Jim Reed's Blog, page 5

THE SNOWMAN WHO WOULDN’T MELT

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/fEqTNh-KCDA

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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THE SNOWMAN WHO WOULDN’T MELT

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Just this week, a young father with two happy wiggly kids in tow came into the shop and purchased a most wonderful lighted top-hatted Snowman for Christmas. I dug through decades of the Red Clay Diary to find this note about the ancestry of Mr. Snowman. It’s all about appreciating whatever we eventually have to let go:

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In my bookshop and museum of fond memories, a large lone Snowman keeps watch over the many dreamy items you can find if you get lost here for a few hours.

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This is the kind of Snowman any child would love.  That’s because he never melts.

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This is the kind of Snowman you can trust to be on duty day and night, pleasantly glowing white, always in a good mood, and within protective view of a nearby fifty-year-old life-sized Santa Claus who stares out over the village.

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Around my meltless Snowman’s neck is a violet Slinky, a breezy year-round scarf that offsets the blue and green 3-D glasses he wears.  This is one Snowman who sees the world through tinted glasses and, though he has a carrot for a nose, the carrot will stay fresh forever because it, like the Snowman himself, is made of plastic.

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Years ago, the magic Snowman was the last display-model snowman in the annual Fix-Play Display sale—you know, the gigantic Christmas decoration sale that used to be conducted by this long-gone downtown business.

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I adopted the icy figure at the Fix-Play sale and put him in charge of the shop.

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Thousands of suburbanites used to trek here once a year to purchase the kinds of decorations you can’t easily locate anywhere else. Third-and-fourth-generation customers came to Fix-Play, looking for just the right Meltless Snowman or Ancient Santa Claus to keep watch over their Christmas trees by night.

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They went away confident in the knowledge that a Snowman who won’t melt is just about as magic a Christmas present as you can possibly imagine

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

THREE DAYS A SPIT APPRENTICE

Listen to Jim’s 6-minute podcast: https://youtu.be/jHNUTru2IJU

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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THREE DAYS A SPIT APPRENTICE

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Remember back some twenty or so years ago when we wrestled with imperfect desktops and cranky printers?

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I remember:

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HOW TO CONVERT ELECTRONIC-SCREEN-IMAGE PRINT INTO GOOD OLD-FASHIONED INK-ON-PAPER PRINT IN THIRTY OR SO STEPS WHILE KEEPING BEPTO-BISMOL HANDY

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Got to print as many copies as possible before the machine revolts again…

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Must cross fingers and hope for a miracle…

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I’m right in the middle of trying to produce a bunch of copies of the Alabama Writers’ Conclave brochure announcing this year’s seminar, using my trusty HP Deskjet 940c Hewlett-Packard printer, when the damned thing stops printing and flashes this little yellow light while at the same time producing on the computer screen a message that basically says, “You’ve got the wrong toner cartridge installed, so un-install it and install the correct toner cartridge, you imbecile!”

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The machine stops printing the brochures, which means that I can’t meet half the writerly deadlines I’ve imposed upon myself, so that I hand-deliver what I have managed to print thus far.

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I cleverly un-install the printer cartridge and install one of the old cartridges (one that’s supposed to be out of ink), and the little yellow light immediately stops blinking.

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There is hope.

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I start printing more brochures, but then a sign comes up on the screen saying, “This cartridge is low on ink. Replace it. That means un-install it, you imbecile!”

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I continue running copies anyhow, keeping a close eye on the brochures so that I can stop as soon as the ink gives out, which it never does, except now the message of the screen tells me, “You’ve installed this cartridge improperly, so do it again until you get it right, you imbecile.”

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Where does a machine like this learn a term such as imbecile? I wonder.

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I make the screen message disappear and the machine keeps on printing. Wanting to stay ahead of the impending demise of the cartridge, I again place a new one in the printer and get that damned blinking yellow light again. So…I go downstairs and next door to Kinko’s and purchase a brand-new cartridge (paying premium price), thinking that perhaps the old one is faulty. As soon as I’ve tried the new cartridge and found it not working, I return to Kinko’s and get another one—which also does not work.

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Now I have to face the inevitable Fork in the Road: Do I call the local printer-repair company and pay for a house call, or do I contact Hewlett- Packard’s “help” center and sit around for hours listening to really annoying music while another computer places me on hold with some message like, “Just sit there like the imbecile you are and listen to this irritating music while a techy finishes his bologna sandwich and recreational pharmaceutical out back…then we’ll get with you.”

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The next day, having had no success in contacting either the local printer repair company or the internet technical help department, I go to Office Depot and purchase yet another cartridge, just in case the two at Kinko’s are part of a conspiratorially faulty pack. No luck with that cartridge, either. After calling and talking with three different printer repair staff members over a period of three days, none of whom is a technician and none of whom gets the message I’m leaving correct, I’m ready to give up. But I call back one more time and try to see whether a technician is available. The operator says, “You said we delivered the wrong cartridge to you?”

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“No!” I say, “I just wanted to get the printer working again.”

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“Oh,” she says, “I thought you wanted to talk with a technician, but they’re all out.”

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“I don’t care whether I talk with a technician or not,” I say, “I just want the printer repaired so that I can use it.” I’m getting snippy by now, and I’m suddenly turning four years old.

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Meanwhile, a Hewlett-Packard guy calls back (after charging me $30 via credit card) to see if the problem has fixed itself. “Well, as a matter of fact, it did fix itself,” I say, which is true, since about a half hour ago, a technician from the local printer repair company walks in unannounced, to look at the printer person-to-machine, so to speak. I tell him the problem, he takes the offending cartridge out of the printer—exCUSE me, he un-installs the cartridge—and licks his right thumb, then runs the wet thumb over the copper-colored contact surface of the cartridge. He sticks the cartridge—uh, INSTALLS it—back into the printer, and the printer starts working immediately. I try the other cartridges I’ve bought and sure enough, they don’t work until I’ve rubbed an even compound of spittle onto the contacts with my thumb.

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The technician gives me a philosophical, “Well, our job is done here, Tonto, we’d best be moseying along” look and leaves, not charging me a thing for his visit.

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When the internet Hewlett-Packard guy I’ve paid $30 calls up, I tell him what happened, and he just says, “Remarkable. I’ve never heard of such a thing,” to which I reply, “Maybe you should add this instruction to your list when making suggestions about printer repairs.” Then, as an afterthought, I say, “On the other hand, it might not work where you live. Southern spit is probably unique in its healing qualities.”

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He can only agree.

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My printer works fine. Now, I just have to un-install my attitude about printers and try to make friends with this one. After all, I’ll be spitting on it regularly from now on

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

THE VACANT THANKSGIVING CHAIR

 Life, actually…

THE  VACANT THANKSGIVING DAY CHAIR

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:*.*.*.

http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/thanksgivinghappiestsaddest.mp3

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or read on…

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Here is a true story I re-tell every Thanksgiving, just

to remind myself and you that everything that really

matters is right before us, all the time. Here ‘tis:

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THE  VACANT THANKSGIVING CHAIR

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The saddest thing I ever saw: a small, well-dressed elderly woman dining alone at Morrison’s Cafeteria, on Thanksgiving Day.

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Oh there are many other sadnesses you can find if you look hard enough, in this variegated world of ours, but a diner alone on Thanksgiving Day makes you feel really fortunate, guilty, smug, relieved, tearful, grateful…it brings you up short and makes you time-travel to the pockets of joy and cheer you experienced in earlier days…

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Crepe paper. Lots of crepe paper. And construction paper. Bunches of different-colored construction paper.

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In my childhood home in Tuscaloosa, my Thanksgiving Mother always made sure we creative and restless kids had all the cardboard, scratch paper, partly-used tablets, corrugated surfaces, unused napkins, backs of cancelled checks, rough brown paper from disassembled grocery bags, backs of advertising letters and flyers…anything at all that we could use to make things. Yes, dear 21st-Century young’uns, we kids back then made things from scraps.

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We could cut up all we wanted, and cut up we did.

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We cut out rough rectangular sheets from stiff black wrapping paper and glued the edges together to make Pilgrim hats. Old belt buckles were tied to our shoelaces—we never could get it straight, whether the Pilgrims were Quakers, or vice versa, or neither. But it always seemed important to put buckles on our shoes and sandals, wear tubular hats and funny white paper collars, and craft weird-looking guns that flared out like trombones at one end.

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More fun than being a Pilgrim/Quaker was being an Indian—a true blue Native American, replete with bare chest, feathers shed by neighborhood doves, bows made of crooked twigs and kite string, arrows dulled at the tip by rubber stoppers and corks, and loads of Mother’s discarded rouge and powder and lipstick and mashed cranberries smeared here and there on face and body, to make us feel like the Indians we momentarily were.

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Sister Barbara and Mother would find some long autumnal-hued dresses for the occasion, but they were seldom seen outside the kitchen for hours on end, while the eight-course dinner was under construction.

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There was always an accordion-fold crepe paper turkey centerpiece on display, hastily bought on sale at S.H. Kress, just after last year’s Thanksgiving season. It looked nothing like my Aunt Mattie’s turkeys in her West Blocton front yard.

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And for some reason, we ate cranberry products on that day and that day only. Nobody ever thought about cranberries the other 364 days! And those lucky turkeys were lucky because nobody ever thought of eating them except at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They were home free the rest of the year!

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Now, back into the time machine of just a few years ago.

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It is Thanksgiving Day. My wife and son and granddaughter are all out of the country. Other family and relatives are either dead or gone, or just plain tied up with their own lives elsewhere, doing things other than having Thanksgiving Dinner with me.

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My brother, Tim, my friends Tim Baer and Don Henderson and I decide that we will have to spend Thanksgiving Dinner together, since each of us is bereft of wife or playmate or relative, this particular holiday this particular year.

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So, we wind up at Morrison’s Cafeteria, eating alone together, going through the line and picking out steamed-particle-board turkey, canned cranberries, thin gravy, boxed mashed potatoes and some bakery goods whose source cannot easily be determined.

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But we laugh at our situation and each other, tell jokes, cut up a bit, and thank our lucky stars that this one Thanksgiving Dinner is surely just a fluke.

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We’ll be trying that much harder, next year, to not get blind-sided by the best holiday of the year, Thanksgiving being the only holiday you don’t have to give gifts or reciprocate gifts or strain to find the correct gifts.

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 Left to right: Tim Reed, Tim Baer, Jim Reed lining up for Thanksgiving.

Don Henderson is behind the camera.

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On Thanksgiving holidays ever since, I make sure I’m with family and friends, and now and then I try to set a place at the table of my mind, for any elderly lady or lone friend who might want to join us…for the second saddest thing I’ve ever seen is a happy family lustily enjoying a Thanksgiving feast together and forgetting for a moment about all those lone diners in all the cafeterias of the world who could use a kind glance and a smile

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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https://youtu.be/xDLnyTrOchc

FISHWRAPPERS ARE ME

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on facebook:  https://youtu.be/Q6mXlIMAQ0o

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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FISHWRAPPERS ARE ME

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I’m making my way from early-morning creaky front porch to dew-sprinkled automobile this morning. Should you pass by my home at this moment, I will wave and smile. I like doing that.

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My right hand slides down the damp metal bannister to the speckled sidewalk. I head toward the dusty white picket fence gate and pry it open. It always expands and contracts as humidity rises and falls. On the sidewalk just past the gate lies a blue-bagged folded newspaper awaiting my free hand. The other hand holds my morning liquid, my bag of necessities, my container of munchings.

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I toss the newspaper into the open car door. It lands on the front passenger seat. It is quickly topped with bag and paraphernalia. I’ll retrieve it later.

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Ever since I tenured as an adult, I have been happily addicted to the newspaper and its contents and its attending rituals.

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After a mile or two, I sit within idling vehicle, waiting for a store to open. I open the blue plastic bag, check the freshly-gnawed hole at its edge—a daily sign that some critter, hearing the PLOP of the paper on wet grass, rushed over to see whether it is edible.

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Unfolding the front page I brace myself for whatever horrors and joys will leap out—as, usually, they must do.

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Then, I search for the inside table of contents that will point me to what I want to know. First, what page will contain today’s obits? There is no better way to briefly encapsulate someone’s life. A morning short story with beginning, middle and end neatly arranged.

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Then, the quote of the day. Somebody somewhere said something worth repeating—sad, mad, glad, goofy, inspirational…whatever. Then I dive into the editorial page and its litany of grumblings and wisdoms and angrified letters. Enough to make the head swim…or at least tread.

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I unfold and expand the paper with print-smeared fingers and noisily search for the science page. I find relief within the science page because at its best it provides me with nonpolitical nonfictionalized nonagenda data. A respite from the noise of pay-attention-to-my-life or please-believe-my- exaggerated-truths or won’t-you-buy-my-product-or-my-service-just-because-I-present-it-so-charmingly.

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The  shop before me opens its doors. I stuff the newspaper parts onto the car floor and get ready to face the day. I am filled with info both new and recycled. But at least I find a way to jump-start the next 24 hours, the 24 hours till my next critter-pecked newspaper grins at me from the sidewalk or some nearby shrubbery.

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HOW OLD AM I?

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I’m so old I must hold in my hands each and every morning…a newspaper! Don’t wish to experience mornings without such a crinkly object at hand. Don’t know how I would get along without the news of the day stretched forth before me. Don’t wish to know.

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So there

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

THE DOWN-SOUTH MOON SEES YOU

Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast at: https://youtu.be/Omp-4jwRlIw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE DOWN-SOUTH MOON SEES YOU

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The full moon is suspended in a childhood southern sky. There it is, glowing like a buttermilk snowball just above the starry eastern horizon.

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It is seventy-five years ago in this deep south village, and tonight the heavens belong exclusively to eight-year-old Jimmy Three.

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Jimmy Three has the universe all to himself because he is the only kid in sight who is lying flat on his back on an old handmade quilt spread upon dewy grass.

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For this moment, Jimmy Three is just another imagination floating in the ether, allowing his dreams to guide him.

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He squints at the creamy moon and starts to form questions.

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How is it that he can hide the entire orb behind his tiny thumb? It doesn’t make sense. He learns in school that the moon is thousands of miles big. He know that he is a mere handful of inches in height, his thumb smaller still.

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So how can the moon be so easily obliterated at his personal leisure?

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Does this phenomenon occur only in Alabama skies, or is he becoming aware that any kid anywhere on the planet can mimic his inquiry? Can kids everywhere experience the firmament, observing all the wonders that adults have long ago given up?

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Will Jimmy Three one day forget about the miracles just above his head? Will life become such a full-time distraction that he forgets to dream?

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Is wonderment over when he rolls up the quilt and sleepily heads toward home? Will activities of daily living turn him into an almost-aware ghostly figure?

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Will Jimmy Three grow elderly and wizened and put-upon by responsibility as the years race forward?

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Or can Jimmy Three find a way to privately re-visit his quilty glowing dewy moments of childhood, when all that matters for a few minutes is the gossamer fact that the heavens and Jimmy Three are close friends?

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Will the heavens recall Jimmy Three’s pleasure, or will Jimmy Three take his memories away with him to a private and starry haven that nobody else, nothing else, can access?

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As a village elder Jimmy Three to this day loves questions like these, questions that you can answer any way you like, because they exist beyond science, beyond reality. But never beyond memory

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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ALABAMA THRILL HILLS

Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast:

https://youtu.be/G8-sbhT-sE0

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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ALABAMA THRILL HILLS

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Zooming around the curves of Thrill Hills, my hometown’s least heralded but at one time best-utilized roadway, was the nighttime occupation of entire generations of teenagers.

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What my father’s generation called “Thrill Hills” extended the entire length of Fifteenth Street East, from Northington Campus all the way to Five Points near the Veterans Administration Hospital. It seemed like a long way, way back then.

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What was the overriding importance of Thrill Hills to teenagers of my father’s time, and mine?

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Well, you might get different stories from different people. Thrill Hills was relatively unpatrolled at night, so kids could try out their parents’ automotive vehicles and hopefully never leave evidence behind of what speeds they achieved.

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Thrill Hills was unlighted. You could not easily be identified in the darkness.

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Back in those days, everybody knew everybody in this Down South village, so you couldn’t get away with much if you were seen whizzing by at 65 miles an hour on Fifteenth Street—a considerable speed back then.

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But my father finally told me the real reason Thrill Hills was so popular with teens.

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It was a place where for a moment you could get very close to even your most timid date for the evening.

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Once you pressed the accelerator and leapt over those steep hills in the middle of the night, into the asphalt valleys and around the surprise turns, your date would hopefully grab hold of you real tight, scream loud and get all nervous and excited.

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Back then, that was as close to Going All the Way as you could get. If you’re too young to know what Going All the Way meant, ask me or any old-timer.

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Thrill Hills also gave a girl an excuse to grab a guy without necessarily making a commitment. At least the date would be a memorable one, one you could talk about a whole passel of years later, just like my old man did. Just like I’m doing.

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Every time I come to the village of my youth I try to explore the old routes to places, and Thrill Hills is one of them.

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Unfortunately, Thrill Hills isn’t so thrilling anymore. The road has been widened and lit and striped, making it a lot less daring. The hills have been smoothed down. They no longer have those steep dips and sharp turns. They are no longer as menacing.

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The main loss is that feeling of remoteness, other-worldliness.

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Next time I’m cruising my past, I’ll take one more imaginary tour of Thrill Hills. I just may press the accelerator at the top of Thrill Hills and once again get that wonderful scary feeling in the pit of my stomach as the car zooms downward in freefall, hopefully causing my wife to grab hold of me and scream from remembered passion instead of abject disapproval.

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I won’t know this will happen till I’ve tried it, will I

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

WATCH OUT! ONE MORE DOWN-SOUTH BOOK IS ABOUT TO LAUNCH ITSELF

Life, actually…

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WATCH OUT!

ONE MORE DOWN-SOUTH BOOK IS ABOUT TO LAUNCH ITSELF 

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Not so long ago, I published a book of random leftover thoughts that didn’t make it into  previous books. The book was called WHAT I SAID. It was fun to see people’s reactions to the original bits and pieces that leapt out of my mind over the years. It is filled with ideas mad, sad, glad, bad, silly, profound, stupid, wise.

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I thought it was done, this volume of going-nowhere notes. But after the book made its rounds, the thoughts kept coming. I could not stop my brain. So, next week, yet another book will go to press, a sequel called WHAT MORE CAN I SAY?

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Here are some lines that will appear in the new book:

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Page 6. Everything happens for no particular reason.

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Page 7. A galoot is someone who does not know what a galoot is.

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Page 8. Someday I’d like to gather a bunch of artists’ collages

and turn them into old magazines.

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Page 16. Profusely equals exactly how many?

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Page 19. How does a snail know when it has a runny nose?

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Page 20. I look forward to the day First Place comes in Second.

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Page 22. A trash can is actually a time capsule.

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Had enough? The book contains hundreds of unpredictable thoughts. I am giving you a heads-up in case you want to run for cover before it comes out.

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As a bonus today, here are some more:

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Page 25. I just realized that sooner is sooner than sooner or later.

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Page 29. Boarding the asylum elevator, he found himself ascending into madness.

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Page 32. When applauding, you get a better sound by using both hands.

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Page 49. Sometimes I’m wishy, other times I’m washy.

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Page 53. It is high time we re-invented the wheel.

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Wish me luck

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

BARNEY FIFE BECOMES WYATT EARP RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES

LISTEN TO JIM: https://youtu.be/6W2RlgQ9tDU

OR READ ON…

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Life, actually…

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BARNEY FIFE BECOMES WYATT EARP RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES

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The behatted security guard stands stolid at his post, at full attention, totally focused on mission. He is there at the corner each morning for all passersby to ponder.

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In his hand is a Starbucks product, something to hold on to besides his weapon, which is neatly side-strapped and loaded for action. His dark eyeglasses perfectly match the starched and pressed khaki uniform and perfectly perched Smoky Bear hat.

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He is one notch braver than Sheriff Andy, one degree below freewheeling Dirty Harry, firmly entrenched in his stoic protector image, embedded in his role as Defender of the Bank.

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The Writer who passes by each day is like most folks in his reaction to the officer.

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Seeing him each day, perception changes in an orderly fashion.

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Here’s the order.

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1.  At first, he looks silly and out of place. In a neighborhood known for its eclectic populace—tattoo parlor right across the street, walls and alleys of graffiti everywhere, a beautiful and poetic water fountain nearby hosting panhandlers and the homeless as well as smiling tourists and over-the-mountaineers who are here to eat high and then maybe get high later, bored teenagers looking for what they wish they knew they were looking for, intellectual occupiers, new-age dreamers, clueless pedestrians, fearful drive-bys on their way someplace else, worldly shop-owners, vacuous police officers, bright and alert CAP officers, city workers…they are all intermingling and drifting past this neatly pressed officer of the law.

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2.  As you see him each day, each week, each month, he begins to look different. His belt-overhanging gut begins to seem appropriate to his loyalty to the corner, his hat is suddenly perceived as just the right hat with the just the right tilt, just the right fit, just the right symbol of dormant authority. His coffee cup is a compromise between doughnuts and diner hangout, his uniform looks like it belongs there, his demeanor again rises just above Andy, but now just below a modern-day Wyatt Earp.

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3.  After a while, this corner-protector becomes a symbol of stability and gentility, a throwback to the weaving chaos of Five Points South. The protector may be a mere bank employee whose job is to symbolize safety and dependability, but his presence is now morphed and iconic, what we expect  to see every day, a touchstone of reality in a Jello based world.

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We could use a few more street-based protectors around the rampant city—you know, officers who actually walk  the beat, merchants who dare to step outside their shops, blinking at the sun and showing us they are part of the ‘hood, elected city officials who actually dare to spend their wages inside the city instead of escaping to the shopping mall ‘burbs each night.

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I’m present here in the city, so is the protector, so are the people both enfranchised and disenfranchised. We want you to brave the city streets, too—and get to know these passing spirits as real and necessary beings.

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Y’all give it a try, you hear

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed 

SMILES THAT DIM THE SUNLIGHT

Catch Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube: https://youtu.be/Jwmr-IIBbfY

 or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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SMILES THAT DIM THE SUNLIGHT

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Here’s something to ponder. That is, here’s something to ponder if you happen to be in a pondering mood.

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I’m about to ponder, so let this be a warning to you. If this is not your Ponder Day, maybe you can avoid a preponderance of ponder by skipping today’s Red Clay Diary. There may be much better ways to spend the next four minutes.

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For us, the stragglers who decide to stick around and see what the Reed guy has to say, here it is:

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I am squinting at the front door of my little bookshop. Squinting because the outside sunlight behind an entering customer is brighter than the customer herself. I can’t make her out against the competing glare.

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Still, I do what I think is the right and polite thing to do, I greet the customer with a smile and a “How are you today?”

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The customer scours the merry clutter of the store to locate the source of my genetically deep and loud voice.

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She spies me, then responds to the friendliness within my words. Suddenly the light of day reverses itself. That’s because her smile dims all sunlight and brightens her surroundings. Sunlight is secondary for a moment.

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“I’m fine, how are you?” she replies.

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“I feel great because I’m in a bookstore,” I say.

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She adds a giggle of recognition to her smile and begins her awe-filled journey into the interior, her smile illuminating the darkened aisles.

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As all book people are aware, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in most philosophies. (My apologies to Billy Shakespeare.)

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I am taken by this person’s smile. I am taken aback. I am reminded of all the many smiles, light and dark, broad and fleeting, slow and startling, joy-filled and slightly sad, self-conscious and uninhibited…all the many smiles that have graced my life throughout these flowing years.

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This customer’s smile reminds me that I have not always taken time to appreciate the unconscious gifts of happiness that visitors offer me. How could they possibly realize the effect of these smiles on people like me?

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A natural and spontaneous smile contains more uplifting data than a thousand words of cheer could ever absorb. No preparation or editing required. No apologies or clarifications needed. No politics or wayward beliefs need intrude. No challenges or arguments or explanations are on the agenda.

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Just a good smile.

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I don’t need an interpretation or explanation or retraction. I just need to enjoy the smile, enjoy the effects of the smile, enjoy the moment no-one can take away from me.

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Is this too thoughty to ponder today? Or is it OK to take a mo’ and simply recognize the smiles that are dormant within us? Is it OK to grant permission to the interior smile, permission to surface, take over the face, turn the frown upside down? Just smile?

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I’ve had my say. Now I think I will take a few seconds to appreciate the Land of Smiles. Now I can hope that, despite all disturbances to the contrary, you, too, can be amazed at how easily that buried smile can rise up and give you hope, if only in your dreams

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

PARALLEL PARKING A PORTA-JOHN

Catch Jim’s Red Clay Diary podcast at https://youtu.be/DT12u58CyL4

or enjoy the transcript, below…

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Life, actually…

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PARALLEL PARKING A PORTA-JOHN

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After all these years living here in my Down South village, I have learned not to be surprised by just about anything that happens.

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In fact, if something not surprising takes place, I find myself taking a second look to see whether there is a hidden surprise at the bottom of the box. I remember the days when a new Cracker Jack box always contained a swell toy, a fun collectible toy. That shows you how aged I must be.

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My biggest and final Cracker Jack surprise came the day the prizes disappeared, replaced by attorney-approved harmless and boring little squares of paper that seemed to be telling me, FOOLED YOU!

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I miss those Cracker Jack surprises.

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Today, as I turn the main street downtown corner on the way to work, orange construction signs and barriers abound. There’s always something.

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I weave my way through an array of service vehicles and flashing lights and find a parking spot almost in front of the bookshop. The only thing keeping me from landing directly in front of the shop is a parked porta-john.

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I parallel park in the marked space, admiring how neatly the porta john in front of me is situated. And I wonder whether village street workers have to take lessons in how to parallel park a porta-john.

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Silly boy, I think to myself. I’ll never unravel the porta john mystery because there are way too many questions to ask. Such as, how long will the porta john grace the space in front of the shop, should I triage customers to the porta john if the shop restroom is occupied, shall I post a Reed Books sign turning the metal obelisk into a useful billboard, does a street worker feed coins into the meter every two hours, will the local predatory tow-away company remove the porta john if it parks too long?

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This is heady stuff to ponder on an otherwise routine day.

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Well, there is no such thing as a routine day in my little section of Down South. It is best to grab  a soft drink, take a deep breath and watch for the next surprise-free surprise.

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I have never been a bartender but I may know how one feels. If you are sole proprietor of a bar or a bookshop, you do not have the luxury of delegating difficult duties to someone else. The plight stops here and you have to deal with it regardless of knowledge or skill.

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For instance, a young women enters the shop, wanders around for an unusual amount of time and winds up lying on the floor to thumb through a book, all the while blocking other customers from browsing.

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When I lightheartedly suggest she make room for others she smiles sweetly and says, “No.” I try again, politely. She again says No and spread-eagles, making a considerable part of the store impassable.

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This is what I mean by bartending and bookkeeping. You have to find a peaceful way to solve a problem without risking offending other customers, without coming across as a jerk, without escalating the situation, without creating problems both legal and time-consuming.

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I am up to the task. I act as if this is just part of my day. I take action…

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What would you do?

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I guess learning to parallel-park a porta-john is easy compared to this

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed