hosted bimonthly meetings to discuss neighborhood affairs. They had time for this because they had neither kids nor pets.  When the email announcing the upcoming meeting arrived, Maurice noticed that “Canine Etiquette” was number 4 on the topics agenda. “Parking” was 1 and 2. “Loitering High-school Kids” was 3.

Maurice never before attended the meetings, so he had no way of knowing that there was an unusually large number of people in Eric and Jane’s living room on the given night, including a columnist for the Chronicle.  Even Dwight the psycho was there.  Despite Dwight’s malign presence, the atmosphere was genial, especially among the wine drinkers.  Two small pizzas were reduced to nibbled crusts in minutes.  Honey was there, as well as Clarissa, Spangles, and Neener; a yorkie, a mutt, and a pug.  Neener got the crusts.

Jerry’s dry report on permit parking caused Mariska and Vince to make side trips to respective houses to fetch additional bottles of cheap wine.  By the time “Canine Etiquette” came up for discussion, the buzz in the room was as loud as in any hip Valencia Street restaurant.

to be continued

It began on a quiet street in San Francisco, in a part of town called Dogpatch during the quietest part of a sunny afternoon on New Year’s Day, and it was started by a man named Maurice.  Maurice was raking ginkgo leaves from beneath the street tree in front of his house.  Several months prior, on a misguided impulse, he had planted some violas under the tree; misguided because he thought that if the plot looked pretty, people would keep their dogs from peeing there. No dog worth its salt passed the violas by.   And truth be told, it’s what Maurice knew would happen.  Dogs have to pee somewhere.  Defeated, he would normally have retreated and let the little square go to the dogs and the dogweed.

That afternoon there was no breeze; this anomaly, coupled with an absence of recent cleansing rains, meant that the fumes coming from the plot needled his sinuses. Maurice screwed some hoses together and lugged them down to the street to hose the plot down. He was trying to ignore the dry and not so dry deposits amid the violas, what Mr. Chu used to call “birthday cakes.”

Maurice’s natural stoicism was being severely tested, but he was passing summa cum laude when his neighbor Suellen came down her steps tailed by Honey.  Honey was one of those pewter-colored terriers that everyone falls in love with, even though they’re totally narcissistic. Honey bounced up to Maurice and nuzzled his shins for some petting, and Maurice happily obliged.  Though he was more of a cat person, he liked dogs, and Honey in particular. Maurice was also aware of the fact that, if you don’t make babytalk to their adorable dogs, people like Suellen feel you are actually expressing a dislike of them.  He didn’t dislike Suellen, or she him, for all he knew.  Maurice had no enemies whatsoever; curious, given he ignited the conflagration.

to be continued

Now.  Here.  Sing,

Isn’t it rich?  Isn’t it queer?

2

I was the only customer in the shop of artifacts In Chaing Mai.  A toddler, who had been playing in the corner, watched me as if he was seeing the devil. The women behind the counter, perhaps the boy’s mother and aunt, seemed to share his suspicion, queer, given how warm the Thai generally are.  To show what a harmless guy I am, I approached the boy to charm him.  Screaming, the boy hurled himself across the room, but fell before reaching his mother’s arms, hitting his head against a round, metal object sitting on the floor, perhaps an incense burner.  The object was adorned with studs, and one of them poked into the middle of the boy’s forehead.

In the ensuing clamor, I tried to offer comfort by putting my hand on the wailing boy’s head.

It is taboo to touch someone’s head.

I wonder about that boy.  He’s a teenager now.  Does he have a mark on his forehead like a vestigial third eye?

the thatcher

the boehner

the gingrich

the mitch mcconnell

the obama

The other siblings remained unconvinced it was Uncle Harry doling out the cash, expecting the jokester would soon take credit.  Aunt Grace had a theory that Reuben was involved, perhaps a conduit in a scheme hatched by Grandma Sarah while she was alive. Reuben, of the grandchildren, was closest to Grandma Sarah, and at twenty was still in his dungeons and dragons phase.  The problem with the theory was that Reuben was clever and would have covered his tracks, unless the point was to throw people off the scent.  Very devious.

“You read too many mysteries,” said Anne.

Given the lack of plausible alternatives, the family reverted to the view that Uncle Harry had done it, and that for whatever reason he could not own up to it. (Shame was the field in which she would take her revenge, Anne decided.)  Was it possible he had a soul beneath all that cologne, taking baby steps into expression?  Maybe he’s schizophrenic, one of the nieces piped in.  That was greeted with silence; nobody wanted to start feeling sorry for him.

In spring, most improbably, another 10 plum-colored envelopes arrived.  Again Reuben was not included.  Block letters read HAPPY EASTER UNCLE HARRY. Upon finding only 2 fifty-dollar bills, the initial response of the recipients was deep disappointment, but soon, aided by unrealistic shopping fantasies, the reaction changed into something mildly pleasant, or at least neutral.  All of them meant to send thank-you notes, and 3 did.  Two more would have sent an email if they had had an address.

With this repeated snub to her son, Anne’s irritation veered into moments of rage. Harry was going to learn his lesson.  There were several promising areas to investigate: his endless battles with neighbors, his quarrels with the IRS, the mysteriously hushed marriage to Linda. She just had to find a way to get at what he was hiding and how to use it effectively.  She decided to pay a visit to their cousin in Denver who saw more of Harry than anyone else.

So it happened she was in Colorado when she heard the news, two days after the event, that Uncle Harry had suffered a massive stroke and was on life support.  Overcome with guilt, she hurried down I-25 to the hospital in Colorado Springs.  The receptionist said he was in intensive care on the 7^th floor, but when she got there the room was empty, the bed stripped. Uncle Harry had died that morning.

The body was cremated.  A memorial service was pending so long it seemed to have happened. That it didn’t was mostly met with sighs of relief. Upon the urging of their parents, 2 of the nieces and nephews sent condolence cards. They didn’t know Aunt Linda at all.

At Christmas, no plum-colored envelopes came for anyone.

Six months after Uncle Harry’s death, the family heard that Aunt Linda sold the big house on the hill.  A rumor surfaced that the asking price was 23 million dollars.  Nobody knew if she got that much.  That she moved to Pasadena was all anyone heard. Anne sent a Christmas card to the old address, thinking it might get forwarded. Aunt Linda fell completely off the radar until one evening, watching “CSI Miami,” Suzanne shouted, “There’s Aunt Linda.” Sure enough, there she was, hustling after a gurney into a hospital, the distraught wife of a wounded politician. It was not a big role, but she was good in it, and good enough to land minor roles in several movies, remarkable for a woman her age starting out. The family took an unwarranted pride in her proximity to stardom.

The fact was, she didn’t land enough roles to make a decent living, but she didn’t need to worry about that.  She was just happy to be in front of the camera, happy for the first time in her life. She deserved it. If ever a doubt crept in, it was easy to dismiss.  Harry was the one who had said, “It would kill me to throw away a thousand bucks.”

It was a practical joke, and she had every intention to confess until he came on so strong.  The second time?  Who wouldn’t be bored in that cavernous house without family or friends and want to stir up a little drama.  The third time? Harry called it, down to the penny.  It really did kill him.

The dust this raised in the respective families was considerable. Uncle Harry had no children of his own, and to anyone’s recollection, no interest in anyone else’s.  In lieu of reproducing, he had made his life purpose the accumulation of ducats.  The reports about him that circulated through the family were invariably linked to his latest house—the spa, the bookless “library,” the heated driveway, and the even more heated disputes with his neighbors.  No one had ever witnessed the marvel of the magically melting snow because no one, except his mother, Grandma Sarah, had been on the grounds of any of his chateaux.  She, after a week in one, swore she’d never go back.

Five hundred dollars, in view of Uncle Harry’s mega-millions was less than a jot or a tittle, but all in all, better than a poke in the eye. Even the total slackers of the 11 felt compelled to write a thank-you note.

Thus over the next weeks, 11 envelopes arrived in Uncle Harry’s copper mailbox. Some came with a picture, some with a note and a snippet of news about whatnot. At first, he thought it was a practical joke, but by the 11th he was in a state of anxious perplexity.  Several times he accused his wife Linda of perpetrating the fraud, but she swore repeatedly, tearfully, that she had not sent the money. If she was acting, she was doing it amazingly well.  So it had to be one of his 3 brothers; it had to be Louis, the only one who could rub two dimes together.  Whatever.  It was not his business, his brother throwing away money.

Gradually the episode faded into the past.

In May Grandma Sarah took a fall on the church steps and broke her hip.  As in so many similar cases, her decline was dramatic.  In 3 weeks time the family had gathered in expectation of her death, all but Uncle Harry.  It should not have been a surprise that he didn’t come to say goodbye but even so, everyone was irritated with him in addition to everything else they were feeling.  In her final hours Grandma Sarah asked for him, and Anne, one of the daughters, phoned him and he did come, but by then it was too late.

There were 2 days between his arrival and the funeral, with many family gatherings at Anne’s home in the town they grew up in.  Uncle Harry and Aunt Linda never showed up there, not once.  He came alone to the wake, mumbled one rosary, and slipped away. It was pathetic.  The prevailing attitude in the family toward him was veering from derision toward compassion.

In line for lunch after the funeral, in a spirit of reconciliation, Uncle Louis told Uncle Harry how much the Christmas gift had meant to brother Mark’s kids, both of them scraping by. The money had meant just as much to his own kids, but he didn’t want to get that personal. Uncle Harry looked at him and said, “Don’t give me that shit.  You’re the one who did it.”

Aunt Linda and Uncle Harry were speeding toward the airport before dessert was served.  By the time the dishes were done, the peculiar news that Uncle Harry knew nothing about the money had spread to everyone in the family beyond the age of reason.  Most agreed that this made more overall sense but who, then, did it?

The same question buzzed in Uncle Harry’s mind: who? Seeing the flabbergasted look on Louis’s face…if he was acting, he was doing it amazingly well. Prime among the remainder of remotely possible candidates was his mother. She grew up in the Depression.   She rarely spent a nickel on herself, and could have saved up that kind of money.  But Grandma Sarah was no more than a remotely plausible candidate.  She was not devious, nor did she go in for grand, $5,000 gestures. $5,500 to be exact.

Still he could not quite smoosh the worm of doubt.  Now and then he had what seemed like intuitive flashes: she had done it and it was meant to tell him something.  It was, in fact, a grand gesture.  Maybe she knew she was dying and wasn’t going to need that money.  He regretted not being able to ask her and find out for certain, a paradox given he almost never cared about her motives and opinions while she was alive.  Not that he was sorry; her motives and opinions were not particularly relevant to his life.  It was just this one issue.

The year passed, Christmastime approached.  Uncle Harry bit his tongue when his wife again put a tree in the living room window though their house was so far upslope nobody not in a helicopter was ever going to see it. People don’t change. And, as in every year, a day after Christmas, she flew down to Phoenix to spend time with her mother who, due to dementia, did not recognize her nine-tenths of the time.

Other years Uncle Harry was glad for her absence but this year he resented coming home from work to an empty house with a dried out tree he didn’t want in the first place.  He unplugged it from the timer before New Year’s Day and closed the door on it, writing a note for the housekeepers to remove it and make sure they vacuum up every needle.  Why had he bought a Miele if they weren’t going to use it?

On the third of January in the copper mailbox was a thank-you note from nephew Eddie.  Two days later there was one from niece Abby, and the next day another from Zachary. Zachary mentioned 500 dollars, the same figure as last year’s.  Uncle Harry’s breathing became belabored, as if he were being strangled.  For a moment he thought he might be having a heart attack but he was able to calm himself.

Ten notes in all arrived, from everyone but Reuben. The notes were warmer than last year’s, with some effort put into them. Tyler praised him for his generosity.  Suzanne went so far as to ask him his opinion on whether she should major in econ or business ad.  He had an opinion, but what was it worth to her?  He didn’t respond.

He was going to have to quash this once and for all but he had no notion how.  Instead, and this was absurd, he awaited the note from Reuben to complete the set and thereby open a course of action.  Each night when he got home there was no note and he began ingesting a big helping of resentment toward Reuben—it literally upset his stomach—and he knew that was absurd too, since he had done nothing to deserve his gratitude.  Those were almost the very words he said to himself, “I’ve done nothing to deserve gratitude,” and if this were a story with a moral, he might have gone on to say, “Why, that’s a terrible thing.  I should do something to deserve someone’s gratitude.”  But this is not a story with a moral.  This is a story about Uncle Harry.

to be continued

First, an overview:

Downhill from here…

into the bowels of Frisco

though we’re named for a saint, we have a reputation for godlessness

and it may be true, but

not goddessless…

Undergarmentless, I await my good luck.

No good luck here.  Someone estocada.

On a happier note, what’s a tour without a ukelele peddler?  Making a sale?

Greet your fellow tourists.  Nice taxi.

Time’s up, tour’s over.  May all your holidays be Billie Holidays.  We’re outta here.  Is that ukelele peddler following us?