(Blogger’s note: We are not making this up.)

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Maybe the first thing you noticed about him was the large woven cowboy hat resting on his ears, tilted back just enough so that his bushy mustache enjoyed the sunshine his eyes were missing.

Maybe it was the long-sleeved plaid shirt and leather vest, a fashion dictated more by circumstances than weather on this warm spring day.

Maybe it was his leather chaps glazed in dust from the knees down, legs making a “chiff” sound each time he took a step.

But it was the pistols hanging at his side the kids stared at. As he walked back and forth in front of the crowd, no one bothered to gaze at the frontier façade behind him. Eyes were riveted to the long-barreled sidearms tucked into weathered brown holsters.

Nothing commands the respect of 200 fourth-graders like a gun that could take someone’s head off from 100 feet.

Fifteen minutes earlier at the Arizona Pioneer Living Museum, a park created to educate visitors about life from 1867 to 1903, two gunshots echoed across the desert, signaling it was about time for an important historical reenactment involving frontier justice.

Prior to that, the children had been wandering (under the careful eyes of chaperones who wondered who the hell thought it was a good idea to spend a day in the desert in a month not a member of winter) among log cabins, a one-room schoolhouse and a large steepled church, the only building you could see from the road (which tells you where the pioneers put their money).

Kids were scattered across 20 acres until those gunshots were fired. As soon as the sound died away, every 9- and 10-year-old headed toward the demonstration area.

“We must hurry so as not to miss the historical reenactment,” the children cried. Well, actually they didn’t say that. It was more like, “Dudes, come on, the gunfight is about to start! I’ll bet some guy gets his head blown off!”

They ran around the farm and skirted past a large pig in a small dusty pen, conditions that would convince even PETA that a future as pork chops would be more humane.

They raced past the sheriff’s office without even glancing at the man hanging from the gallows, a sight that held much interest earlier in the day.

“Hey look, that guy’s hung,” several kids shouted.

Well, maybe. We’ll never know for sure, will we?

Finally, with high noon approaching, the cowboy strode in front of the crowd that was perched on narrow wooden benches, the sun beating down. This time a silver badge gleamed from his vest, and two men of a rather dubious nature stood in the shade of the undertaker’s porch. At least you had to assume it was the undertaker, given the guy displayed in a pine box.

“See the dead dude?” one boy whispered to another. “That’s what they did in the olden days when it was too hot to dig a hole. They kept them there until, like, nighttime.”

“No way,” said his friend. “That’s how they advertised. It’s like a sign, only better because everyone notices a dead guy.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Voices lowered as the sheriff faced the group, everyone silent when he spoke.

“Welcome to the Arizona Pioneer Living Museum,” he said in a cowboy drawl, a cross between John Wayne and Fess Parker. “We hope y’all are enjoying your day and thanks for coming to visit. Uh, can everyone hear me?”

Those in the center who nodded and muttered yes were drowned out by those on the sides shouting “No!”

“OK, then, good,” the cowboy said. “Now before we show you a certain part of life in the Old West, y’all need to know something.” He unsnapped his right holster and withdrew a gun that could easily be mistaken for a cannon.

“How many of you know what this is?”

Uh, that’d be everybody, sheriff. What you have here are 200 kids who, since the age of 3, have witnessed a minimum of 5,829 violent acts each, through TV and video games. Not only do they recognize a gun, many could probably build one from scratch. And a few probably have.

“This here’s a gun,” the cowboy said, raising his voice to be heard over the chorus of “Yeah, it’s a gun!”

“But not just any gun,” he continued. “This is a Colt .45, the gun that transformed the west. It did a lot of good in the hands of people who knew how to use it and respected its power.”

“And a lot of bad in the hands of people who learned how to use it,” whispered a teacher.

The sheriff paused, twirling the gun on his index finger and then tossed it to his left hand and back again.

“Now before we go on, we need to make sure everyone here knows what guns are for, and what they aren’t for,” the sheriff said. “Because it’s one of the most important things you’ll ever learn.”

Now if you were to poll these 200 kids on what guns are used for, 98 percent would strongly agree with the statement, “For shooting people.” The other two percent would be at the gallows, poking the hung guy to see if he was real.

“A gun,” he continued, “is for keeping people safe. But you need to know how to use one or you could hurt someone.”

It is probable that when the inventor of the first firearm wrote up his mission statement, it included the phrase “to hurt someone.” The sheriff, however, had discovered an alternate use for a weapon. Perhaps his gun came with a force field.

“Take this gun, for example,” the sheriff said, lifting the weapon to chest level. “This is what’s known as a single-action trigger. Now watch what happens when I pull the trigger.”

He pointed the gun away from him, this thing that keeps you safe, and squeezed the trigger with his index finger. There was is a dry click heard only by the kids in the first few rows.

“Nothing happens,” he continued. “You know why? So you couldn’t accidentally pull the trigger and shoot. You have to pull back the hammer if you want to fire the gun.”

Apparently gunslingers in the Old West were very clumsy folks, pulling their triggers when they didn’t mean to. Or maybe it was because no one had yet figured out how to make a gun with a trigger that both pulled back the hammer and fired the gun (a problem since solved).

“Ya see,” the sheriff said, pumping the trigger, “there is no way this gun can fire. That makes it one of the safest guns in the world.”

A gun that can’t fire is safe. The children nodded. Of course. So if you only made guns that can’t fire, they’d all be safe. And that’s how guns keep you safe. Brilliant!

“So what you need to do to arm this gun is simple,” the sheriff said. “You need to pull back on this little thing here on the back, called a hammer.”

The old cowboy placed his left palm flat on the rear of the revolver and moved his hand toward his chest, as if petting the pistol. Another click.

“See how the gun is now cocked? It’s ready to fire.”

The kids smiled at knowing how to subvert that pesky little safety mechanism.

“But before I pull the trigger, you should know that this gun doesn’t have real bullet.”

An audible sigh of disappointment rumbled through the first few rows. The rest couldn’t hear and were oblivious to the revelation, eyes still glued to the cocked gun.

“We here at the museum use blanks, which make a lot of noise but no bullet comes out. But they can be dangerous too if you’re not careful. Watch what happens to this soda can.”

The sheriff leveled the weapon at a Pepsi can on a nearby table, placing the barrel inches from the innocent cylinder. A split second after a loud bang, the can was airborne, landing 20 feet away with a clatter. Another victim of random violence.

“Now imagine what that can do to you,” the sheriff said, retrieving the can and turning it slowly to reveal a small dent, pausing for effect. “And that was just a blank. Think of what would have happened had it been a real bullet. Because most guns don’t have blanks.”

A frightening revelation, that connection between guns and bullets. The sheriff had the crowd in his sights now, and was about to draw down.

“That’s why we like to have with little talk with y’all before we do out little reenactment,” he said. “I know what we do here looks like fun, but guns were never met to be toys.”

Tell that to the hundreds of factories in China churning out plastic pistols for the millions of kids packing artificial heat. No doubt, however, the sheriff spent many hours researching his facts to come to such a shocking conclusion about the gun-toy connection.

“And here’s what you really need to know,” he said, holstering his Colt .45. “Guns can be dangerous, especially in the hands of someone who doesn’t know what they can do. Children especially.”

Especially.

“So kids, if you ever come across a gun, you need to know thing – don’t touch it. Tell an adult. Because you may come across a gun almost everywhere.

“You see, there could be a guy driving down the road, and he has a gun. But then for some reason he decides he doesn’t want it anymore. He just rolls down the window and tosses it out. And that man has just created a problem.”

This scenario not only likely, but common if you think about it. The aforementioned man may just have gone through the drive-thru at McDonald’s ordering the Big Mac with fries and a Coke. And little did he know it was Be Safe Meal, part of a promotion between the fast-food giant and the NRA. As he turns onto the main drag, his eyes on the road, he digs into the bag and encounters something cold and metallic.

Pulling it out, he discovers a 9 mm semi-automatic handgun of undetermined origin (or a .45 magnum, had he supersized his order). And the hungry driver – a draft-dodging former hippie who took so much acid in the 70s it scrambled his brain chemistry to a point where he is now a supporter of gun control – rolls down his window and tosses it out.

And this man has just created a problem.

“Maybe you’re walking down that same road,” the sheriff said. “Probably on your way to school. And you look down and there’s a gun. Or maybe you’re on the playground. Or in a park. Maybe even you’re on backyard. And there it is. A gun.”

Perhaps the gun industry should concentrate more on proper waste-management techniques than on enforcing the Second Amendment due to this proliferation of disposed guns. People put out a black can for their trash and a blue can for their recyclables. Maybe what’s needed is a red can for the excess weapons, be they pistols, rifles or plastic explosives. And such cans should be equipped with a child-safety lid, one at least as sophisticated at the single-action trigger that made the sheriff’s Colt .45 the safest gun in the world.

“The fact is, you can find a gun almost anywhere,” he said. “That’s the plain truth. And when that happens, what are you going to do?”

There are questions you just don’t ask 9- and 10-year-olds. One of them is, “Do you want one chocolate bar or five chocolate bars before dinner?” Another is, “Would you like me to do your homework, though it means your learning will suffer?”

You also don’t ask kids, especially kids in large groups, what they would do when handed the life-altering power of a gun.

“I’d use it on Travis,” whispered one girl. Another boy said, “I would make sure we’d have recess all day.”

After an ill-conceived pause, the sheriff spoke amid the growing volume of conversations.

“Exactly,” he said. “You’d tell an adult. And you would not touch it.”

Yes, the children nodded. We would not touch it. Of course. To do so would be folly.

“So if you find a gun while you’re walking to school, or on the schoolyard, or even in your own backyard because it can happen anywhere, any time, what are you going to do?”

“Tell an adult!” they answered overwhelmingly, aware of the cadre of teachers sitting among them.

“That’s right. Excellent. Now we’ll begin our demonstration of how bad guys were handled in the Old West.”

For the next 10 minutes, the sheriff and two outlaws shot it out on the dusty streets of the Arizona Pioneer Living Museum, no doubt convincing children that guns, including those left behind on schoolyards and playgrounds or tossed from passing cars, were certainly not toys.

Sex education is not taught in elementary school, which is a good thing since you really should know your multiplication table before you know how to multiply.

But that does not mean kids don’t think about it at all. By the time they’re 8 or so, they realize babies are not the product of overactive parental imaginations that create children springing from cabbage patches or delivered by storks. Because by 8, they notice there are certain fat women who are not fat, but having a baby. That blows the “Well, babies just are” theory of procreation all to hell.

(Though it never ceases to amaze me how kids, when told “A baby comes from a mommy’s tummy,” are satisfied with that. Because my first reaction was, and still is, “How the hell does it get out of there? Where’s the escape hatch, because ain’t no way a kid is sliding out of there without some serious arguments from mom.”)

Bryson’s theory of where babies come from has advanced lately. About a year ago, he knew it happened when a boy and a girl pushed their privates together. If this were technically true, every woman who’s ever ridden the Tokyo subway would be pregnant. “I don’t know, doctor, when I boarded everything was fine, by the Ginsu District I was suffering from morning sickness.”)

Bryson and I were watching TV the other night (who needs the sex talk when you can just watch The Simpsons, right?) when, as Homer was filling Bart in, my own son turned to me and said, “I know how they do it.”

“Do what? Animate this show? Come up with all the funny voices? Get away with the talking about sex during family hour? Wait, scratch that last one.”

“You know. How a boy and girl have a baby? I’m not sure how I know, but I know. Maybe mommy told me. Or you.”

Or, more likely, one of his 9-year-old friends. I would have liked to have been the one to fill him in on the whole sex thing, but I would have waited for a more comfortable age. Like when he was old enough to drive. Himself to the retirement home.

But when he’s 9? If I were to fill him in, the conversation would be a confusing mix of “his thing” and “her deal.” Bryson would understand it about as much as he does the need for triple-digit addition (“Isn’t that what cash registers are for?”).

So I was more than happy to hear him out.

“OK, so what happens between a man and a woman?”

Now I would have said to that, “That explains why you’re single.” But Bryson, ever innocent and understanding, said, “OK, it starts with boy who, well, I don’t want to say it, but –“

He places both hands over his groin and continues without pausing.”

“-he puts his MMM-mmm into a girl’s, something, and you get babies. Now I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Bryson is assuming, of course, that the girl wants anything to do with the boy’s MMM-mmm, because maybe the guy’s a real MMM-mmm-head.

But that’s a topic for another conversation.

Humor is lost on the sleepwalking.

“Daddy, daddy, help me.”

This is how it starts. In the past I would throw off the covers, feel my way in the darkness until Bryson’s nightlight showed me the way, entering his room with a, “Bud, everything’s OK.”

But that was about a dozen sleepwalking episodes ago. Now I try to manage it from the comfort of my bed, head buried under the blanket, hoping the comforting sound of my voice would reach deeply into his subconscious and say, “Dude, can’t you see your dad is sleeping? And that you are too? Go back to bed.”

Lately I have had a hard time working up any enthusiasm to make sure he’s not dreaming that he’s a bird, launching himself off the bed. Besides, he does that when he’s awake and lands safely. Most of the time.

So maybe last night, I’m thinking, I’m getting a little too lackadaisical.

Bryson: “Daddy, daddy, help me!”

Me: “Huh? Bryson, you’re fine.”

“Nooo, please come please come, help me!”

(Sound of covers shifting, creak of bed, soft footsteps on the carpet.)

“Whatever you do, do not turn on the-“

(Brightness turns inner eyelids a shade of red that makes sleep difficult, if not impossible.)

“-light. Oh Bryson, what’s up?”

“Help me, daddy.”

“You’re sleeping. Sound asleep.”

“No, daddy, I need … I can’t …”

“Bryson, look up. Do you see clouds?”

“No.”

“Because you’re inside. Where it’s safe. In our house.”

“No, it’s not true.”

“What’s happening right now in your version of the world?”

“What?”

“What’s happening to you now?”

“They’re chasing me.”

“Who?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“There’s no such thing. Well, there were but, you know, this is not a conversation I feel like having right now.”

“They’re chasing me, daddy!”

“If you’d been born about 65 million years ago, that had a possibility of being true. Assuming people existed back then. Which they didn’t.”

“But-“

“And you didn’t exist until 10 years ago. Do the math.”

“Daddy, I don’t know what to do?”

“Turn off the light. That’s the first thing.”

“What light?”

“That light. On the wall. The one you never have trouble finding when you want to turn it on.”

(There is a hum followed by a whirring noise.)

“No, dude, that’s the fan. The switch right next to it.”

“What switch.”

“The one that goes up and down. The other one.”

(Hum stops. Brightness disappears.)

“OK, that’s great. Now go back to bed.”

“But daddy, what do I do?”

“Go to your room. Get into bed. Close your eyes.”

“Where’s my bedroom?”

“Go toward the light. Go … toward … the … light.”

“The light?”

“The … light. Only there will you find rest. At least until the morning.”

“I don’t want to.”

“At first it is natural to resist. But you must. You must go toward the light.”

“But-“

“Then go to the bathroom.”

(Brief silence. Splashing water. Faucet being turned, running water. Rattle of towel rack. You know you’ve ingrained the “Wash your hands after going to the bathroom” ritual when your kid does it even when he sleepwalks).”

“Daddy, the dinosaurs …”

“Do you need some medicine?” (When all else fails, resort to medication.)

“No.”

“OK, then wait for me in your bathroom. I’ll get the medicine.”

(Footsteps.)

“I’m here daddy. Help me.”

“Here I come.”

(In a bit.)

“Daddy-“

“Be right there.”

(Time passes.)

“Daddy!”

“OK, OK.”

(Climb out of bed. Feel way around bed. Follow light coming from Bryson’s room, turn corner to bathroom. It’s empty. Cross hallway. Look in his room. He is in bed. Motionless.)

“Goodnight, bud.”

Footnote: The following morning, Bryson says he remembers his nightmare and wonders why I did not help him. “I kept saying, ‘My throat is sore, my throat is sore.’” That’s not what I heard and I’m sticking by my story. Because I was the only one awake.

Proof that, in an electronic world, corporations are more out of touch than ever. Below is an email sent to Gevalia coffee after I received a letter that it would be late delivering the coffeemaker and two packs I coffee I ordered (how much would you pay? $99.95? $79.95? How about $49.95? No, I received all that for just $14.95). They offered to cancel my order. The reply to the email below was, "Thank you for contacting customer service." And yes, the product was received.

I've just been informed my order is late, and if I do not contact you within 37 days, you will cancel the order. This is to let you know to keep me on the list no matter how long it takes. A free coffeemaker for $16.95 in coffee? Please, where else am I going to get that deal? I appreciate your rather paltry offer of 20 percent off any items in the catalog (which would hardly make me happy as a valued customer, but I am not, as you will see, a valued customer), but I will pass since I have no intention of ordering any coffee once I receive the coffeemaker.

Thanks again. I await patiently my coffeemaker, as well as the opportunity to cancel Gevalia service as soon as I receive it.

Scott Craven

“So you’re telling me I’m not invited.”

“According to their wishes, right.”

“Do you think they had me in mind when they told you their wishes?”

“I’m not sure they had anybody in mind. This was just the way they wanted it to be.”

“So you’re telling me I can’t come to my own father’s retirement party.”

“Well, yeah, in so many words. It’s just that everyone involved wanted a very low-key affair.”

“Whose decision was this exactly?”

“It was your dad’s. Well, and the other two guys retiring. We wanted to do something special. I mean, they’d been here almost 100 years between them. Your dad has been here 40 years. Of course we wanted to do something bigger. Something where all friends and family members would be invited. But they didn’t want that. What they wanted was a quiet lunch at their favorite restaurant on their last day. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“I understand that. But that shouldn’t preclude me from coming. This is my dad’s retirement, a huge day for him. He’s given everything he has to the company, and I want to be there to thank him for all the things he did there. Because he made some sacrifices to make sure his family did OK. To make sure I could go to college. Can you understand any of this?”

“Of course I do. But I’m only doing what they asked for. No family members. Just close friends at work. You’re not the only person to be upset. But everyone else has understood.”

“Then that’s their problem, not mine. Because, honestly, I don’t see how you can keep me from being there.”

“I would just remind you what they wanted, and then hope you make the right decision.

It’s not that you wouldn’t be welcome. It’s just that you’re not … invited.”

“Yeah. Their wishes. I get it. And I will make the right decision. Bye.”

--

“Hi, you’ve reached the America West reservation center. My name is Linda. How can I help you today?”

“Hi Linda. I’m interested in a roundtrip to San Francisco.”

“OK, and what is your departing city?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. Phoenix.”

“Phoenix to San Francisco?”

“Right.”

“And when were you thinking of going?”

“Well, this Friday, if anything available.”

“We’ll certainly check all the possibilities. When would you be returning?”

“Sunday.”

“That would be the 17^th, right?”

“Exactly, the 17^th.”

“Let’s look at Friday first. Unfortunately I can’t offer you any discounts because-“

“Yeah, I know. This is kind of a last-minute thing so I know I’m going to have to pay a premium. But it’s worth it.”

“We have several flights available that day to San Francisco. Do you have a specific time of day in mind?”

“Whatever gets me there pretty early. I need to be in the city before noon.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got for that morning. The 6:45 flight will get you into SFO by, let’s see, 8:50. There’s also a later one that departs Phoenix at 7:20 that will get you San Francisco at, wait, oh never mind. That stops in Ontario. I was wondering why the arrival wasn’t until 11:30. The only other one I see for the morning has a departure time of 8:30 and arrives at 10:45.”

“Let’s go with the earlier one. Just to be sure. That’s gets me there a lot earlier than I need to be, but that’s OK.”

“Great. Let’s look a Sunday. What time did you have in mind?”

“Mid-morning or so. I’m a little more flexible on that one.”

“Here’s one that departs San Francisco at 10:35 and gets you into Phoenix at, well, 12:45. There’s another flight that leaves at 11:20-“

“No, that first one sounds good. That’ll be fine.”

“OK, let’s see the fare … leaving Friday, coming back Sunday, that’ll be $465 round trip.”

“Oh man, that’s even higher than I thought. If I change flights, can I get something a little lower?”

“Well, let me try a few different combinations. Hold for just a few minutes.”

“No problem. I need to get there, but if I can save a little money along the way, it’d help. I’m surprising my dad on his retirement.”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful. Just a few more seconds …”

“He’s been with the same company for most of his life. He got the job when he got out of the Navy. Insurance. He didn’t tell me a lot about what he did but I remember this one story where he went to check some guy’s claim and I guess he made him mad and this guy grabbed my dad’s coat, only my dad weighed something like 110 pounds and he just slips out of his coat and takes off running while this guy chases-“

“OK, if you take the later flight Saturday, looks like we can save you some money. That one prices out at $370. Would you like to try that one?”

“What time will that one get me to San Francisco?”

“10:45.”

“Man, that’s cutting it kind of close. Do you have any idea how long it would take to get from there to downtown?”

“No, I’m really not aware of that.”

“Let’s see, if it takes me, like, 15 minutes to get out of the airport, grab a bus at around 11, and it should take no more than an hour to get downtown, right?”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know.”

“Yeah, that’s OK. Um, let’s go with the cheaper one. That should work.”

“OK, let me get your name and address and we’ll go from there.”

--

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know when we might be pulling away from the gate? Any idea?”

“No sir. When the pilot gets the OK, we’ll be on our way.”

“The people at the counter said there was some fox in San Francisco, but that they still expected us to take off on time.”

“Right, but the weather changes all the time. We’ll take off as soon as we get the OK.”

“But has anyone said when that might be, if the airport is closed or anything? Could it be just a few more minutes, or could this be-“

“As soon as the pilot gets the OK, we’ll be on our way. There’s really nothing else I can tell you at this point.”

”But has the pilot said anything? Because I really need to be there on time, there’s this lunch and my dad-“

“As soon as the pilot gets the OK, we’ll pull away from the gate and be on our way. Now sir, if you don’t mind, I have to attend to a few other things before we take off.”

“Sure, sorry. So as soon as the pilot gets the OK-“

”We’ll be on our way. Yes sir. We appreciate your patience.”

“Yeah, it’s just that … damn.”

“This sucks, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“This. Just sitting here. You get on the plane and no one says anything about a delay, then once everyone’s on, we just sit here. And they don’t tell us anything.”

“All I wanted was a little information. You’d think they’d know if it was going to be three minutes or three hours. Just tell us, you know?”

“My last flight, SF was fogged in all morning. At least we were still on the concourse when we found out the flight was delayed. We didn’t get in until, like, 2. I missed my meetings, but what are you going to do?”

“If I miss my thing today, I mean, this is like a one-shot deal. If I miss it, it’s over. That’s it.”

“Sorry to hear that. I’m lucky because the people I work with know how chancy it is to fly into the city this time of year.”

“I didn’t even think of that. I just figured everything would go OK.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why you heading north?”

“My dad. His retirement party. Been with the same company for, I don’t know, forever. Forty years. More, I think.”

“Man, you don’t see that anymore. I’m on my, let’s see … third, no, fourth job in, hmm … nine years.”

“That’s like everybody now, I know. I can’t imagine staying with one company for so long. But that’s my dad’s generation.”

“No kidding. When I retire, I’m not going to have a cake and a gold watch or anything. Maybe a Triscuit and a Timex. Yeah, probably. It’s just that if I want to move up, seems I gotta switch companies. Better offers. Got to go where the money is.”

“I feel the same way. But you know? I didn’t find this out until, about, maybe a couple of years ago. We’d been in the Bay Area for two or three years after my dad was transferred from LA. And then he was offered this job at division headquarters. This huge promotion. Big raise. Prestige. The whole thing.”

“Very cool.”

“Only I was about to go into high school and my brother was in his senior year. The job would have taken him to Boston. So he said no. Like that. Didn’t even talk to us about it. He saw how upset the family was moving from LA and he wasn’t going to put us through that again. I mean, this was a step toward being the boss of the whole division. He wasn’t going to get this opportunity again. And he said no. And he finally tells me all this, you know, more than 20 years later, and to him it’s no big deal. And while he’s telling me, his face has this look that says, ‘Oh, I never mentioned this?’”

“Sounds like he had his priorities.”

“Yeah, he did … Jesus, when the hell we going to take off?”

--

“Hi, I need to get to downtown.”

“Where downtown?”

“Financial district. End of Market. Near the Bay Bridge.”

“Follow this sidewalk to a crosswalk, the white one down there, cross and you’ll see a sign that says ‘SF Muni.’ You want the No. 110 Market.”

“How long will that take?”

“You need to go to just about the end of the line. I’d say a little more than an hour.”

“No, I need to be there in, uh, 35 minutes.”

“Cab.”

“Cab?”

“Only thing that will get you there in 35 minutes. Cab.”

“Where do I get a cab?”

“Follow the sidewalk. Go past the crosswalk to the next crosswalk. You’ll see the cab stand. Might be a line.”

--

“I need to get to the financial district. End of Market. There’s a restaurant there at the foot of the Bay Bridge-“

“Sinbad’s.”

“Yeah, Sinbad’s. Any idea how long it will take.”

“About 45 minutes.”

“But the guy in the transportation booth said you could get me there in 35 minutes.”

“Traffic. People in the booth never consider traffic. More traffic around this time. Lunch.”

“That’s why I need to get there in 35 minutes. I’m meeting someone for lunch.”

“OK, see what I can do.”

“Any idea how much it’ll be?”

“Probably, let’s see … you know, from the airport you pay a surcharge.”

“A surcharge?”

“Yeah. They charge us more, so we charge you more. Riders always complain. Surcharge? There’s a surcharge? It’s not up to us. They charge us, we charge you.”

“So how much?”

“With the surcharge, about $40.”

“Damn.”

“No surcharge, it would be cheaper.”

“Well, at this point time is more important than money. I just need to be there as soon as possible.”

“See, traffic not so bad here. Airport not bad, freeway not bad. See? But city very busy right now.”

“Just, you know, do what you can. Because it’s really important.”

“I know. Always in hurry. I always go fast as I can. But not always good enough, no. People late, people rush. Be here for this, there for that. Not my fault be late. I just drive.”

“Definitely, you bet. But if I miss this, I miss it. Forever.”

“Well, I do best I can.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it. I know my dad would too. If he knew.”

“Your dad?”

“He’s retiring today. I’m going to be, like, the only family member there. He didn’t want a big deal, so it’s a surprise. Flew in from Phoenix just for this.”

“Phoenix. Must be hot there.”

“Yeah. Not too bad. Yet. A lot nicer here.”

“What does your dad do?”

“Insurance. Not sales. I tell people that and they get this image of this really annoying guy who calls you up every two weeks telling you you need more insurance. He’s in claims. Was in claims. He was a boss. One of them.”

“Hmm.”

“I didn’t really know much about what he did while I was growing up. But right now he’s the Assistant Division Claims Manager for the Pacific region. So he’s the No. 2 man.”

“…”

“The No. 1 guy is retiring today too. He’s a few years older than my dad. I think my dad wouldn’t be retiring if he’d been offered that guy’s job. But he wasn’t. Some guy from another office got it. I don’t know the whole story, only that the guy is in his 30s. And my dad wasn’t quite ready to work for someone who could be his own son. He worked too long and too hard for that. So he retired. Quietly. Because that’s how he does things. For the most part.”

“You want a phone number to complain about the surcharge?”

“Yeah, sure. Why not? Let me find a pen.”

--

“Anchor Steam, please.”

“Want a glass?”

“Please. Geez, great view.”

“Yeah, it’s not a bad place to work, get to see that every day. You should see it just as the fog is lifting. You can still see the pillars and the road, but this low cloud will shroud the towers. Hardly ever happens that way, usually the fog down low is the last to burn out, but when it happens, it’s amazing. You just want to stop and stare. And then it’s gone.”

“Hey, have you seen a large group come in? Business suits, mostly older guys?”

“No, no one like that. There was a group of maybe six, but no more than that. But they were older in suits. Like that doesn’t describe just about everyone who comes in here.”

“So no big groups in yet? Lots of toasting, laughing, that sort of thing?”

“So far pretty quiet. As far as anything like that goes. What time is your party starting?”

“No, it’s not my party. It’s for a few guys retiring. It’s supposed to start, well, it was supposed to start about 20 minutes ago.”

“I haven’t seen anything like that yet. We get our share of retirement parties. Easy to spot. Lots of drinks. The old guys look like they have no idea what’s going to happen next. The younger guys are smiling because they’re moving to the corner office.”

“One of the retirees is my dad.”

“Hey, that’s great. He must be pretty happy.”

“I think so. For the most part. It wasn’t a mandatory thing, he chose to. So yeah, I think it’s a good thing.”

“He must have plans.”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“I’m nowhere near retirement, but I sure wouldn’t mind that kind of time off. Got more important things to do than tend bar, right?”

“No kidding. But it still seems kinda backwards to me. We’ve got to work hard, put in a lot of hours to make sure our family, our kids have what they need. Only we’re gone so much, working. Then we retire, finally get all that time coming to us. Only the kids are grown and the house seems way too big, and all those things you wanted to do, there’s no one to do them with.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

“Too bad no one can invent a system that allows us to raise our kids then, when they’re on their own, we go to work and pay it all back.”

“But at 50, after 20 years of kids, you’re probably not going to have the energy to drag your ass to work every day.”

“Probably not. Looking back, I don’t know how my dad did it. Getting up at 5, quick breakfast, heading into the city, work, head back, home at 6:30. Yes he still had the energy to keep up with his two sons. The homework, the problems, the discipline, just hanging even. He was at work a lot, but he was always there for us. I remember playing games and cards and basketball and football. He was there for me.”

“My dad was a lot like that. I was lucky. He could push a little too hard sometimes, starting with Little League because he went absolutely batshit over that, even though I hated it and played maybe two innings a game in right field.”

“My dad wasn’t like that. He was mostly supportive, though I still can’t believe he made me play in a Little League game instead of going to Bat Day at Anaheim Stadium.”

“Man, that’s rough.”

“And I was pretty much a scrub, too. The manager probably would have loved it if I didn’t show, but my dad said I had a responsibility. Still, he was always there for me. Not that he was at every game, or was there all the time I needed help on homework or whatever. I remember this one time, we were in the kitchen together and I have no idea why this came up, but he says something like, ‘Son, do you know about where babies come from?’”

“Oh shit, that’s not a conversation I ever had with my dad. No way. It was like, ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’”

“That’s almost how it was with my dad. Only now he’s saying, ‘You know that a man’s penis becomes erect and is inserted into the woman’s vagina’ and all I can do is nod my head. I mean it was, ‘Dad, you’re like five years too late, man.’ Hell, I was 16! But looking back, I’m pretty sure he brought it up to err on the side of caution. Hoping I knew it but just in case …”

“Cool, he was just looking out for you.”

“Yeah, he was. Like this other time – wait, I’m just going off, aren’t I?”

“It’s OK. Go on.”

“I had just graduated from college. Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Funny, I never really had a choice about where I was going, it was always Cal Poly from the beginning. But it turned out pretty damn good. Anyway, I’d decided that I was going to pack the back of my car and drive to Colorado to find a job.”

“Colorado?”

“Yeah. Rocky Mountain High, that whole thing. I’d grown up in California and I was pretty sick of the sun and sand. I wanted something completely different. I wanted winter, snow, heavy jackets.”

“Be careful what you wish for.”

“Now you tell me. I wasn’t sure how to break this news to my dad because he was all, ‘Son, you can stay with us as long as you want until you find a job around here, build up a nest egg and when you feel comfortable, you can start looking for a place of your own.’ And here I am wondering just how much I can fit in the back of my Datsun.”

“Oh man, my first car was a Datsun. Only it’s Nissan now, right?”

“Yeah, it is. I had a Datsun B-210 hatchback. It was called a Honeybee. Was that gay or what? Especially for a car.”

“Yeah, that’s gay.”

“So my dad came down to Poly to help me pack. And when we’re done and about to leave, I tell him about Colorado.”

“Let me guess – he didn’t take it real well.”

“Pretty much. He just started screaming, saying I was making a big mistake, that I was more than welcome – hell, I was expected to spend a year or two at home, build up a nest egg. That fucking nest egg. I will never forget that.”

“So what happened?”

“When it was pretty clear I wasn’t going to change my mind, what with being 21 and naturally irresponsible, he turned around and stalked off. There were these railroad tracks and he’s walking along them and I watch him until he rounds the bend and is out of my sight. So I wait, go into the apartment one more time to make sure I got everything.”

“Let me guess – that’s the last time you saw your dad until today.”

“Yeah, how did you know? No, not quite. He came back about a half hour later. We didn’t say much, just got back into our cars and drive back home. About two weeks later I left, my car holding clothes, my TV, my stereo and about 100 albums. And I left to seek my fortune.”

“Did he ever get over it?”

“The night before I left, as I was jamming the last of my stuff in the car, he comes out, you know, doing the fatherly thing, making sure all was well. And he says, ‘Look in the glove compartment.’ OK, I look. There’s an envelope. ‘Open it.’ I open it. I start flipping through this sheaf of $20 bills. ‘There’s $600 there and more if you need it. We don’t agree with everything you do, but we will always be there for you.’ And he hugs me. ‘I won’t be there in the morning when you leave,’ he says. ‘I don’t think I can take it. But know that I love you very much, and wish the very best for you in everything. And I will miss the hell out of you.’”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. And now I’m here. To wish him well. Hardly seems like enough.”

“There’s a bunch of older guys coming in now, looks like it might be your group.”

“Cool. Hey, I’m just going to sit here, let them get settled. Then I want to send over a beer, have the waitress point me out. Then just stroll over there and shake my dad’s hand. Think he’ll like that?”

“Yeah, he’ll like that.”

“I think so too.”

when bryson came home from school and finished his homework, he said, "can i play seminary?" now, if a game called seminary existed, i would probably not let him play it. "so if my guy quotes revelations right and molests another three kids, he goes to the catholic priest level." bryson meant, of course, mercenaries. and since it only involved mindless violence, i said, "you bet bud." when i left the room, his soldier had commandeered a hummer (or at least a vehicle that looked like a hummer, saving the video game makes about $1.2 million in licensing fees) and was driving recklessly through the camp. i let him play about 20 minutes and then told him get outside. "but daddy, let me just run over this guy." no, outside now." "ok, let me just drive over the cliff and blow up." now i am not sure what was more disturbing, the fact my son plays a game solely to run people over or do drive off cliffs to blow up, or the fact i understood his requests and would have been fine with either and that my decision to boot him off the game related only to time.

Conversation between Dusty, a shepherd mix, and Lizzie, an Australian cattle dog, part 3:

“They’re here.”

“Who’s here?”

“Them.”

“Who?”

“The people.”

“What people?”

“The food people.”

“The food people?”

“The food people.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

“How do you know?”

“Know what?”

“That the food people are here.”

“I heard the noise.”

“What noise?”

“The food people noise.”

“What food people noise?”

“The noise you hear and then see the food people.”

“Oh, the food people noise.”

“Right.”

“The noise the food people make.”

“Right.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the food people place.”

“Where?”

“The food people place.”

“What’s the food people place?”

“The place the food people come after you hear the noise.”

“What noise?”

“The food people noise.”

“What food people noise?

“The noise the food people make.”

“The noise the food people make and then come to the food people place.”

“Right.”

“Where is the food people place?”

“Right here.”

“Right where?”

“In front of this door.”

“What door?”

“The door we are in front of.”

“This door?”

“This door.”

“This is the food people place?”

“Yes. When you hear the food people noise, you come to the food people place.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“…”

“…”

“Because it’s what we do.”

“It’s what we do?”

“Yes.”

“Why do we do it?”

“…”

“…”

“Because …”

“Yes?”

“Because …”

“Yes?”

“…”

“…”

“Because the food people are here.”

“The food people are here?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Because we are in the food people place.”

“Where are the food people?”

“They’re here.”

“Where?”

“Coming.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Good.”

“Yes, good.”

“Very good.”

“Yes. Let us bark.”

“Yes. Bark.”

“Bark.”

“Bark.”

“Bark.”

“That’s good.”

“OK.”

“Bark.”

“Bark.”

“The door is opening.”

“Yes, it is opening.”

“I hear the food people.”

“The food people, the food people!”

“Let us bark. Bark!

“Bark!”

“It is the food people! Run and jump!”

“Where?”

“On the food people!”

“Why?”

“…”

“…”

“Because it’s what we do!”

“Yes. We jump.”

“For the food people!”

“For the food people!”

“Bark!”

“Bark!”

There is a time in every relationship, whether it’s a frienship or involves sex or both, where you realize the other person knows you almost as well as you know yourself (and is quicker to admit that, yes, you would buy a Liza Minelli album if you knew no one was looking).

But not long after that realization hits comes an inexplicable moment when that bond is shattered, when you question not only that person’s true knowledge of who you are, but if you can trust them with your Liza Live on Broadway DVD.

It can happen in a split second, as when she buys you a four-pack of some fruity malt-based beverage made by a company that has no business making anything but hard liquor (Smirnoff or Bacardi) and then says, “You’ll like this because it’s kind of a beer only better.”

Or it can play out slowly, the agony stretching out over a period of an hour or two, like the first time he brings home a movie starring one of those actors on Friends. Only it’s one of the guy actors.

It happened to me not long ago. A very good friend of mine, whom I will call Paula because that’s what she likes to go and happens to be the name on her driver’s license, invited me over for Thanksgiving dinner.

“Now I want to warn you,” she said. “My mother will be there. And my sister. And her husband. And I know how you aren’t too crazy about that.”

How right she was. I was not crazy about that. Paula’s mom hasn’t liked me since I dropped the F-bomb, only it was more like a laser-guided F-missile to a woman who firmly believes that “a good blow” is simply a weather term. If she were a contestant on “Spot that Sex Euphemism,” her buzzer would remain as silent as the audience at a Rob Schneider movie.

As far as her sister and brother-in-law, well, they lived in Albuquerque. Voluntarily. Even people who live in Albuquerque aren’t crazy about people in Albuquerque.

Paula also said she would not be serving turkey or ham, not my favorite meats (unless they were fried). Instead it would be pork. And while she was going to pop open a bottle of wine, she also would have plenty of beer that did not start with the words Bud, Coors or Miller.

She knew me so well.

Or so I thought.

Being a man and thus forced to live with the genetic inability to pitch in, I watched football and waited patiently for that moment I would be called to the table. My beer was cold, the football was good and the pork smelled delicious.

This could well have been the best Thanksgiving ever, making up for the ban on the F-bomb by saying things like, “There’s nothing better than great social intercourse,” in hopes I could get Paula’ brother-in-law to cough up his wine (yeah, he drank wine, which is almost as bad as living in Albuquerque),

It was a good day. Until I sat down at the table.

Paula, knowing me very well, also made sure to have jellied cranberry sauce. Not the real sauce with real cranberries in real juice. But cranberry sauce as God designed it, a gel that made this really cool sucking sound when it came out of the can, landing on the dish with a wet, slimy plop.

So as I settled into my chair, I looked for dish that held one of my holiday favorites, knowing the cylinder-shaped treat would shimmer smartly under the lights, cut into half-inch-thick circular wedges that leaned against one another like fallen dominoes. Because when I saw it, I would take the large spoon that surely accompanied the dish and scoop up two of the perfectly shaped slices and drop them onto my plate in such a way as to hear that satisfying and very moist plop.

Only I didn’t see it. There was the pork, the sweet potatoes, the rolls, the out-of-the-box stuffing. All the traditional Thanksgiving foods.

Except for the jellied cranberry sauce.

“Paula,” I asked. “The, uh, you know…”

I hesitated, hoping for the best. Maybe the can was still in the kitchen, needing only to be opened and the contents tastefully arranged. Maybe it had slipped her mind and it was still in the pantry. Or maybe she was waiting for just the right time, to present the jellied cranberry sauce in the middle of the table with a flourish, the piece de resistance to the Thanksgiving meal.

But what if she had forgotten it altogether? As impossible as it sounded, what if she hadn’t purchased it at all. What if the jellied cranberry sauce sat alone of a grocery store shelf a few miles away, behind doors that were locked at 4 p.m. in observance of this wonderful day?

A shudder ran through me.

“What?” she said.

“Did you buy cranberry sauce?”

“Of course. How could I forget?”

Aw, sweet relief. Well, I’d just pop up, open the can and do it myself, even if my Y chromosome screamed in agonizing pain.

“Great,” I said. “Let me get it. Where is it?”

Paula gave me her patented “You’re an idiot” look (reserved for those rare occasions I do something really stupid, like open my mouth).

“It’s right in front of you.”

“Where?”

“There.” She pointed to a white bowl and was indeed in front of me.

I peered inside. I saw no jellied cranberry sauce. All I saw was this dark purple glop, these irregularly sized chunks of, of …

Jellied cranberry sauce.

How could this have happened? How can you take one of nature’s most perfect foods and utterly destroy it like this? Why not put a four-cylinder engine in a Ferrari? Or paint the Golden Gate Bridge a UPS brown? Or open a Wal-Mart inside the Louvre?

“What the hell happened to it?” I said. “Did it tick you off somehow, causing you to beat it into submission? Did you use it to release your suppressed anger at your family? Or is this just another case of cranberry abuse?”

I expected a logical, well-thought-out explanation, an answer that would cause me to nod my head in agreement and say, yes, I understand, it was the only thing to do.

“I couldn’t get it out of the can,” she blurted. “I had to scoop it, so there you go.”

“What?” I said. “You couldn’t get it out of the can? That’s it?”

“Yeah. What else do you want? The spoon’s right next to it.”

I was, of course, still grieving.

“There must have been a way to remove it from the can without destroying it like this, turning it into cranberry gruel,” I said. “I mean, you open the can, use a can opener to open a few holes at the bottom and it slides right out. Then you slice it. That allows those at the table to pick their favorite slices, like the ones that have the indentation from the can, because those are always the best because those ridges just burst with flavor.”

“You’re rambling. Get over it.”

“But how can you do something like this? Did you even think before you started hacking at it? As you tossed it into the bowl, didn’t the unappealing nature give you a clue that what you were doing was just plain wrong?”

“Look,” she said, “I know how to get cranberry sauce out of the can. But the cans are different now. They’re molded at the bottom so there’s no way you can use a can opener on the bottom. There’s no lip. So you have to scoop it out.”

My mind raced with alternatives.

“Why couldn’t you poke the bottom with a knife? Or an icepick? A screwdriver, yeah, a Phillips head, that would have been perfect. A couple of pokes and that baby slides right out of there like pulling your-“

I don’t need to finish that sentence like I did at the table. Suffice to say the F-bomb quickly took a back seat to, well, let’s just say Paula’s mom was well aware of the euphemisms for male and female genitalia.

I have been reading to my son at bedtime ever since his vocabulary was limited to projectile spit bubbles. Many parents remember their child’s first words, but I remember Bryson’s first letter. It was B, and it was messy.

His favorite book, the one that had him rocking in his crib, was Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, an underrated Dr. Seuss classic, likely because it was really annoying for anyone old enough to have successfully completed potty training.

But 2-year-old Bryson loved it, giving the book two spit-bubbles up, a perfect score on the drool scale. He would laugh and giggle so hard he would lose half his body weight in saliva. There were times I thought I should hook him to an IV drip because sure he must be dehydrated after losing enough water to fill a wading pool. But he seemed quite content floating in his warm self-generated pool, so I let him be.

Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? isn’t so much a story as it is a series of sound effects. Apparently this Mr. Brown had the kind of oral skills that kept Mrs. Brown quite happy. Not only could Mr. Brown moo, he could mimic a train, a sizzling strip of bacon and a butterfly kiss. He also did excellent impersonations of rain, a bell and breaking wind. Wait, that last one, if I remember correctly, was me. It was always a huge hit and I pretended it was in the book so as not to spoil the mood.

No matter how many books I might hold up to Bryson when it was bedtime, he would invariably indicate his preference for Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?, usually by blowing a spit bubble its way. And it was the perfect tome for his primitive mind as it struggled to link sounds (my voice) to meaningful information (“Who is this Mr. Brown, and why does he think his ability to moo is an appreciable skill?”) So as I related this fascinating tale to the point where I really no longer needed the book to guide me, Bryson lay there smiling and drooling, perhaps much like Roger Ebert looks while in the middle of a four-star film.

Being a published author (OK, a journalist, but Reader’s Digest has picked up, edited, stripped down and made totally meaningless two of my articles in the last 12 years), I wanted to stress the importance of reading to my son. Because reading is good, as any teacher, politician or volunteering do-gooder of the Literacy Foundation will tell you. It’s good because studies have shown that thanks to the ability to read, you will know such valuable things as how the right lane is ending up ahead, allowing you to speed up and pass as many motorists as you can before cutting over at the last second. And this is proof alone that many people know how to read.

But I wanted my son to know more than, when driving by a 7-Eleven, all Slurpees are on sale for 99 cents regardless of size. I wanted him to develop an appreciation for literature and therefore not be condemned to a life of John Grisham, Tom Clancy of Robert James Waller. Eeewwww, Robert James Waller. I planned on a natural progression. We’d start with a dose of old Dr. Seuss, whose zoolches and wimshaws would improve is Bryson’s floose. Or something like that. Then we’d move onto a little William Steig and then perhaps onto Shel Silverstein. After a while he’d be ready for the sports books of Matt Christopher and other chapter books (while I would find a way to divert his attention for R.L. Stine, the juvenile equivalent of Robert James Waller. Eeewwww, Robert James Waller). Then it was on to Roald Dahl, and for fun perhaps a little Lemony Snicket or J.K. Rowling. By that time he’d be in high school and no longer my concern,

No, I kid. But really, by high school I was hoping he would quickly finish his homework so he could get back to the John Steinbeck novel he ordered online from the little-known literature section on Amazon.

That was the dream. Reality has a way of screwing up the best of intentions, explaining what I like to call Bryson’s dark period, when he was 8 and insisted that I read to him several R.L. Stine books (eeewwww, Robert James Waller. No, that doesn’t really belong here, but you really can’t say that enough). I know that when I am my deathbed, my only son by my side, I am going to look into his eyes, eyes that will say, “On one hand I will miss my dad, but on the other hand I hope probate goes quickly,” I will reach up to him with whatever limb still works, I will take him by the throat and say, “You owe me that time wasted reading R.L. Stine, and it’s time to pay up with interest!”

Fortunately the Stine period passed and Bryson reached a point to where I could actually threaten him with the possibility that I would not read to him that night. “Get into your pajamas now or no book at bedtime!” “Get this room cleaned or no book at bedtime!” “If you even for a second consider going to Arizona State University, no book at bedtime!”

And it worked. Until I completely, utterly and inexorably screwed it up.

Being the indulgent father that I am, one that thinks nothing or attempting to purchase my son’s love, I purchased for him this Christmas … wait, to help you understand something. Bryson wanted something called a Juice Box and, from the way he described it, I knew I would not be fortunate to get away with something from Welch’s. Apparently this particular Juice Box depended upon proprietary technology to play cartoons and videos. Plug in a cartridge and you could watch, on a two-inch screen, a 30-minute episode of whatever was deemed entertainment by the Juice Box Committee on Just Give Them the Hardware Because We Are Totally Going to Hose Them on the Software. After doing a little research, I found that while the $69.99 Juice Box wasn’t inordinately expensive, each of the cartridges sold for $17. For 30 minutes of programming. That’s even more than HBO charges for its ultimate package of 37 channels, including the one that only Emmy voters get (with James Gandolfini promising Soprano swag for every vote).

So then it hit me – Eeewwww, Robert James Waller (does that ever get old?). In the long run, the Juice Box was going to cost me his first two years at college (“Bryson, check out this brochure from The Learnin’ Hut, that’s the admissions trailer on the cover”). But what if I spent a little extra money (remember, I’m buying his love here) on a personal DVD player? It went for three times as much, but it came with a fully stocked library of DVDs that we already owned. Besides, this was a kid who had no problem watching Max Keeble’s Big Movie 23 times. Am I really concerned about meeting all his entertainment needs?

And thus the decision was made. A personal DVD player would be his. If this couldn’t buy his love, than nothing could, except maybe telling him every now and then how much he meant to me, how proud I was of him and how I would always be there for him. Nah, he’d never buy. I’m sticking with the DVD player.

It went over very well, based on his “Oh man! Woo hoo! This is so totally awesome! Look! A DVD player! Dad, I love you so much!”

See?

The parent-of-the-year feeling dissolved that night. As Bryson climbed into bed and I reached for the Lemony Snicket book that we were more than halfway through, my son looked at me and said, “Can I watch a Simpsons DVD instead?”

More than seven years of literary training had dissolved in seconds. The DVD had supplanted the book faster than you can say, “But you love me, right?”

It could have been worse. He could have asked to see Bridges Over Madison County, a film based on the book by, eeewwww ...

Story doesn’t follow local man out of bathroom

PRINCETON TOWNSHIP, N.J. – An insurance adjuster encountered a violation of personal space inside the fourth-floor men’s room, yet did not share the potentially humorous encounter with co-workers.

Larry Genesee, 43, of Midco Insurance, entered the empty bathroom and took the last of four urinals, as is his custom when all are vacant. About 10 seconds into his urination, Daniel Fowler, 28, of the claims department entered and stationed himself at the third urinal, right next to Genesee.

About 30 seconds later, Genesee zipped up, washed his hands and returned to his desk without saying a word, according to witnesses.

Genesee’s failure to rant shocked those in adjacent cubicles.

“When I heard about it a few hours later, how some guy walked in and peed right next to Larry even when the other urinals were empty, I was amazed,” said Craig Denderstahl, 35, an 11-year veteran at Midco who’s worked next to Genesee for three years. “I hadn’t heard a peep from Larry, and he usually goes off on just about anything. Like last week when he delivered this 15-minute monologue about a woman who left her grocery cart in the middle of the aisle. I’d think a guy pissing next to him would be worth about 20 minutes.”

Vince Troy, 57, Genesee’s supervisor, entered the men’s room just in time to see Genesee glance quickly at the man next to him before finishing.

“I knew it would be trouble,” Troy said. “Every time something like that happens to Larry, such as the guy who was in front of him at Starbucks and ordered, like, 20 lattes, he has to fill everybody in on the details, going off on how clueless some people are. It really affects productivity. I actually have to build Larry-based downtime into our budget.”

Troy followed Genesee to his desk, hoping the employee would notice his boss and keep the rant to 10 minutes or less. Instead, Genesee remained silent.

Charlene Brevant, 47, who sits across from Genesee and has perfected what she calls a “Signature anti-Larry move” to avoid his patter – pressing the test button on her phone to make it ring, saying “I have to get this” – knew something was up when she saw her boss following Genesee to his desk.

“That only means one of two things,” Brevant said. “Either Larry was going to take it up the ass again, or something happened and Larry was about to rant.”

Taking no chances, Brevant turned toward her phone as Genesee returned to his cubicle, her finger poised over the test button. But Genesee remained silent as he studied the latest actuarial tables.

“I thought I was going to get another story like the one last week when he went on and on about how he deserves both armrests when he’s stuck in the middle seat in coach,” Brevant said. “But he goes right back to the actuarial tables, which was somewhat comforting because he has no fucking clue what they mean, so it was still Larry being Larry.”

Theresa Grivens, associate professor of psychology at Princeton, said Genesee’s unusual behavior likely is related to the gradual fading of the Seinfeld factor.

“When that show came on, America was inundated with scenes revolving around insignificant events,” Grivens said. “One week no one cares about the guy who takes the last cup from the water cooler without replacing the bottle, and all of the sudden it’s fodder for discussions, leading to one petty grievance after another.”

By the show’s fourth year, incessant babble about nothing was up 38 percent compared to the typical pre-Seinfeld year, according to the American Association for Meaningless Statistical Tracking, which also said bathroom stall doors were 12 percent shorter today than in 1963.

But the most recent study shows baseless conversations down 19 percent since Seinfeld’s last season.

“It’s a gradual decline since reruns can still be seen on four out of five cable stations,” Grivens said. “And I expect worthless observations to rise in the double digits thanks to the Seinfeld DVDs now on the market, and it could double or triple if TBS becomes the Seinfeld Station, which could happen if it fills its last two non-Seinfeld hours with reruns.”

Genesee refused to comment, saying only, “Sorry, I’ve got to get this.”

I hear the rustle first, then the soft thump of feet landing on the carpet.

Here we go again.

At this point I can predict it. He will come into my room, a perplexed look on his face, a nameless terror in his mind. He will talk excitedly about a non-existent situation, either A) asking for or B) demanding that I come and see what only he could.

Either way, my answer is always the same.

“Hey bud, need to go to the bathroom?” I say in same tone I use when asking the dog if he wants to go out.

Over the last year, this twice-a-month drama, in which my sound-asleep son seeks my assistance to battle an unknown demon that is easily slain when he empties his bladder, will play out the usual way. Frantic child roams the house, is persuaded to pee, goes back to sleep.

This night seems the same, the padding of feet on the carpet, a shadow shifting outside my bedroom door thrown by a nightlight bright enough to read by, him poking his head in and demanding via incomplete sentences that I investigate a sound or mysterious figure or (once) the disappearance of his brother, who no doubt was sleeping comfortably a few miles away at his mom’s house.

But when the steps continue down the hallway, followed by a rattle as if a dozen paper towels had quickly been stripped from the roll, I go into active-parent mode.

“Hey bud, need to go to the bathroom?”

No answer. No sound at all.

Damn. Now I am going to have to get out of bed.

Then, a faint “Mommy … ?” His voice is hesitant, cracking. Filled with fear.

I flip off the covers and flip on the light. “Bryson?”

“Daddy?”

Stepping into the hallway, I see him standing there, his hands shaking in front of him. He turns his head toward me.

“Daddy?”

His talent for facial recognition suffers during these nighttime strolls, so I have learned to assure him.

“No, I only resemble your father, I am actually a demon spawned from Hell determined to steal your soul and lead you into an eternity of suffering, bwah hah hah hah!”

Well, no, I really didn’t say that, but I’ve always wondered what would happen if I did.

“Yeah, bud, it’s me.”

“Daddy, you have to see, you have to, you have to, you have to-“

“You have to go to the bathroom,” I say, my knowledge of dealing with his nightmares pretty much beginning and ending with the toilet.

“But Daddy, I don’t know, it’s, I can’t-“

I steer him toward the bathroom, the Room of Answers. Here he will find what it is that he seeks, and I will find a relief of my own, a release from his incomprehensible chatter to which I can only nod and say, “You’re safe, you’re sound asleep, here, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

I learned very early on during this sleepwalking episodes that Bryson doesn’t always follow the proper bathroom-going sequence, resulting in a situation that simply makes Daddy cranky. All the necessities are there: the pulling down of the pants, the pulling up of the shirt, the grasping and pointing of the penis, the urination. It’s just not always in that order. The final and most critical part, the actual relieving of the bladder, can some at almost any step. He could raise his shirt, relieve himself and lower his pants. He can lower his pants, relieve himself and raise his shirt. Or he can start the whole thing off by relieving himself.

So I like to stand over him, reminding him of just what he needs to do to successfully complete the task.

I take his shoulders and center him next to the toilet (I have learned what a difference a few critical inches can make). I then talk him through it. Lower the pants. Lift the shirt. Now with one hand hold the shirt. With the other, grab, yeah, there you go.

Thanks to teamwork, there are no mishaps.

Yet the frightened look does not disappear, even has he thrusts his hands into the sink without turning on the water, rubbing them together for less than two seconds and then wiping them on the towel before he turns on the water.

As I turn off the water, I see that Bryson is grabbing his stomach and is slightly bent at the waist. Then he erupts, emitting the kind of long, deep, buzzsaw-like fart most associated with old men in care homes trying to impress the nurse.

Physics seemed to demand that Bryson be flying around the room like a balloon losing air. About halfway through I expected to see him slowly deflate, his body collapsing in on itself for surely every inch inside had been devoted to storing gas.

When it finally fizzled a few minutes later (or so it seemed) came the proof that he was utterly, inescapably and very deeply in sleep – he remained silent. Not a giggle, chuckle or guffaw. Such a stupendous occurrence normally would have had him bursting at the seams, laughing until his sides were sore, because when you are 9, there truly is nothing more hilarious than one’s own spontaneous noises.

Several aftershocks followed, defying science that tells us the body has a finite capacity. Through it all, Bryson continued spewing Nightspeak.

“I need you to … You have to … There’s something … I can’t …”

More stringent measures are needed.

“Bryson, let’s get you to sit on the toilet for a while, OK?”

Some primitive part of his brain kicks in at this point because the first thing he does is to lower his pants. Bryson is the typical boy who waits until the last second to answer this part of nature’s call. I have watched him countless times rush down the hallway, his pants flying at half-staff, his right hand working the waistband even loser, his left grasped tightly on his cheeks, squeezing the cleft while his bowels laugh at his puny effort to keep the inevitable at bay. And yet nine times out of 10 he makes it successfully, and on the 10^th time he does his own laundry.

With this at the back of my mind, I panic when his pajama bottoms puddle around his ankles because his is still more than two feet away from the bowl.

“Waitwaitwaitwait nononono,” I say, wondering if my version of Nightspeak will sink into his brain. “Don’tdon’tdon’tdon’t.”

I lower the seat, grab his left elbow, spin him around and plop him down.

Phew.

As he sits in silence, I once again go over all the facts with him.

“You’re safe, you’re home, you’re with Daddy who has risen from the grave to-“

No, of course not. So then why is that so tempting?

I am calm, rational and eager to go back to bed. I then try to explain what’s happening to him, why he may feel uncomfortable, experiencing the kinds of cramps that normally afflict women once a month.

No, wait, let’s cut out that last part.

“Something you may have eaten disagreed with you,” I say. “Your body is having this weird reaction to it and-“
”What do you mean disagreed?”

Wait a sec. This is a rational thought, an expected response to outside stimuli, which never happens when Bryson is sleepwalking.

His bowels have done what I could never do; awakened him.

“You see, sometimes we eat things and for some reason your tummy has a hard time with it and pretty soon you’re not feeling good,” I say.

“So what disagreed?”

“I have no idea. Sometimes it just happens.”

A few minutes later, when it seemed fairly clear the seismic shifts inside the youngster had faded, Bryson stood and pulled up his pants.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

“Yeah.”

I tuck him in, kiss his cheek, ruffle his hair and say goodnight.

“Daddy, will it disagree with me again?”

“I really hope not. But if it does, I’ll grab the video camera real quick because, honestly, it’ll be better than an episode of The Simpsons.”

Besides, I think, science might be interested as well.

Conversation between Dusty and Lizzie, neighborhood dogs, part 2

-

“I’m here.”

“I know.”

“How do you know.”

“Your nose.”

“My nose?”

“Your nose. I feel it.”

“You feel my nose?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll stop.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s good.”

“It’s good?”

“It’s good.”

“Then I’m done.”

“I’m leaving.”

“I’m following.”

“OK.”

“Where are you going?”

“Here.”

“Me too.”

“I’m here.”

“Me too.”

“I know.”

“Now where?”

“Here.”

“I’m following.”

“I know.”

“Where are we?”

“Here.”

“Here is good.”

“But now I am going over there.”

“There?”

“No, here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Here is good.”

“Here is my bone.”

“I want a bone.”

“You can’t have a bone.”

“I want that bone.”

“Here.”

“What?”

“The bone.”

“What bone?”

“The bone in my mouth.”

“I want that bone.”

“I know.”

“I am going to take it.”

“OK.”

“You’re not letting go.”

“Here is the bone.”

“You need to let go.”

“I’m letting go.”

“Let go.”

“I’m about to let go.”

“I’m pulling.”

“You’re pulling.”

“Because you’re not letting go.”

“I want to let go.”

“Then let go.”

“I can’t let go.”

“Then I will growl.”

“I let go.”

“You did not let go.”

“I want to let go.”

“I am baring my teeth.”

“I let go.”

“You let go.”

“Do you still have your nose?”

“I still have my nose.”

“Good.”

“Very good.”

“Sniff me.”

“Here?”

“No. There.”

“I’m following.”

“Bring your nose.”

“I will bring my nose.”