Well I've finally fought my way out of a Winter Olympic induced coma. Whew. That was a close call. I may never watch TV again. Now God forbid I disparage this once every four year spectacle of grace and beauty but aren't the Winter Olympics really about a bunch of white people sliding down, across, or around something on ice and snow? I know the basic premise comes down to one thing, just like life don't fall on your ass, but I think they're running out of ideas to test this premise. They should have stopped long before they invented curling. But more on that later.

I heard the word artistry used to describe one of the myriad of events and I concur, the Games are like art. Abstract art. You know how you're just walking along not bothering anybody and all of a sudden your wife drags you kicking and screaming into some fancy gallery? While she clucks over a painting of a vase of yellow flowers you wander around hoping to spot a picture of a naked woman. A nude in high brow parlance. During your search for the perfect art form you come across some limp-wrister cooing over something that hurts your eyes.

"Oooh, just look at the light and texture." He lisps.  "It's fabulous. Don't you think?"

"It looks like it was painted by a drunk monkey." You answer. Even confused people need honesty.

He takes in your favorite flannel shirt and best blue jeans, turns up his nose, and sashays away, wiping a tear. That's cross-country-nordic-combined- ski-slalom-double-flying-camel to me. I'm sure an elitist few understand all this but  normal people just stand there scratching their heads going "What the Hell?"

It all made a little more sense to me when I read that the target viewing audience for the Winter Games are middle-age women. I have nothing against middle-age women, they can cook and clean with the best of gals as far as I'm concerned, but I don't want them picking my sports for me. I know there's the TV remote that seldom leaves my hand but Hell the Olympics are on 4 or 32 channels for at least 47 hours  a day so the odds were good that I would fall victim to them eventually. The old car wreck analogy comes to mind, it's just too terrible to look away. But I'm a fair, open-minded. sophisticate type, so I decided to give these Olympics a shot. It's not like I have to put up with them every year like I do my mother-in-law.

I started with the woman's downhill skiing hoping to see another shot of Lindsay Vonn in a bikini or at least see some girl form the Czech Republic named Thule go ass over earlobe, land in a snowy heap and scream for her momma. Didn't happen near enough. I switched the channel and watched Forrest Gump again. He reminds me so much of buddy Steve.

The next day I settled in to watch all I could. This is how much I hate myself sometimes. There was ski jumping. Okay let's strap a couple of boards to some fool's feet, slide him down an icy ramp ten stories high, fly him through the air for close to two miles and then deduct points because he wobbled a little on his landing. Huh? They should give him a medal for retaining his anus. Then came the figure-skating, skinny-ankled girls sliding across a surface I can't even walk on.  They twist a spin through the air and land on these narrow blades managing to hold on to their panties and their smiles. Then the announcer says something like, "She only blinked once there, she was supposed to blink twice. There's going to be a deduction." People throw flowers. Everybody cries. Middle-age women everywhere burn supper.

The biathalon. They carry rifles. Until they put the guns down these are the greatest athletes in the world as far as I'm concerned. The four-man bobsled is a hoot. Grown men, mind you, clad in full-body spandex the guy at the art gallery would love, push a sled as hard as they can, scream like banshees, and jump in whereupon three of them bury their heads like gophers.  The only one who actually sees anything is the driver. The rest of them can only tell you what the course felt like, or smelt like. "Ya, ya, de course vas very fas I feel. But I do vish Gunther had a not eat da weinerscnitzle for da lunch." I guess some of those curves are exhilirating.

But the best "sport" of all is an activity called curling. Has there ever been a bigger joke to tumble down the steps of Mount Olympus and splat in our living rooms than curling? It's like watching a state road crew repair a hole. A lot of people standing around with occasional almost indiscernible movement. I know if I was one of the downhill skiers being airlifted off the side of a mountain with a fibula sticking through the roof of my mouth I'd be pretty pissed about some soccer mom getting a gold medal for sliding a rock across the ice. Indoors.  And they have timeouts! That's like resting up for your nap.  They could be discussing strategy. "Okay Agnes you sweep to the right and Dolores you sweep to the left." A "sport" that uses brooms. I'm almost positive this is the only time these women have ever touched a broom other than the ones they flew in on. To be fair there were a couple of hotties on the Japanese and Russian teams but I didn't see a even a bronze medal among the American women. My patriotism ends at the waist.

I think the people who enjoy watching curling are the same people who like watching fishing on TV or poker. If you're sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and your fist buried in a bag of Cheetos watching someone do less than you are, you can officially go ahead donate your brain to science.  Maybe someone who is still glad they voted for Obama could use it. It is no longer needed by you. But there is one thing I gained from watching curling, it makes baseball look exciting now, and soccer.  Nah, I'm just kidding. It'd take more than curling. I realize the Winter Games are much too sophisticated for me but one thing I don't understand is how that comedian, Carrot Top, got so good at snowboarding. It must be art.

"Dammit. I missed him again." I pulled back through the passenger side car window and glanced at Tamer. He looked calm and relaxed, one hand casually draped over the steering wheel, the ash of his cigarette a gravity-defying length. I watched the amazing ash for a moment, awaiting its fall to Earth. It did not.

"You've got to snap it, Danner." Tamer said. "Just, you know, crack it. Whap! Like you practiced in the back yard."

"It's a lot harder in a moving vehicle." I replied, wondering again how I let myself be talked into this.

"Well, that makes it a lot more fun then, don't it? Now get back out there and put your heart into it."

I got up on my knees in the front seat, carefully working my way back out the window up to my waist. We were only going about twenty miles an hour, but I still didn't want to do a header on to the asphalt. A warm breeze blew in my face and I could smell honeysuckle. The only sound above the low purr of the car engine was the wheezing and gasping of the bicyclist ten feet ahead. I played out the Si Davey, pulled back my arm, and let fly.

 

The man on the bike is Richard Lawtry. He's eighty-one years old. Eighty-one. He rode 8400 miles last year. Eight-thousand and four-hundred miles. On a bicycle.

I ride a bike. After work I throw my tired ass on my Cannondale and crunch miles. After a Saturday night fun fest I pull myself together on Sunday morning and ride until I want to puke. I ride in the eye-stinging sweat of July and the lung-burning cold of February. I cuss the winds of March as I struggle to stay upright. I've signed on and raised money for the good charities and others I wasn't so sure about, like feral mothers and unwed cats. I'll pay my entry fee and ride a hundred kilometers for a cold sandwich and a t-shirt that won't fit after one washing. Why? Because I'm a damn citizen that's why...and the miles. It's always about the miles. On December 31st of last year I tallied those precious miles and do you know what they came to? Twenty-six hundred. Richard Lawtry had eight-thousand four-hundred. What in the Hell did he do, ride his bicycle to the bathroom in the middle of the night? He's eighty-one years old for Pete's sake! Doesn't he have a garden to tend or dominoes to line up somewhere?

My wife says he's a nice man, a gentleman. We met him one day out riding. He couldn't have been more gracious. He complimented our bikes and seemed genuinely impressed by the twenty miles we had just ridden. It was a nice little act he threw together there beside Evans Road.

"You know I've got the advantage over yoiu working people." He smiled. "I can ride anytime I want to."

He told us about a time trial he does down Charlotte every month. It seems he finally beat a seventy-four year old after several attempts. The seventy-four year old claimed he had mechanical trouble. I chuckled politely. He was such a nice guy and all.

"I've got plenty of time to ride. " He continued. " I just rode over to High Point to pick up my medication. That's thirty-five miles round trip. Some people think that's a long way."

I wanted to ask if his medication was Preparation H. But I didn't. I really wanted to. He dropped the 8400 mile bomb on me then and I felt a chill on the other side of my heart. After we parted ways my wife commented she thought he was kind of sexy to be eighty-one. I realized right then that I hated Richard Lawtry's guts. I thought I'd take this to my grave.

 

"That's it Dander. Git ye out there and give him a taste of the ole Davey." Tamer urged. "That'll give him some giddyup. He wants to ride does he? Well don't spare the quirt. Let him know there's a flogging nigh for the tarriers."

"Dear God, why are you talking like a pirate? I shouted over my shoulder. My sweaty hand slipped a little on the doorframe. The whip went high, glanced off Mr. Lawtry's helmet and ripped his sunglasses from his face, sending them flying. His head jerked around, eyes spinning wildly. He looked pretty exicted.

"What are you son-of-a-bitches? Crazy?" Spit flew from his mouth but he slowed not a bit.

I'm thinking this is not the Mr. Nice Guy I met before. But he was right. At least one of us was crazy.

Richard Tamer is six foot two and spins the dial to about 230 lbs. His uniform of choice is a plain white t-shirt with a pack of Marlboros rolled up in the sleeve, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He smells of Aqua Velva and combs his hair back with Brylcream or some other slick substance. He has a passing resemblence to a young beefy Elvis right before things went terribly wrong for the King. Strangely enough, certain kind of women like this look. There seems to be a lot of these certain kind of women.

There is no medication he has not been on. Some of them actually prescribed for him. He has a pet duck only he can see. Tamer makes quacking sounds out of one side of his mouth and out of the other consoles his duck with words like, "Don't bark at me Ducky, now now." Some people at your finer shopping malls find this behavior disconcerting. At Wal-Mart, not so much.

He has a prosthetic leg from right below his left knee due to a car accident he has absolutely no recall of. He lost half a leg and his driver's license for life. This doesn't stop him from driving, of course, nor does the expired plates on his current car, or lack of insurance, (Insurance is for people who don't know how to drive." Explains Tamer. "I'm an excellent driver.") For some reason my wife thinks he's a bad influence. Bad for me. I think he's interesting.

He likes to dabble in obscure pursuits. Two weeks ago tomorrow UPS brought his bullwhip. It's beauty too, golden tan, smooth as butter. It's made of kangaroo hide. (All the way fron Australia." Says Tamer. "A Si Davey. $150 American.") The wrapped handle is mahogany in color and swivels, coming alive in your hand. A small twitch of the wrist sends the tip spiraling in arcane loops, competely out of my control at first. Tamer mastered it quickly and soon tutored me into doing a fairly respectable job. We practiced by popping empty Bud cans off the stump of a tree he inadvertently dropped onto the corner of his house last September. His life is not boring. Maybe that's why he can talk me into almost anything.

 

"Did you see that?" I yelled."I clipped his glasses!"

"That was a mighty fine result Dan, but I'm wondering if your heart is guiding your arm. Isn't that the man who brags about all the riding he gets to do while you're slaving away at work?"

"Well...I wouldn't call it bragging exactly."

"No? What would you call it? He made you look bad in front of your woman. Like all your long, hard miles were nothing. You were proud of those miles, Dander. You want to lay the Davey to him for that don't you?  Well don't you?" Lighting another Marlboro, he stared ahead, looking like I had let him down.

Tamer was right, of course. I did get tired of coming up short sometimes. Real tired. Back out the window I went. Again my arm flexed but this time I cocked my wrist at the precise moment snapped the lash across Mr. Lawtry's back.

"Waaooo." He hollered at the sky and arched his back.

"I think he's finally got it Ducky." Said Tamer.

"Quack." Said Ducky.

I couldn't believe Richard Lawtry was still riding. I had to give it to him, he was a tough old bird.

"I think he wants another, Ducky."

"Quack."

"My God man." Cried Mr. Lawtry. "Mercy. I only need a mile and a half and I'll have a million."

"Not if I can help it, you old coot." I struck with vengence. Vengence against all the skinny racer boys who pass me on hills. Against the triathalon chicks who leave me in their svelte and tawny dust. Revenge guided my hand as I struck against any rider that's faster, stronger, or more determined than me, including my wife who doesn't have the decency not to ride on the days I don't feel like it. She keeps getting her damn miles, pulling farther and farther away.

I was aiming for his scrawny ass but quivering passion spoiled my throw and I pulled it a bit much. The tip cracked like small lightning, ripping a hole in his spandex shorts, left thigh, inside, high and tight. This shot must have been proximal the nads because he let out an ungodly hyena-like yelp and veered sharply right, just missing the Carp City sign. As he jumped the ditch and headed down the bumpy slope toward the tree line, I had to admire his superb bike handling skills, hanging on like that with one hand and shaking his fist with the other.

"I know you!" He yelled. "I know who you are. You're that guy who can't climb hills. I know who you aaarrreee..."

"Can't climb?" I thought that a bit harsh as I watched him disappear under a juniper. "You think he recognized me, Tamer?  You think he really knows who I am?" I pushed the Si Davey away from me.

Tamer threw his cigarette out the window, checked his hair in the rearview mirror, and said nothing.

"Quack." Said Ducky.

I felt a little disconsolate when Tamer drooped me off at my house.

"Where you been, honey?" My wife asked. She was sitting on the sofa eating yogart. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Good Lord.

"I've been out with Tamer."

She made a face. "I wish you wouldn't hang out with him."

"He's interesting." I said absently. "Sweetheart."

She looke up. "Yes? Is there something bothering you?"

"Yeah. Do you think I can climb?"

 

 

She appeared to be about four feet tall

180 lbs. but  that's not all

What really got my attention was her big

Cannonball...haircut

Cannonball Haircut

 

She sat on a bench everyday

Waiting on the bus to take her away

To a lousy job that barely paid...for her haircut

Cannonball Haircut

 

A  proud black woman, she went by Sue

I didn't care for her but I loved her do

It looked like one of my dreams come true...that cannonball

Cannonball Haircut

 

She wasn't sweet, not even nice

I tried to find a way to break the ice

Finally I asked if she ever had problems with lice...down in that haircut

Cannonball Haircut

 

She told me to go to Hell, and I said fine

I wanted to remind her this wasn't 1969

But I just took off my hat and showed her mine...my own little cannonball

Cannonball Haircut

The doorbell rang and I opened the door without looking. I like doing that sometimes, hoping for a surprise. Maybe Publisher's Clearing House will be standing there with one of those big checks or maybe the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. You never know. Usually it's just a kid selling cookies or gift wrap, trying to sponsor some trip to D.C. or somewhere. They're standing there in their little Boy Scout uniforms, all freckle-faced and hopeful. I never get tired of seeing that look on their faces when I tell them no. Yeah, yeah I know, but I'm actually doing them a favor. If these kids are going to grow up and date girls they need to get used to rejection. Someday they'll thank me. Other times it's Jehovah Witnesses. Man those people are harder to get rid of than cockroaches. A friend told me that the reason they are so adamant about getting invited in was so they could pick out the house they wanted in the hereafter. You're basically having an open house without your knowledge. I'm not impugning on their beliefs, this is just what my friend told me. Like I said, you never know. But today I wished I'd looked first. It was Lester.

I opened the door and there he stood, looking like a flower that never gets enough water. All wrung-out, dried-up and drooping, some petals missing. He smiled his rotten tooth smile and held his hands up to his gray face about a foot apart.  "I survived!" He said.

"You survived what, Lester, a sexual assault in jail?" I made no move to invite him in. Lester's one redeeming quality is you can't be rude to him and he can't be insulted. It's the easiest relationship I have.

"No! It's a TV show Mister. It's called I Survived. These people are put through all manner of godawful things by nature and miscreants and come out the other side, alive!"

"I think I might have seen this program a time or two Lester." I started backing in the door.

"Not this one I betcha. You see this woman was deep sea fishing off the coast of Panama..."

"Lester I really got something going on in the house here..." I've heard all of Lester's fish stories.

"Huh-uh. No, you just wait a minute Mister. I gotta say something I ain't never said before. I am in love." He did seem agitated. Tobacco juice spilled from both corners of his mouth. He squinted and cupped two weathered hands in front of his scrawny chest. "She had these nice little cantaloupe-sized bajoobies wrestling around inside her white tank top."

I stepped back out on the porch. "Let's sit down." I said.

"She was trying to land a big tuna. A spitfire in cutoff jeans she was. I thought I was dreamin.  Back and forth she went, letting him play out and working him back in. That woman knew how to handle a rod I tell you." His clear blue eyes stared into the distance.

An uncomfortable moment settled down between us. I cleared my throat.  "I guess something went wrong?" I ventured.

"Weren't nothing she done. She landed that fish like a pro. She was tuckered out a bit you see, had to take a break. I reckon she'd outfished many a man by then. The first mate held up her catch for the camera. She's standing there sweaty, wearing an angel smile. Man what I'd do to put a smile like that on her face."

"I guess you could put a hook in your mouth. " God, how I do I kill me.

"I would you know."

"So I guess it's safe to assume this happy little fish tale doesn't end there." Lester seemed to have gotten sidetracked from the bajoobies.

"The show is called I Survived. Perhaps you weren't listening Mister. Her so-called husband handed her the video camera while he tried to land a little Blue Marlin. He struck me as amateurish at best, lollygagging around with it until the captain was worried about getting get back to port before dark. They decided to reel that marlin in before the fight had gone out of him. Big mistake. Man it's like Mr. Wrong was in charge. Just as the fish came alongside, a wave rolled the boat railing low in the water and do you know what happened next Mister? I'll tell you. That Blue Marlin jumped clean up in the boat!"

"Ay carumba!" I said and I meant it. "That was one pissed fish."

"You reckon? The lovely one was holding the video camera remember? All you could see was a big sharp speer attached to a big ugly fish coming right at ya. Then the camera went all snowy and stuff. That fish knocked her right on her ass. Then some dipwad picked up the camera and kept to filming! She's laying there bloody and scared. If she's going to die out in the middle of this God forsaken ocean, far from home and loved ones, by all means let's get it on film!"

I wanted to remind Lester that her husband was there. Instead I said, "So she got knocked down by a fish, big deal."

Lester's jaw clenched and he balled his bony fists. "Oh, you. The fish's spike went clean through her arm, punctured her left bajoobie, and went out her back, you damn fool. It could of have been a wound of the mortal type. The closest land was an island. A penal colony where the prisoners just walk around free as you please. Four hundred and fifty of the lowest of the low. Panamanians. They didn't even speak English. Murderers and thieves, rapists I tell you. Drug dealers and their addicts. Men not even good enough to be called scum. This, this is where they took my angel!"

"Yeah I can see that she would be a little uncomfortable there. So what about her other breast? Was it okay?" I'm not good at comforting people.

"As far as I know. She wouldn't let them treat her injuries and who can blame her. Why just the sight of an All-American bajoobie would have driven those heretics mad with desire. Lord can you just imagine? I reckon the husband finally got around to comforting her the best he knew how. They were rescued the next day. It wasn't mentioned on the show but you can just about bet when she left that island it wasn't just her arm and chest that was sore. I really don't want to think about it. Huh, I bet her husband walked sideways for a couple of days too."

"Lester, I think you've given this way too much thought."

"That never crossed my mind. They took her to a hospital in Panama with...say, I'm getting pretty thirsty. Can I have something to drink?"

"No."

"Well anyways those quacks patched her up and sent her home. You ready for the kicker? She had breast implants. When that fish impaled her, one of her implants fell clean out, or so they thought. So there she was with one large bajoobie and one not so large bajoobie. She was out of whack. Her plastic surgeon got her balanced alright but she just didn't feel herself. She had no energy and felt sick for months. It would have not gone that long if I had been there to take care of her I tell ya."

"What was the problem, Lester? Mercury poisoning?"

"Not hardly, Mister? Can you believe that marlin knocked her fake boob down into her chest cavity? Me neither. All that crap leaking around inside her, a foreign object so near that brave heart. She was slowly dying. Luckily they found it in time, finally, so she survived. That's why they call the show I Survived you know. She's back to fishing now too. I am in love."

"That's what I hear. So you're in love because she likes fishing, has nice fake boobs, again, and because you don't think she has the proper person looking out for her?"

"That is quite correct. I've loved women who had a lot less to offer."

"Come to think of it, so have I." I said. "So what are you going to do about this? I mean she doesn't know you even exist."

"I'm moving to Florida. I'm going to make her mine. I'll track her down and keep after her 'til she gives in."

"I think there's a law against that Lester, although I wouldn't let that stop me."

Lester stood up and wiped his hands on his pants. "Man my hands get sweaty when I talk alot. That ever happen to you? Well I'm off. I don't reckon I'll be seeing you again Mister. Thanks for the hospitality you've shown me over the years."

As I watched him shuffle off I wondered if I'd find a love like that. Nah, what I actually wondered is how a crazy SOB like that is out on the streets. I never thought I'd see old Lester again but I was wrong. About six months later there he was in full color and HD, on Cops, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I've decided to cut bait! I've decided to cut bait!" I'd love to see that on a card.