Floppy by Design

It was evening in the historic part of Lewes, Delaware and the moonlight shimmered on the river. Whether the moon was full or not was another question.

"What a pretty full moon" said Mrs. Katel.

"Well, actually, I don't think it's completely full" followed up Mr. Patel, contorting his face somewhat to assess the moon. 

"What do you mean?" his wife responded. "If that's not full, I don't know what is".

Mr. Patel continued contorting his face and said "If you examine the lower right-hand edge of the moon, you can see that just a sliver of it is missing".

"What are you talking about?" said Mrs. Katel. "That thing is full."

Mr. Patel then said "I may be wrong, but it may behoove you to get your eyes examined. I may be wrong, but then again I may be right."

To which Mrs. Katel replied "Are you being passive-aggressive?"

"No, I am being aggressive-aggressive."

"Do you mean active-aggressive?"

"Yes, I think so. Does passive-aggressive have a hyphen?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know? You just used the term."

The conversation continued in this vein and eventually they returned to the subject of whether the moon was full or not. 

"Are you crazy? That thing is full!"

"Well, actually, technically, it's not."

"Are you out of your mind?!! You need to get your brain examined!!"

In the end, they could not agree to disagree, and in the moonlight began to physically wrestle one another on the ground. Mrs. Katel had Mr. Patel in a headlock, then managed to get his arms behind his back. Pinned down on the promenade by the river, face down, Mr. Patel first felt his wrists tied together tightly with a zip tie, then his ankles with her scarf. For the finale, a strip of packing tape was applied to his mouth.

He was unable to move but he could hear Mrs. Katel's footsteps as she wandered off. Feeling a bit exhausted, he decided to get some sleep.

In the morning he was able to break off the zip tie with the help of a nearby iron fence. He then walked to his hotel, where he learned that Mrs. Katel had checked out and left with the rental car.

There really wasn't much choice than to take the ferryboat to Cape May, New Jersey. The ferry left Lewes throughout the day, and it was what they were planning on doing anyway. It was even conceivable that he would see Mrs. Katel on the boat.

The ferry ride was pleasant but he did not see Mrs. Katel. Instead, he slowly ate a pretzel and sipped coffee while gazing at Delaware Bay. When the boat started to rock, a car alarm went off on the lower deck. Since Mr. Patel was a foot passenger, it wasn't his problem.

He didn't see Mrs. Katel, but he did meet someone who identified himself as a Navajo Indian named Gerald, who was exploring the east coast.

"I like to see what's going on in my own country. I heard they built a big city called New York, so I plan to see that next."

"Well that's exactly where I am headed, Gerald, and I can tell you a thing or two about New York."

The two worked out an agreement. When Gerald learned that Mr. Patel was without car, he offered to give him a ride. In exchange, Mr. Patel would share his considerable  knowledge of the geography and history of New York.

So when the ferry landed in Cape May, the two got into Gerald's pickup truck and drove up the Garden State Freeway. When they got to the New York metro area, Mr. Patel helped navigate the way through Staten Island and over the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge.

"Is Verrazzano-Narrows hyphenated?" asked Gerald.

"Yes it is" said Mr. Patel.

Then, just as they were crossing the bridge and Mr. Patel started explaining exactly who Giovanni de Verrazzano was, Gerald's pickup truck lifted straight up in the air approximately 1000 feet.

Now anyone who is familiar with the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge knows that it is already very high up relative to the city's topography and that the view is as impressive as it is terrifying for anyone who had a fear of heights, as Mr. Patel famously did.

So imagine being raised 1000 feet higher than the bridge. Gerald said he didn't understand what was going  on, but that as a Navajo, he was open to it. Mr. Patel was quaking in his boots, but since the view of all of New York City was so spectacular, he pointed out to Gerald each of the five Burroughs, the Atlantic Ocean, New Jersey, Long Isand, JFK airport, Long Island Sound, Westchester, Connecticut, and many, many other features.

This went on for approximately ten minutes; then Gerald's pickup truck magically lowered itself back on the bridge, and they proceeded into Brooklyn along the BQE.  

Due to the strangeness of their experience they agreed that what was needed was to stop at a Starbucks in suburban Nassau County, Long Island. 

Over green tea lattes they hatched a plan wherein Gerald would drive Mr. Patel to the Orient Point ferry at the end of Long Island, then head back to New York City. The fact was Gerald was curious about all of New York, and he was as interested in seeing the surrounding areas as he was the city. He was a Native American and he cared about the land, the topography and the geographical nuances.

So they drove east to Long Island's North Fork, stopped at farm stands, had more coffee in Greenport, told jokes, laughed, and agreed to meet some day in the high desert of Arizona.

Meanwhile, Mr. Patel boarded the ferry to New London, Connecticut. It was actually quite similar to the ferry that ran between Lewes and Cape May. 

He got comfortable in a seat at a table and gazed at Long Island Sound.

Right then, Mrs. Katel sat herself directly opposite him at the table. She had that sort of loaded gun smile that Southern women are so good at.

"Can I get you a coffee?" she asked, exuding a love that transcends all zip ties, all Zip codes, all misunderstandings, all betrayals, all separation of time and space. It was real love. 

"Yes" said Mr. Patel.

- copyright 2018 by P.T. Gachot

How to Revitalize a Transportation System

I had taken the flight from New Orleans to Los Angeles several times and I was always lucky enough to get a window seat. The views of Arizona and the Mojave Desert are breathtakingly beautiful from this altitude; the topography of those vast ochre expanses has a certain poetry.

The flight that changed everything for me was the time I had an aisle seat. I contented myself in advance that I would still get glimpses of those ochre expanses and read my newspaper in the abundant desert sunshine.

To my dismay the woman in the window seat had the shade halfway down, making it difficult to see any expanse without craning my head in an uncomfortable way. She herself seemed halfway asleep. So I looked across the aisle and sadly everyone had their shades down all the way. What the heck? Well I guess everyone was feverishly looking at their phone or laptop and didn't want any natural light to distract them.

At least there was a burst of light coming in through my seat mate's half-open window, enough to pleasantly read my newspaper by. But no sooner had I started enjoying my paper than she abruptly shut the window all the way, immediately returning to her half sleep. 

This made for a miserable flight and afterwards I lost no time calling the CEO's of a dozen major airlines and the Administrator of the FAA. Being intelligent people they listened to my story and proposal for a solution. To my satisfaction they said they would immediately go forward with my idea, a brilliant one that they said they wished they had thought of sooner. 

So the major airlines decided to offer two kinds of planes: window and windowless. They recognized the vampiric tendencies of a huge percentage of their market, the alienated, tech-addicted folks who valued neither light nor fresh air and who would just as well be shot through space in a windowless metal tube. Then there was the window market: people who felt that the very best thing about flying was beholding the earth from altitudes that one normally doesn't. This was a perspective that most pilots could appreciate, along with astronauts, scientists, artists, photographers and sensitive souls in general. 

The population for the most part promptly divided itself into two camps, a little bit like Apple vs. PC. (Ironically in this metaphor Apple is windows and PC is windowless). It was a little less expensive to fly windowless, so the majority of the people flew that way.

**********

Much as I enjoy seeing the earth from thousands of feet in the air, my preferred mode of travel is train. And as with the plane, part of my enjoyment is to have a look at my country out the window. Train windows are large, and there is even a car dedicated to gazing out even larger windows - the observation car.

Imagine my shock then when while on board a westbound train everyone in my car but me had their curtains drawn. As with the plane, people were either glued to their devices or sleeping. It wasn't even sunny out - rather it was snowing in a most beautiful way. There was a muted, atmospheric light that was perfect to read by. What was wrong with these people?

As in the case of the plane, I lost no time in calling the heads of Amtrak and the Department of Transportation. I described to them my experience, and also explained that I was the author of the windowless planes program. We discussed safety issues. In the end we agreed: if people want to travel like cattle, let them travel like cattle. It would be offered as a less expensive option.

Interestingly, in the case of the train, the inverse of the plane was true: most riders wanted windows, but a lower percentage had no use for them, preferring to be packed into a windowless container at a lower rate.

A third option was put on the market at my suggestion: "boxcar hobo", in which the conditions of the old boxcar era were mimicked. This was an even smaller share of the market, but hugely popular among a certain crowd. Old wooden cars with bales of hay to recline on, loaves of bread and bottles of craft beer disguised as moonshine, and a booming subculture of "dressing like a hobo" made this uniquely American niche market thrive.

**********

I would like to say that my work improving the transportation system was done, but there was one more issue to address after having one more ridiculous experience.

I was on the Sunset Limited train from New Orleans to Los Angeles. Being in a hurry I did not have time to buy a newspaper in New Orleans. My habit is to read USA Today, but if that is not available I get whatever local paper I can.

I figured I could pick one up in Houston, where the train stops for about an hour. Now for a major city Houston has a minor train station that resembles a bus station or 7-11, with the difference that you can actually buy a newspaper at a 7-11. 

The fact is that most major train stations in this country have newsstands, so I couldn't figure out what was the deal with Houston. But it got even worse than that.

Not only did the station not sell newspapers, but I wandered approximately a mile in the 100 degree heat looking for one in vain. This was after a policeman pointed me in the direction that I would "most likely" find one.

Houston, we have a problem.

The following day the train stopped in El Paso for about an hour. El Paso feels like a big city partly because it has a grandiose old train station, big enough to fit half a dozen Houston stations.

The station is beautiful but the interior is cavernous, offering only restrooms and brochures to the curious visitor. How difficult would it be to put a newsstand in here?

Bear in mind, newsstands sell not only newspapers, but books, magazines, snacks, beverages and everything that the captive audience of a long distance train ride wants.

Later in the ride we stopped in Tucson, Arizona and there they got it right - a beautiful old station with a marketplace selling mainly food but also copies of the Arizona Republic.

When I got to Los Angeles I lost no time in calling Amtrak and told them that if Houston and El Paso did not get newsstands soon I would set them up myself. They agreed that it was a business opportunity and offered to set up a partnership with me. We decided to call the business Sunset News, and its mission statement was to provide newspapers and other sundries to rail passengers in Texas.

And that, my friend, is how newspapers got reintroduced to Texas.

- copyright 2018 by P.T. Gachot

Let Us Help You With Your Smile

Clifton was down on his luck when he made the decision to jump inside a moving boxcar in Portland, OR. Actually it was two things: the state of being down on his luck, but also the gritty, raw, industrial beauty of the freight train itself, which seemed to him something like an Edward Hopper painting come to life, or maybe a Woody Guthrie song turned into a machine. In any case there was something in the power and squeak of that train that moved Clifton to heave himself into the open side door of a yellow wooden car with bales of hay stacked neatly along the sides. It was an archetypal boxcar for a career 21st century hobo.

Yes, Clifton was a career hobo, but one with a credit card leftover from a previous life, a card linked to an account with just enough funds to survive at the most rudimentary level. By his calculations he had enough savings to cover two cups of coffee a day for twenty-seven years. Since coffee was the main staple of his diet, the problem of food was more or less solved.

Another piece of his decision was the memory of a particular intersection in Salinas, CA. It was a busy intersection, and strangely mesmerizing to stare at - a lot like gazing at a stream or a river. He remembered that by staring at the flow of traffic there, everything else in the world was put in perspective, because everything else in the world was at some level linked to the flow of that traffic. It was very Zen. He made a mental note: if all else fails, there was always the intersection.

It reminded him of another intersection in Phoenix, AZ, but the Salinas one was better - not nearly as big, but just big enough to convey the force of the flow of life itself.

He was steeped in these thoughts when a voice came out of the hay bales, a fellow hobo. "Smile man, smile! We're going places. Don't look so fucking grim."

***********************************************

It was true, Clifton was outwardly humorless, and he had a mouth that was inclined to remain shut. It wasn't that he didn't have joy or smiles in his heart, but rather that his mouth was constructed in such a way that smiling didn't come naturally. He had good features but often looked disturbed. As a hobo he felt that he had the right to look disturbed. He wasn't running for public office and he wasn't a matinee idol, so why the hell should he smile? Even so, it weighed on him at times that his demeanor might have an adverse effect on his fellow humans, and this thought made him even more humorless.

***********************************************

As the train was passing through Salinas the next day he heaved himself out of the boxcar. He landed face down in the dirt and actually liked the feeling: the sting of impact made him feel alive.

As he walked north on Main Street he could see the tall eucalyptus trees  in the distance, the ones next to the rodeo grounds - more or less his destination. Once he got past the gas stations and bail bonds stores, he could smell the eucalyptus trees, and this sensation filled him with something resembling happiness.

Just beyond the trees and the rodeo grounds was a shopping center right at the busy intersection. Like a pilgrim arriving in Mecca, Clifton reached his destination: a concrete curb on the side of a 99-cent store that, when sitting on it, looked directly out onto the intersection. It was still there, exactly as he had left it. It was still vacant. No one except him seemed to know about this perch or its special power. Clearly the Universe had been reserving it for him.

Clifton perched and Clifton stared. There were trees, concrete, and a few empty shopping carts. There was a steady flow of traffic. It was transcendent.

***********************************************

Across the street was a Starbucks. Every day, twice a day, Clifton walked over to get a coffee. He always got a plain coffee with lots of cream. Never sugar - sugar was a distraction from the serious business of staring at traffic.

He drank his coffee with incredible, heroic slowness. He would take a small sip and let the bitter fluid linger on his tongue, all the while staring at the cars and trucks as they barreled through the intersection or waited at the light. Clear skies or gray, this is how he passed his days, car after car, coffee after coffee.

***********************************************

One day he was surprised to see the same hobo he shared the boxcar with. The hobo walked by and said "You man, YOU again? Don't you ever smile?" After which the hobo lit a cigarette and walked away.

It was a pleasant, sunny day and after the hobo walked away Clifton saw a newspaper flapping in the wind nearby, and with each flap he saw an advertisement with the words "Let Us Help You With Your Smile". This piqued his curiosity so he picked the paper up.

It was an ad for a local dentist, a Doctor Tran, and as Clifton looked closer at the ad he saw the address and realized that it was right across the street. In fact, it was right near the Starbucks that he walked to twice a day.

He tore the ad out of the paper and decided to check the place out after he got his afternoon coffee.

***********************************************

The coffee and the service there were consistently decent. He remembered once passing through the San Jose bus station where the service had been excellent but the coffee weak and undrinkable. Then there were other places where the service was atrociously bad but the coffee surprisingly good. Such is life.

Instead of returning to his perch, he had his coffee at the shop, so as to visit the dentist afterwards. It was warm and sunny that day, so he sat on the patio.

Afterwards, Clifton entered the dentist's office and was greeted by a receptionist. "Hello" he said, holding up the ad from the newspaper. "I need help with my smile".

"Please have a seat" the receptionist replied. "Dr. Tran will be with you shortly".

Clifton sat down and picked up a copy of Sunset magazine, gazing at the photos to the sound of the electric waterfall display, flanked on either side by philodendrons. Were they real or artificial philodendrons, he wondered. Before he had time to check, a voice addressed him.

"How do you do?" It was Dr. Tran. "Please, follow me", he said with a strong Vietnamese accent. The doctor had a lean build and a very kind face, a face that looked as though it might burst out laughing at any moment. His lighthearted demeanor immediately put Clifton at ease.

"Sit down, sit down" Dr. Tran said when they entered his office. "Let me see. You have good features, just no smile." He examined Clifton's facial muscles with his hands. "Try, if you can, to stretch these muscles" he said, placing a finger on either side of Clifton's mouth. "Try to pull these muscles back".

As Clifton did his best to pull the muscles back, the doctor slipped out for what must have been at least three minutes. When he returned, he was wearing a yellow clown suit. He was also holding four oranges.

"Ok let's give this a try" the doctor said as he attempted to juggle the four oranges. It didn't take long for one of them to fly out of control and knock over a container of dental tools, which spilled off the counter and onto the floor.

"Oh, aren't I a clumsy clown" said the doctor, as he kept on trying to juggle the oranges with comic ineptness. One landed in the sink, while another burst open on the floor. Clifton noticed a smirk involuntarily growing on his face.

The doctor slipped out again for about three minutes, and this time he returned wearing a full-body bird costume. It was completely over the top with oversized feathers and plumes that may have belonged to a peacock. The doctor starting swaying, shaking maracas  and singing "I am Chiquita banana and I'm back to say-ay... I am the TOP banana..." He then added, in a mock Groucho Marx accent, "What's the matter, don't you like my Carmen Miranda imitation??" And with feigned anger he pushed more dental instruments off the counter onto the floor. Then he opened the cabinets and began throwing latex gloves and cotton balls into the air.

At this point Clifton couldn't take it any longer. He burst out laughing with the largest, most involuntary burst of laughter he had experienced in years. And he kept on laughing so hard that his eyes started watering. He laughed for what seemed to be an eternity, and he laughed so hard that it started to hurt.

"Thanks doc" said Clifton as he finally stood up and patted Dr. Tran's back feathers. "I needed that".

"Ah, I see you smiling!" beamed the doctor. "You are a good patient. Come back any time."

"Thanks doc" Clifton said again as he strolled out of the office.

In this way, Clifton was able to return to his perch and gaze at traffic with a slight smile on his face.

- Copyright 2018 by P.T. Gachot

The Philosophy of Photography

Clayton was born at a point in history when it was not unusual to give one's child a camera. A few pointers might be given on HOW to use the camera - don't shoot into the light, for example - but very little was said about WHAT to photograph. In that regard there was quite a lot of freedom. As long as one stayed within the bounds of moral and aesthetic common sense, there was complete artistic freedom. This was a privilege that Clayton did not take lightly.

From an early age he was not particularly interested in photographing people. It seemed to him that the whole rest of the world was already doing that, so why not try something different?

The world was a visually fascinating place. There were trees and buildings and mountains and clouds and ships and bridges. These things were screaming to be photographed.

Then there were vast vistas of grasslands, forests, oceans and deserts to reckon with. How could you not be uplifted by these creations of Mother Nature? If not, what is wrong with you?

At bottom Clayton was a landscape guy. Deeper than that he was a form, color and composition guy.

It's true that people have form, color and composition, but they also have an unpredictable brew of egos, emotions, and wildly different psyches. The results aren't always harmonious.

A simple case in point was the family portrait. Clayton remembered his Dad corralling the family, and his Mom dragging the comb forcefully through his hair. It was as close an experience to being cattle as he could remember. There were ongoing prods... "Smile dammit! Look happier!"

How much more spiritually uplifting to photograph a landscape! A spirit could really soar in a landscape, and not worry about knocking into people and their potential disapproval.

An early trip to Arizona provided much visual fodder. Craggy ochre mountain ranges, covered with cacti, were a delight to behold and capture on film. Such exotic scenery nourished his eyes and filled his spirit.

In college Clayton took an entire roll of film, mostly of trees, while hiking along the Hudson River. Pleased with the results, he showed the pictures to an acquaintance.

"There's not a single person in these pictures", the acquaintance said, with a note of incredulity.

The acquaintance's reaction caused a twinge of discomfort in Clayton. He had never thought about it that way. "These humans" he thought, "they really do think differently from me".

He considered the problem further. "These humans must really think a lot of themselves if they want to be photographed again and again. How arrogant! Where is the humility in the face of God and nature? What a bunch of narcissists."

To Clayton's way of thinking, photographing humans verged on the perverse. To be clear, there was nothing wrong with the occasional photo of a loved one. Sometimes the stars lined up and, quite accidentally, there would be a good photo of a loved one. That was a very nice thing indeed. One or two good photos like that would suffice for a  lifetime.

It was the "need" to be photographed constantly that was suspect in Clayton's eyes. Life simply wasn't like that 150 years ago, when one's attention was on ploughing the field, or perhaps milking the cow, or building the barn.

Even in the absence of farm work, it was important just to "be", just to exist in the Universe and not in a photograph.

Articulating his beliefs even further, Clayton declared at a podium in a public park that it was OK to photograph people going about their day-to-day business, provided that they did not POSE for the camera.

Posing, in Clayton's mind, was the unpardonable sin. Would Jesus pose for the camera? More likely he would toss it aside, and make some cryptic remark about how God is already photographing everything, what is the need of a human camera?

Jesus might further explain that it is not the outward appearances that photographs capture that matter, but  rather the internal spirit of things that animate the Universe in the first place. Without that spiritual foundation, you can throw your whole photographic empire into the garbage bin thank you. Or so Jesus might point out.

And of course that is true, but not a lot of people will readily admit that.

Jesus liked Clayton's philosophy of photography and contacted him. Exactly how is not known.

Together, they collaborated on a book called "The Philosophy of Photography". In that book, they elaborated in great detail on the non-anthropocentric school of photography described here. They knew that the camera, although a wonderful invention, was creating a lot of unnecessary problems for the human race, and they wanted to set down a few sensible guidelines for future users.

They will be signing copies of their book tonight at Barnes and Noble at eight o'clock pm.

- Copyright 2017 by P.T. Gachot

A View with a Room

And then one day it actually happened. He had mused over the thought from time to time since childhood. He had seen it dramatized in the film "The Omega Man" and later the series "Last Man on Earth". But this was real. The day came when Vincent found himself to be the only human being inhabiting the earth. Everything else was much the same, the physical infrastructure was mostly intact, but there was a seemingly total absence of other people. The reason was unknown to him - was it a plague, as in the "Omega Man", or was it like the mysterious disappearance of the Anasazi people, who he always fancied were picked up by alien spacecraft and taken to another planet?

No matter - the situation on earth had changed radically and there was some adjusting to do.

It just so happened that he was visiting his parents in suburban New York when this happened. His residence was in California. The phones seemed to work, both locally and long-distance, but no one picked up on the other end.

It took hours of feverishly searching the house and every nook and cranny of the area to establish that his parents were gone, along with the neighbors and everyone else in the neighborhood.

He was convinced his predicament was real when he entered the local police station only to find lights on, doors ajar, and computers humming, but not a soul to report the incident to. In lieu of that he left a detailed note with his name, phone number and parents' address.

He knew he would have to venture out in an effort to find people or explanations for what had happened. Trees looked the same, air smelled the same, and birds still sang their same songs. It was just people that were missing.

So the next morning he set out in his parents' station wagon. Luckily, when he stopped at a local gas station, the pump took his credit card and dispensed a full tank of gas without a hitch. The power grid was functioning on some sort of auto-pilot, but for how long Vincent could only wonder.

After several hours of driving in different directions and finding neither people nor answers, he realized he was hungry. Stopping at a supermarket in a densely developed area, he told himself that under such extenuating circumstances it was ok to take food, and he proceeded to stock the wagon with a few staples - nuts, bananas, water, coffee.

The situation also started to take a toll on him emotionally. He knew he needed to drive somewhere pleasant, so as to ground himself spiritually in such strange circumstances.

He wasn't completely in love with the county he grew up in, but there were pockets and corners that were near and dear to his heart, such as his grandparents' old house near the coast. Although they had long ago passed away and the house had long since changed hands, he had a cache of fond memories that he had ever since carried around with him.

Those grandparents seemed to have lived a charmed life. They were affluent and travelled regularly. They had impeccable taste in real estate. They had a swimming pool.

When you are a child, and your parents drive you to your grandparents' house, the ride leaves a deep impression on your young mind. Because you aren't driving, but instead directing your attention out the windows, all the features and details of the ride - the roads, the houses, the trees, the fences, the ponds, the shrubbery etc. - are indelibly inscribed on your psyche.

It just so happened that in this case it was a very pleasant ride, going down curvy tree-lined country roads, interesting, beautiful homes, and - near the end - ponds and waterways that any but the most depraved human being would find spiritually uplifting.

It was one thing to experience such a ride as a child, and another to go back as an adult and see it through more mature eyes. There was no question that his grandparents had chosen a superb piece of real estate in an area that was protected - through both natural and cultural features - from the ravages of sprawl that had rendered other formerly decent areas unrecognizable. It was too bad that when his grandfather died, his grandmother needed to sell the property, so as to purchase a smaller house. It was too bad that the property was no longer in the family. Among other things, the value of the home had appreciated ten times since they purchased it in the 1950s.

But now that every human being on earth had apparently disappeared, there was an opportunity to reclaim it.

So Vincent retraced that ride from his youth, gliding down the same country lanes that astonishingly had lost none of their beauty. It was spring and the roads were green and leafy. Near the end of the drive he crossed a small isthmus that separated a pond from an inlet that accessed the open sea, and noticed a black crowned night heron perched along the edge.

The natural topography of the area was ideal. The road his grandparents lived on paralleled the shore of the inlet. The land east of the road sloped gently down to the shore. The homes on that side had views of the water framed by grass, trees, and marshland. One of these was his grandparents'. It was perched on higher ground that afforded a perfect view of the water, but interestingly was lower than the road. There was another tier between the house and the marshland where the pool was situated.

From the road the house looked almost humble and ordinary. It was essentially a long ranch-style house built in the 1940s. But to Vincent, it was not only ideally situated on the perfect piece of land, but steeped in all the mystery, promise and hope of his childhood - a palpable piece of his past that was connected to other pieces of his family's past. From this property he could access deep wells of energy, identity and purpose.

After establishing that there was no one home, he then toured the property for the first time in decades. The family that purchased the home from his grandmother had made a few small changes, but for the most part it was the same house emanating the same spirit.

For years he had a recurring dream about the house in which the long hallway that ran the length of it got longer, so that he would discover new rooms that he hadn't even known existed. Sometimes it would shift from a single story house to a multi-story house and even more rooms would materialize - more than he could comprehend or keep track of.

In real life, much of the interior had limited natural light, giving it a generally dark effect. The exception was the glassed-in sitting room where his grandparents seemed to spend 99% of their time. It was a wonderful room that had everything -  natural light, a view of the water, comfortable seating, a strategically placed television, and a wet bar.

As a child he was not familiar with the term "wet bar", but upon reflection this one was a fine example. His grandparents were drinkers who socialized with other drinkers and no doubt put it to good use.

Vincent did not share their taste for liquor, but he did like a good glass of wine now and then, usually red but sometimes white. He noticed that the wet bar was well stocked with the whole gamut of spirits as well as beer and wine.

He found a familiar bottle of California Cabernet that had been opened and corked; there was about half a bottle left. He poured some into a cocktail glass and wandered around the room, absorbing its specific energy. There was a comfortable chair that faced the view; he plunked himself there gazed out at it.

He remembered that his grandfather would sit in a chair facing away from the view. Maybe the light was better for reading that way, and maybe it was a better position for socializing. Now that Vincent was the only person on earth it made more sense to face the view. The sight of the water beyond the marshland had a calming effect. The familiar old vista made him feel grounded and happy.

Gone was the very distinct smell of the house as he remembered it - a smell that was allegedly a blend of gin and cigarettes, but he wasn't quite sure. Since he had spent his life avoiding gin and cigarettes, he could not confirm or deny that allegation. Besides, the smell seemed more complex than that, with notes of perfume and tropical mildew. It wasn't a bad smell at all, just extremely distinct.

Vincent decided that sitting in the glass sitting room and staring at the view was as good as it got, and so he set up camp there. There, in the same room where the cook had served him Chicken in a Basket while the Wonderful World of Disney came on the television half a century earlier, he passed several pleasant weeks.

There, staring at the view, he recollected how boats occasionally passed by. He also remembered how his grandfather would have a golf tournament on the television with the sound turned down, and that too was peaceful, in an unusual way.

Vincent turned on the new owner's television and every station was gone except for one. The exception was a Spanish station showing reruns of telenovelas. This was very curious, Vincent thought. But to liven things up, he let the telenovelas run with the sound down.

                                                     

*          *          *

He knew had to get back to California, to see what the situation was like there. First he wanted to see if the trains were still running. Astonishingly, they were, despite being unmanned. Even more shocking, all the Amtrak trains that he was accustomed to taking were running perfectly on time. It must have been that the absence of freight trains allowed some sort of autopilot to kick in.

So he packed a bunch of food and books and hit the rails. He especially liked camping out in the observation car of the Southwest Chief, gazing at the scenery until it reached Los Angeles.

Once there, he confirmed that there was nobody around on the West Coast either.

So he did what any sane person would do in that situation. He found a car and drove up to Santa Barbara.

There, he spent every night in a different house. There were so many fine homes to choose from, with so many fine views. He started a list, to help keep track of them all. He liked looking at the family photos so as to form an idea of the former owners. Sometimes, for fun, he would read their mail, rifle through drawers, or explore closets. It never got boring.

And because he was raised to be a gentleman, he would always leave a thank you note, apologizing for entering and explaining his situation. He included his name and phone number and implored them not to hesitate to contact him for any reason whatsoever.

- Copyright 2017 by P.T. Gachot

Dedicated Spoon

 

There was a man named Jim Cawquest who lived in a tiny Cape Cod style house that overlooked Delaware Bay along southern coastal Delaware. At just a few hundred square feet, you could call it a "tiny house". A natural born control freak, Jim loved the tiny house in part because he had one hundred percent control of everything in it and could run his household with the precision and efficiency of a Swiss watch. A solar-powered Swiss watch I should add, since one hundred percent of the house's power was generated on site with a small array of American-made solar panels.

He wasn't from Delaware but he liked the vibrations and the people he met there seemed sensible and grounded. The place was refreshingly different from where he grew up in New York State, and an interesting contrast to the West Coast, where he had spent much of his adult life.

Among other things, Jim loved to micromanage his kitchen and put what he dubbed a "zero-waste policy" into full effect.

He detested what he called "mainstream American food behaviors" and swore to himself as a child that when he got older he would exact revenge on those behaviors.

There were memories of going to the supermarket with his mother, who like the other suburban housewives filled their shopping cart to the brim with groceries enough for a large family. Then there was the eternal waiting in line at the checkout counter as one overflowing shopping cart after another was slowly checked out - so slowly that for a child in the prime of their youth it was torture.

There were also memories of the stress placed on his mother to buy enough food and plan the meals for a large family - enough stress at times that it undermined the whole pleasure of nourishing oneself. And what was the point of that?

"Not on my watch" he thought. 

His motto both in general and in the kitchen  was "Have only what you need and use all of what you have".

It wasn't only the "mainstream" kitchen behaviors that he clashed with. When he was in his twenties he lived for a year in a house share in Oregon with people who were very health conscious and into organic food and preparing healthy meals. At the time Jim thought this might be exactly what he needed.

But the kitchen behaviors there also drove him crazy. His housemate Newton loved to cook and would not shy from grandiose undertakings. That part was fine, but Jim - who helped with the shopping - noticed that large amounts of food waste were generated on two ends. First, the raw materials that weren't used in the cooking projects tended to sit in the fridge until they went bad, and secondly, Newton always prepared too much food, so that the abundant leftovers also sat around until they went bad as well.

This did not sit well with Jim, who at the time was living on a very tight budget. He wasn't sure which bothered him more: expired foods taking up valuable space in the refrigerator, or the sight of all of it being heaved in the trash.

One day he confronted Newton with what he thought was a very well thought-out syllogism : "If you buy food, and you don't actually eat it, and it winds up in the trash instead, you are by extension putting your hard-earned money in the trash".

For some crazy reason Newton saw things differently, but Jim could never fully figure it out. It seemed that even for these enlightened folks who valued organic meals prepared at home, certain "mainstream American food behaviors" were at work. These behaviors included buying too many ingredients and generating too many leftovers.

By contrast, in Jim's compact kitchen in the Delaware house, every square inch of counter, cupboard and refrigerator space was accounted for. Containers of food never expired, because Jim consumed their contents well ahead of their expiration dates and placed the well cleaned containers in his recycling bin.

He appreciated that his neighbors, Dr. and Mrs. Silverfish, were as fastidious as he was when it came to recycling. They all shared, even bonded on, a distaste for dirty recycling bins and did what they had to do to keep them clean. This included wiping them out with wet wipes, hosing them down, and letting them air dry in the sun. All three agreed that if they ever caught someone putting any sort of "real" garbage in any of the bins they would chase them down and give them a long-winded lecture on America's overflowing landfills and poor history of reducing and properly dealing with waste.

Good people they were, the Silverfish's.

Anyway, the recyclable containers of banana yogurt in Jim's fridge were carefully monitored. Like a supermarket, he had it down to a science: how many containers would fit, his general rate of consumption, and in theory how often he should head to the store to restock. But some weeks he didn't crave banana yogurt as much, so rather than mindlessly restocking the shelf, he mindfully explored how it felt not to have banana yogurt. There was no point in buying more until the craving returned, he reasoned.

This was the principle that he also applied to food generally. There were days, and weeks even, when he didn't crave food as much. His body was telling him to slow down and apply some "intermittent fasting". Doing so had multiple benefits.

Not only was he saving money by slowing down consumption, and helping reduce Delaware's solid waste burden, but he took great pleasure in watching his shelves empty out. With every bowl of organic white popcorn he ate, and every can of tomato bisque he prepared, the amount of free space in his kitchen increased. This he saw as a positive metaphor for what was going on in his body: an emptying out, a cleansing. It was healthy to periodically drain the pipes.

After the pipes were drained and flushed out with copious amounts of lemon water, and a period of rest had been achieved, that thing called "hunger" would eventually rear its head... and with uncanny specificity would announce what it needed. "Get me some banana yogurt!" Or, "Warm me up some of that tomato bisque!" And Jim would dutifully get to work.

His subsequent trip to market would be strategically planned and enjoyable. The coupons that had been patiently waiting on his refrigerator would all get used.

Back home he would say "Stomach knows best" out loud while slicing blue cheese stuffed olives. "Stomach knows best".

- Copyright 2017 by P.T. Gachot