We
Fairfield folk like to think of our tiny hamlet as immensely safe and
crime-free. It is difficult to recall
any criminal incidents of consequence in the last ten years or so. We don’t have so much as a town drunk and
even the litterers have been quiet.
There was a brief spasm of
marijuana and illegal cigarette selling at the end of our street maybe twelve
years ago. We let it go on until
derelicts started coming up our driveway trying to cadge money with
heartbreaking stories of starving wives and sick babies in broken-down
automobiles, at which time Siobhan advised her close friends at the sheriff’s
office that tomfoolery was afoot. After
due consideration, they responded with a sweeping raid involving helicopters
and great squadrons of police vehicles, and cleaned out the varmints. The latter bonded out and, not being
intellectually gifted, restarted their previous shenanigans a couple weeks
later. The posse returned, arrested
everybody again and that was that. End
of the crime wave. There may well be
lawbreakers peddling their wares still but at least they’re keeping a lid on
it, which is all we care about.
Imagine
our surprise then when Hal and Jennie Hollis reported the brash kidnapping of
their prize chicken, Higgs, in broad daylight no less, just a couple of days
ago. Shortly after this dastardly
incident, a photograph arrived of Higgs bound to the gills at an undisclosed
motel. We were able to obtain a copy of
this photo (above) for our readers despite the unseemly interference of the
FBI, which did keep us from getting a copy of the ransom note. Representatives of the Hollis family did
reveal to us that the ransom demands were “considerable.”
We
are shocked and appalled by this outrageous crime in our midst but we are
confident the forces of law and order (and there is also some discussion of
calling in—who else—Chickenman) will
get to the bottom of this tawdry display and that Higgs will be returned soon
to his grieving family. And there is, at
least, one area of comfort:
The
criminals will not be sending us an ear.
Easy Come, Easy Go
It
has been a rough week around here. First
the chicken chicanery, then the Opry dilemma
listed in the next chapter and then the announced departure of our beloved
postmistress, Julie Dare. Who will I
complain to about the Gators every morning?
It’s incomprehensible. Worse even than that batch of good news
was the awful announcement by my massage girl, Tiara Catey, that she was
leaving Gainesville to follow her husband back to his old Montana stomping
grounds. This is a disaster of
unmitigated proportions. Tiara has not
only provided neck and back relief unequalled in the annals of message therapy,
she has found some secret formula which allows me to sleep through the night,
so I am a little touchy about her leaving.
Especially for Montana. Who moves
to goddam Montana, for Christ’s
sake? Oh, I know, I know, it’s beautiful
out there and all the hikers and bikers just love it, blah blah blah. I’m
even going there (to Glacier National Park) on vacation next month. But at least I have the good sense to go in
the actual summer. People thinking of
moving to Montana should be advised it’s COLD out there. And I’m telling you, Tiara, you’re going to
remember the solemn warnings of Customer Bill when your car has slipped off an
icy Montana road into a ditch or when you are out there in a morning blizzard
scraping your windshield so that you can get to work at the chiropractor’s
office, an unseemly comedown for a Florida Massage Queen.
Tiara
is a gypsy so I have no doubt her Montana stay will be impermanent. She has lived in Paris, New York City and
Florida, among other ports of call. I
may not be a big genius but I note a little bit of regression here. How ya
gonna keep ‘em down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree? Loyalty to a husband is one thing but living
in beautiful Helena is something else.
If I am a Las Vegas bookie, I am placing the over/under at six years. Tiara may never come back to Florida but she
will certainly escape from Montana some day.
A life sentence in Helena is stiff punishment. In the meantime, I am looking for a massage
practitioner, about 6-2, with sleep shaman capabilities, experienced in
sandalwood oils. If you qualify, write
me immediately. I’ll let you fudge a
little on the height.
Racing Report
Cosmic
Crown goes to the post tomorrow in the fourth race at Calder, trying the grass
for the first time. The distance is
short (five furlongs) but unforgiving of early mistakes. There are 10 horses in the field, which is
tougher than last out. There is always
the possibility of rain in Miami, in which case the race could come off the
turf, which would undoubtedly produce a few scratches and enhance CC’s
chances. In ten starts, Cosmic Crown has
been second five times with one win. Not
so bad, you might remark, and we’re not complaining. But reverse the firsts and seconds and there’s
40,000 more dollars in Bill and Siobhan’s pockets, enough for an extra helping
of pheasant under glass, whatever that is.
We’d gladly take a second in
this competitive field, though.
Trouble In Paradise
There
was a little girl,
Who
had a little curl,
Right
in the middle of her forehead.
When
she was good,
She
was very good indeed,
But
when she was bad she was horrid.
If
you have been reading The Flying Pie
in recent weeks (hands up—who has not
been reading it?), you are aware that Siobhan and I have been hosting a young
German veterinarian/graduate student named Kristina Maier. The two of them are collaborating on an EPM
paper which will be published soon and we know you can’t wait to read it. In any case, before she arrived, Kristina
told us the things she would most like to do while here included swimming with
dolphins, visiting the Kennedy Space Center and seeing the orcas at Sea World. Check, check and check, all of these were
duly accomplished, the latter with the kind assistance of Siobhan’s friend and
sometime employee, Mary Rafferty, a fun-lover if there ever was one.
We
also sought to display to Kristina the character of the area we live in. She visited a couple of labs at the
University of Florida for day-long experiences, joined local friends for
dinners and movies and took a very nice boat trip down Marion County’s Silver
River. We tried shopping with Kristina,
who professed a desire to buy some “Lewis” jeans, which were impossibly hard to
find, eventually discovering she was actually looking for Levis. A few things get lost in translation.
Despite
her general enthusiasm and friendliness on most occasions, we soon noticed that
Kristina quickly got sulky on Trips of Less Interest. We visited the Mall at Millenia in Orlando, a
first-class operation where even the fussy Siobhan can find clothes, and
Kristina alternated between crossing her arms in disinterest, standing on one
leg in disinterest and crossing her arms and standing on one leg in
disinterest. Everything was “too
expensive” or “not for me.” Kristina is
not impoverished. Her father is a
banker. He gave her a credit card with
no limits and $3000 in cashola from which she retains around $2800. And there are no limits to what you can buy
at the Mall at Millenia—everything from high-fashion designer shops to typical
every-mall-has-one chains like Bebes
and Victoria’s Secret. And hey, if you don’t want to buy anything,
let the rest of us have a good time.
The
Great Fiasco of the entire period, however, was our visit to The Orange Blossom Opry in Weirsdale,
which Kristina equated with “German Folk Music.” It would not be exaggerating here to say that
the poor girl writhed in pain throughout much of the performance. Lost entirely on her was anything campy,
intentionally corny or involving parody.
Lori Gill, a great singer, came out in a Dolly Parton outfit to blast
out a couple of Dolly’s numbers, to the great horror of Kristina, who blanched
at the dress and thought the music was “off-key,” which was not the case. Kristina deems herself very sophisticated, so
much of this business went right over her head and some of it is attributable
to cultural differences. Some of you are
probably thinking that you are not
particularly fond of this particular genre and would prefer other activities
like, say, scratching your nails down a blackboard. But being our friends, we are certain you
would grin, bear it and lie about the wonderful time you had. You would certainly not bend over from the
waist, close your eyes and rub your temples repeatedly as if unconsciousness
was imminent. Or rub your arms up and
down constantly as if you were trying to create fire to combat the perceived
coolness of the room.
Siobhan,
wearying of this boorish behavior, finally turned and uttered the classic line,
“Suck it up, Kristina! We’re here for
the duration.” How could you not love
Siobhan? Whereupon our German visitor
slumped in her chair, resigned to the fact she was confined to this
concentration camp for the rest of the evening.
A good time was had by two-thirds.
We
let Mary Rafferty take Kristina to Sea World, which she enjoyed. Except for about forty-five minutes during
which she experienced a simulated helicopter trip and the uncomfortable
aftermath. When we heard about this, we
have to admit we did not immediately fret, “Poor Kristina.” We gave a little thought to shipping her off
to our friend Irana in Boca but we thought that was just too much
punishment. Irana is still a little
snarky about The Holocaust and those unfashionable yellow stars Adolph’s guys
made all the Jews wear back in the good ol’ days. As it was, we were a little worried that Irana
might interfere with our river trip. You
probably don’t know this but all Jews have these secret decoder rings with which
they are able to communicate with other Jews over vast land masses. No, it’s actually true. There was a possibility that Irana might
contact our Silver River boat captain, Peggy Goldberg, and urge unpleasant “woman
overboard” procedures. These Jews stick
together like nobody’s business. As it
turned out, of course, our fears went unrealized and a big “whew” to that one.
The
Kristina episode comes to a close tomorrow when we ferry her off to the Orlando
airport for the long trip home. She has
a layover at Philadelphia so I was thinking of recommending she take in a
Phillies game but in the interests of bettering international relations decided
against it.
Germans We Love
We
certainly don’t want to give anybody the impression we don’t love and
appreciate our German friends because that isn’t true at all. For one thing, my grandmother’s second
husband, Bob Vogler, was a kind and gentle man, undemanding and giving, as
proven by the fact he put up with my grandmother for over twenty years. Bob and his family were the mainstays of a
jolly group called the Leiderkrantz Singing Society (substitute “drinking” for “singing”
and you’ll have a better idea what these rascals were up to), which produced a
massive Christmas Party every year in a suburb of Lawrence, Mass, my old home
town. The driving while drinking laws
were more liberal in those days so most of us made it home unarrested somehow.
And
then, of course, there’s Ashleigh’s boyfriend, Flo, a very nice German guy who
knows how to have fun in America and almost never stands on one leg. Ashleigh is Siobhan’s niece and is probably
going to end up marrying Flo some day and we might have to actually GO to
Germany so we don’t want any ugly repercussions. It goes without saying, we won’t be bringing
Irana.
That’s
all, folks. Pray for the chicken.
