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AAAAAAh Vacation

by Patty Perrin | May 1, 2023 | Creations, Humor

By Farrell Fand

“This is going to be the best vacation ever,” I said to Anna, my wife.

“Maybe, but do we have to use the pop-up camper?” she whined. “Driving all the way from New Jersey to Quebec with that thing behind us doesn’t seem like a good idea. Can the car do that kind of trip? It’s 525 miles, remember.”

“I had the car checked, and it’s fine to go. I’ve planned everything. I know you don’t like using the camper, but I promise we’ll only stay in campgrounds that have immaculate bathroom facilities. That’s important to you. We can’t afford to use motels, and we have a camper. It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

“Mom, we can play ‘Car Bingo’ and ‘I Spy’ while we ride,” 9-year-old daughter, Beth, encouraged.

“Can I eat cookies in the car?” our seven-year-old son, Pete, asked

“Maybe,” she responded and we left Maplewood, off for an adventure.

“Oh, Canada,” I started singing when we pulled out of the driveway.

“Dad! Stop!” Beth and Pete shouted at almost the same time.

“Stop yelling, you two. I want this to be a peaceful vacation,” warned Anna.

“And fun,” I added.

As usual, the best-laid plans of Farrell Fand ofttimes go astray, and they did regarding timing. I planned the first stop for five in the afternoon, but five became eight. We had to stop along the road and eat some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner. Then, I drove the rest of the way to our first campground.

“Bonjour,” the Canadian gatehouse attendant said.

“Bonjour,” I replied. “We’re the Fands. We have a reservation for a campsite. I’d like to get there right away. We’re exhausted from traveling. Which one is ours?”

“Bienvenue dans notre camping,” he replied.

Oops. He didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak French. Instead of talking, the Quebecer led us to our campsite, waving his arms to indicate “Follow me.”

Once we were parked, I chased him down the road yelling the only phrase I knew in French. “Ou est la toilette? Ou est la toilette?” (Where is the toilet?)

I must have said it right, because he pointed to a building just down the lane. Like the whole campground, it had decorative lights strung along its rooftop and looked festive. Hopefully, it would pass Anna’s inspection.

When we got to the door, we were a bit confused. “Dad, is this the door for the ladies’ room? Then where’s the men’s room?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s check with someone.”

Eventually, a man walked toward the door. “Do you speak English?” I tried.

“Oui, I do.”

“Where are the bathrooms? There’s only one door.”

“Oh no, there is only one. It’s for men and women.”

“Let’s get out of here, right now. I’m not using a coed bathroom. Not a chance,” Anna said to me.

“Look, it’s only one night, and I’m too tired to drive. We don’t even know where there is another campground. Can’t you try to deal with it?” I pleaded.

“Ok, but I don’t like this at all.”

Everyone survived. The next day, the trip to Quebec was relatively short, and we found our next campground easily. People there spoke both French and English. Amen, I thought. The bathrooms were sex-separate, and clean, hallelujah. That first campground was just a minor glitch on what would be a vacation our family would remember with fondness.

Quebec was a delightful place to visit. In addition to the buildings and ambiance, there were street vendors, artists who would sketch one’s portrait, and music. French was fine when it was backed up with English. We were surprised to meet someone from home in the quaint historic area of the city. An elegant dinner at a fancy French restaurant capped off the evening. Wow, what a great vacation! I thought.

That night, we returned to the campground and used the separate bathrooms. All was well. The beds in the camper were comfortable, and we drifted off to a good night’s sleep.

“What was that? It sounded like a huge crash,” Pete whispered to me.

“I heard it too. Don’t wake Mom and Beth,” I cautioned.

I needn’t have worried. A clap of thunder woke our family and probably all the sleepers in the campground, as well. Big, jagged lightning lit up the sky.

“What’s happening?” Beth was up.

“Just a little storm,” I told her. “Nothing to worry about. It’ll stop soon.”

Anna was awake too. “Are you sure about that? There’s a car driving around the campground. It has a yellow light blazing on top, and it’s going back and forth, past all the sites. That can’t be a good omen.”

She was right. The aerial bombs got louder. Lightning bolts hit the ground near us. We’re sitting ducks, I worried.

“Let’s stay close together for a while,” Anna suggested. We sat on one of the beds, and hugged each other, Anna whimpering, and all of us shaking. It took several hours for the storm to let up, but everyone finally did get back to sleep.

The next morning, we cut this leg of the vacation short and headed for the next stop, Niagara Falls. It’ll be clear sailing from here on, I thought. This will be fun.

The falls were amazing and for a fee, we could walk behind the torrents of water. “Let’s do it,” I said.

The kids were eager, Anna, not so much! “I don’t know about this,” she said. “It could be dangerous.” Our youngsters pleaded until she agreed, “Oh all right. But we have to be careful!”

An elevator took us deep underground. The doors opened into a kind of dressing room. People were putting on black raincoats and boots, so they wouldn’t be soaked when we walked behind the waterfall. I pointed, “Let’s put some on.”

Anna stayed near the elevator, not moving. “Come on. This’ll be fun,” I coaxed her.

“I can’t do it. I’m terrified. There’s no way I can stay down here. I’m going back. Just go without me,” and she hurried into the up elevator.

The kids and I walked behind the falls and had an amazing experience. When we were back on top, Anna reported to us, “I had to fill out a form, telling why I couldn’t stay down there. I didn’t know how to explain it, so I wrote ‘fear of black raincoats.’ They said they’d never heard that reason before.”

A day at Niagara was sufficient; I closed the camper and started driving home. This would be an easy, drive, and we’d be back in just a few hours.

You know how you don’t look at the dashboard of your car too often while you’re driving? The road and noisy kids in the backseat take all your attention. Once we were on our way, I glanced at the dials, just to check our speed, and noticed the temperature gauge screaming at me, not literally, but there were blinking red lights. The car was overheating.

“We have a little problem,” I explained to Anna. “It looks like the car is too hot. I have to pull over to the side of the road. It’s dangerous to drive the car right now.”

“Dangerous? Stop. Stop!” she said.

“Kids, we’re pulling over to the side of the road. There’s a problem with the car. Why don’t you and Mom wait on that little hill over there, while I open the hood and see what’s going on? This probably isn’t a big problem.” But it was. Steam was coming out of the radiator. I knew that if I waited a while, it would cool down and I could drive to get help.

A good Samaritan saw us and pulled over. “Hey buddy. Looks like you’ve got a problem. Do you need any help?”

“No,” I answered. “The car’s just overheated. I’m going to let it cool down and drive to a gas station to get it fixed. Thanks for stopping. I appreciate your help.”

“OK. Good luck,” he said. Then he got into his car, put it in gear, and backed into the front of our Dodge Dart by mistake.

He started to get out of his car. “Just go. My car’s ok. Thanks for stopping. Go,” I said, and he did.

Now, Anna was wailing, and Beth and Peter were weeping. The car did cool off, and I drove slowly to the next exit, Batavia, New York. The radiator overheated again, but there was a gas station in sight. Hallelujah, I thought. They’ll fix the car, and we’ll just go home.

“Man, your radiator is shot. You need a new one.” That was the mechanic.

“Can you do it today?” I asked.

“Well, today’s Saturday. Nothing’s open. I can’t order a new one until Monday, but I can get it for you as soon as possible. Maybe Tuesday.”

“What about our camper? Can leave it here?” I asked.

“Hell no. We don’t have room for it. You know what? There’s a great campground a few miles down the road. People love it. I can tow your camper tomorrow and you can stay there until your car is fixed. A motel is just down the road, where you can sleep tonight. I’ll take you there.”

“That would be fine. A night in a motel sounds great,” I said. “Can we go soon?”

Twenty minutes later, we were at the Batavia Motor Inn. This will be restful. We can take showers and get a decent night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be an unplanned extra vacation. This’ll work out fine, I thought.

The hotel room was neat, although it looked a bit “worked.” A queen bed and two singles: perfect. It was clean: excellent. The manager said there was a restaurant just a block away: fantastic.

“Dad, what should I do?” Beth said, when she came out of the bathroom. “The toilet overflowed. I just flushed it, and a lot of water poured out all over the floor.”

The manager was apologetic and came with a bucket and a plunger. “We’ll go out to eat, while you take care of this,” I told her.

“C’mon kids, let’s walk to the restaurant. You can get anything on the menu, regardless of the price. This is going to be a special meal. We’ve earned it today.”

The four of us dragged ourselves out of the motel and started walking to the restaurant. We could see it from the motel. “Hey kids, walk a little faster. I’m starving,” I said.

“Daddy, my foot hurts,” that was Peter.

“You’ll be fine once we get to the restaurant and sit down. You’ll see.”

“Dad, his foot’s bleeding,” Beth said.

Pete wasn’t wearing shoes! And his foot was bleeding! I picked him up and Anna plucked a small piece of glass out of the heel of his foot. “We need disinfectant and bandages,” she moaned. “They’re in the camper, and our camper,” she said, “is at the garage!”

We turned around and headed to the motel. The manager helped us clean the cut and dress it. Back we trudged to the restaurant. “Everyone have shoes on?” I begged. This time, we made it there and had some food.

Sunday morning, the mechanic towed our camper to “Darien Lake Camp Park.” We signed in and maneuvered the trailer into the site without incident. “This will be great. Staying here for a few days will be a fun detour,” I encouraged everyone. “There’s even a lake for swimming, maybe boating. Who knows?”

Once the camper was set up, we walked around the campground. Everything was soggy from the last few days of rain. There was mud everywhere; even our campsite was flooded, but the sun was out. “Let’s see about going to the lake. That’ll be fun,” I said.

“Oh, sure. Darian Lake is about ten miles down this road.” That was the office manager. Wait a minute. Ten miles? Our car’s at the gas station. “Can you give us a ride,” I asked.

“No way. I’m done for the day. Use your car.”

Right, our car is at the gas station, I thought.

“O.K. So, we don’t swim today. Let’s play volleyball. They have volleyball courts here, I think.”

“Dad, I looked at them. They’re just big mud holes with nets. We can’t use them,” Pete said. “There’s nothing to do here. I’m bored.”

“There’s a big problem,” Anna cautioned me. “The bathrooms aren’t just dirty, they’re unusable. They’re flush toilets and they’re full and filthy.” Anna is the connoisseur of toilets in our family. We’d left campgrounds because the bathrooms didn’t meet her approval.

“Maybe it’s just this one,” I offered. “Let’s check out the others. There are about ten of them here.”

We found one that was barely usable. The showers were no better. To get water, a quarter had to be inserted into the slot. While Anna was shampooing, we learned that twenty-five cents paid for just seven minutes of cold water. “Help! I can’t see and I don’t have any quarters,” she cried.

The kids and I scraped together a few quarters and she finished her shower. Quarters. We didn’t have any more and had three showers to go. “Beth, why don’t you go to the office and change these bills to quarters?” I asked.

Ten minutes later, she came back and said, “The office is closed. It’s Saturday and they close early. The sign said, ‘Back Monday,” so, no showers until then.“

Monday morning, the office reported. “The gas station called. They wanted to know if you would like to leave today. Your car is ready.” Yeeeeees!

We got out of there as fast as possible. The new radiator had solved our problem and the trip home would be safe. I drove, feeling relieved. Anna rode in stress mode, watching the temperature dial. “It’s getting hot! It’s getting hot! Stop the car.”

It was hot, but not overheated. I slowed down, and the temperature remained hot, but not in the danger zone. Instead of driving 70 miles per hour, I drove 40, so the trip took twice as long, but finally, “We’re home,” I said as I pulled into our driveway.

“You know, I’m thinking that next year, we could drive to the Grand Canyon.”

The car shook. The whole neighborhood heard the screaming.

“No. Never Again!”

Talking Turkey

by Patty Perrin | Nov 21, 2021 | Creations, Fiction, Humor

By L. Stevens

In a remote, cold country field in the Florida Panhandle, the feathered pastor addressed his wild turkey flock. “In this, the first week of November, we offer our heartfelt prayers for our domesticated cousins, for this is the time of their annual tribulation. Let us bow our beaks and pray, ‘Oh, Heavenly Fowl, we implore thee that the sacrifice of these innocents may, on Thanksgiving Day, heighten the spirit of humble gratitude across this land. Amen’.”

As the service ended, a young poult approached his grandfather. “Poppy, what cousins was the pastor talking about?”

“He spoke of the many descendants of Tom and Henrietta, the first wild turkeys taken into captivity and domesticated, more than 2,000 years ago.”

“What’s that mean, domesticated?”

“Well, son, the humans put them in confinement, and fed them large amounts of grain so they’d be fat, and have sweeter tasting meat. That’s why they’re twice our size. I hate to speak ill of our overweight relatives, but my goodness, they’re enormous.” The old bird knew the curious youngster would learn the facts eventually. Better from him than his friends.

“What’s the deal with people eating turkey on Thanksgiving, Poppy?”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding of history, I’m afraid. The first Thanksgiving was when the Pilgrims, early American settlers, gave thanks to their God for the blessings of their first harvest. Friendly Indians brought deer and there was duck and pheasant for the dinner, but no turkey that day. It’s not clear what inspired the eating of turkeys to give thanks; it certainly caught on in a big way.”

“My friend says the Pilgrims were dumb. Their pants were always falling down, because they wore their belt buckles on their hats.”

“Hah! That’s an old joke.” Poppy went on, “Now, we wild turkeys are blessed. Humans aren’t fond of our gamey meat. Oh, they like to shoot their guns at us, but on the whole they’re poor shots, and not half as smart as we are in the woods. You’ll hear more on this at training camp before the hunting season starts in March. But you asked about Thanksgiving.”

He continued the lesson. “It was a disaster for the descendants of Tom and Henrietta, who are now the main course of most Thanksgiving dinners. On that day, humans stuff themselves with food to the bursting point, then fall asleep afterwards. Before their holiday season is over, many of them will amass a good deal of body weight, I suppose in the manner of our fattened cousins.”

“How do you know all this stuff, Poppy?” the youngster asked.

“I’m the flock’s historian, I suppose. We wild turkeys have quite a history. When they formed the United States, a man named Ben Franklin proposed our species as the national bird. We lost out to the bald eagle, that thieving, carrion-eating degenerate.”

“Yeah, my teacher says the bald eagle is too lazy to fish for himself, he’d rather steal what other birds catch. We got cheated.”

“Well, it’s uncertain Franklin’s proposal was serious. Some say he suggested it to annoy Thomas Jefferson, who wouldn’t eat turkey–it upset his stomach and made him break out in a rash.”

“That wasn’t fair, Poppy.”

“It seems one did not trifle with Jefferson, though some believe Franklin started calling male turkeys ‘Tom’ to rankle him, and it probably did. You see, George Washington, the first president, declared Thanksgiving a national observance, and John Adams continued the tradition. When it was Jefferson’s turn, though, he canceled the holiday. His excuse was, an official day to give thanks to the Creator violated the separation of church and state. But people figured it was because he couldn’t tolerate turkey meat.”

“I’ll bet that made our cousins happy,” the poult exclaimed.

“I suppose—for eight years, anyway.” The wise old bird sighed. “It’s sad, for that’s when they missed their golden opportunity to give up their lazy domesticated lives and join us in the wild.”

The old bird gobbled and commenced to deliver what to older members of the flock was a familiar rant: “They could have exercised, braved the elements, gotten lean and mean, and above all, become tough and gamey. They could have worked like we do to find nourishment, instead of sitting around gorging themselves on free food. But I suppose they were too far gone. They liked the soft life. It doesn’t pay to get soft, youngster.”

“When I grow up, I want to be tough and gamey, Poppy.”

“You shall, my lad. For that I give thanks.”

The Car

by Patty Perrin | Mar 12, 2021 | Creations, Flash Fiction, Humor

By Farrell Fand

The old neighborhood in Newark isn’t the same anymore. Just about everything has changed. The street, Belmont Avenue, now Irvine Turner Boulevard, is very different. It’s not a very wide street, but back in 1948, when I was seven, it looked like a huge expanse to me. The new two family house that now stands on the property has the same back yard, but the row of five connected wooden garages is gone, replaced with grass. All that’s left of the former buildings is the number.

Times were different back then. Children were told to “go out and play,” and parents didn’t feel they needed to worry about their safety. There was no such thing as a child saying, “I’m bored.” It was expected that kids would figure out what to do to keep ourselves occupied, and we did.

And did we stay out of trouble? Well, that’s a whole other thing.

“Hey Georgeeeeey! Hey Georgeeeeeeeey!” I was shouting from Georgie’s backyard, up to the third floor apartment where he lived. That was how we called for each other in the neighborhood. No one would ever think of using the phone. That was for adults. It usually didn’t take more than two tries to get him downstairs to play.

“Hi Chuck. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go play in my backyard. We can have a war with our soldiers. That’d be fun.” We both had lots of toy metal soldiers stored in our houses. Why metal? Plastic hadn’t been invented yet.

“That’s good,” Georgie said. “I’ll go get mine and you get yours; then I’ll come over. I got some new ones yesterday. Wait ‘til you see them.”

“O.K. Come right over.”

“Bang, bang, bang, eh, eh, eh, eh! Your guy’s dead, Chuck.”

“No he’s not. You missed him.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

Arguments like that could continue for quite a while, but ten minutes was more than enough this time. “Georgie, let’s do something else. We could go to Mrs. Smith’s garden and try to catch some bees. I have a jar in my back hall that we can use. We’d have to be really quiet, because she almost caught me last time and I’m really afraid of her.”

“Nah, Chuck, I don’t feel like it. What else can we do?”

“I don’t know. I guess we could play marbles, but Stephen and John-Thomas both went away for a few days and you need at least four kids to play a good game of marbles.”

“I don’t feel like playing marbles either. There must be something else around that we can do, Chuck. Let’s think!”

“Hey Georgie, look over there. One of the garage doors is open a little! They’re never open. Everybody locks them. I wonder what’s inside. Should we go over and peek in? What do you think?”

“Well,” said Georgie, “We’re not supposed to go near those garages. We could get into trouble.”

“O.K., you’re right. We could get into really big trouble. But that door’s open enough for us to just take a look inside. That wouldn’t be wrong, would it?”

“Let’s just take a quick peek, Chuck. That can’t be wrong. We won’t even touch the door. No one will ever know, right?”

“O.K. This is really fun, isn’t it? It’s like we’re detectives. Let’s see what’s in there.”

“Oooh look!” said Chuck. “It’s a car. It’s beautiful! It has four doors and it’s so shiny. This must be Mr. Matucci’s car. He comes here every weekend and takes it out for a drive. I guess it just stays in this garage the rest of the time. Wow!”

“I wonder if we squeezed inside, just to get a little closer, would that be all right? We wouldn’t touch anything, and we could get to see all of it. We sure can’t see all of it from out here. Let’s go in…”

“Chuck, look at that roof! Is that made of some kind of leather or something? You know, we can see it best if we get right up onto the car. Then, we’ll get a good look. It sure looks special.”

“Be careful climbing on the hood, Georgie. We don’t want to scratch it or anything. We’re just going to look at that roof. I’ll bet it’s leather or some other stuff. This is a fancy car!”

“I can’t believe how high we are. This is a really high car, isn’t it? I think this is the highest I’ve ever climbed. And look at this roof. Wow! I’m not sure what it’s made of. I can’t tell,” Chuck said.

“But look at this, Chuck. This one corner isn’t stuck down completely. It’s a teeny bit lifted off of the roof. I’m going to try to push it down, to fix it. Look at us, fixing a car. This is so great, isn’t it?”

“Wait a minute, Georgie; this corner doesn’t look right either. Let’s just pull both corners up a little bit, and then we can see if we can get it to fit right.”

“Chuck, you have to pull your side harder. Look, I’m pulling with all my might. This corner is pretty stuck on the roof. Let’s pull together. O.K., one, two, three PULL!”

“Oh no! Georgie, we pulled too hard! Half of the roof came off. What are we gonna do now? Oh boy, we’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

“I know what. Let’s get out of here! Run!” and we did.

The Next Sunday

Joe Matucci’s car was a perfectly restored 1935 Chevrolet four door sedan. He had spent more than a year refurbishing it to its original condition. The next day, Sunday, was the day he was going to show it off and get recognized for his accomplishment. The car was perfect! It looked like it belonged on a showroom floor as if it were a new car. Joe didn’t have any children and this amazing car was his baby, so to speak.

He got to the garage behind the house at 490 Belmont Avenue, really eager to get on the road. At first, he noticed that the door was unlocked. Could he have forgotten to put the padlock on last week? But, this was a really safe neighborhood. The lock was more for appearances than anything else.

Then, he noticed that the door was ajar, which was strange. He threw it open and saw his beautiful car with half of its roof sticking up in the air! “No! No, no, no, no, no! What happened?” He didn’t even know what to say. Then, he looked closer and noticed small footprints on the hood. He could feel his blood boiling. “Who would do something like that?” he fumed. “Why would anyone mutilate a beautiful car like this one?” he screamed.

After questioning some of the neighbors and, with the help of the landlady, Mr. Matucci came to a conclusion about who had damaged his car.

He told our parents about what had happened and that it looked like Georgie and I were the vandals. When we were confronted with the accusation, we both made tearful admissions about what we had done.

We explained that we had thought we were fixing the car. Pulling up the roof like we did was really an accident. Of course, that explanation didn’t cover our going into the garage in the first place and then climbing up onto the car’s roof.

Our parents were furious with us, and agreed to pay for any repairs. Mr. Matucci, still upset with what had happened, moved his beloved car to another garage, in a different neighborhood.

Georgie and I thought that the whole incident was finished, but then our parents called us together and we had a group meeting. Georgie’s dad spoke for all four of the parents. “We know that you two boys are really good and usually follow rules, but this time, you can see what happened when you didn’t follow them.

“Both of our families have to pay for the damage you’ve done. It’s obvious that you two can’t afford all of that cost, but there are consequences for your actions. First, both of you won’t be getting your allowance for four weeks. That money will go toward repairing the damage.

“Since Mr. Matucci is moving his car to a different garage, it won’t be available, but our families’ two cars will and we’re going to use our cars to teach you respect for cars and for other people’s property. Every Sunday, for the next five weeks, both of you are going to wash our families’ cars. If it rains, you’ll do it the next dry day.

“Don’t even try to complain about it. That’s a final decision from all four of your parents. The washing starts this coming Sunday.”

Georgie and I spent many long hours washing cars and talking about how we didn’t want to get into trouble ever again.

Looking back on that time and what we did, I’m surprised at how events in one’s youth can foreshadow what’s to come later in life. After a while, as we grew up, Georgie and I lost contact with each other, not because of any argument or disagreement. We just drifted. I don’t even know where he lives now.

I’m amazed at how things have turned out for me. Here I am, 75 years old, and a successful businessman. I never could have guessed that my success would be in automated car washes. I own seven of them, all in different locations around the state. Who would have thought, all those years ago, that I would wind up washing cars just about all of my adult life?

Oh What A Beautiful Day

by Patty Perrin | Jan 29, 2021 | Creations, Humor, Memoir

By Anna Fand

While reading a magazine recently, I came across an article inviting animal lovers to enter a contest about their favorite pets. The headline caught my eye: “If you have enjoyed animals as friends or companions over the years, please tell us which was the most unforgettable and why. Our judges will select a prizewinner, post its photo and story in our next edition, and make a donation to an appropriate charity that helps animals live safe and happy lives.”

Wow, what a great question, I thought. That’s a really hard one, though. We all had loved Toto, our cairn terrier; Janey and Glenda, the lost cats who lived with us for many years; the canaries who filled the house with music; the parakeet who learned to say “McGovern for President;” snakes; even the walking catfish, who always caused an uproar when he waddled across our living room floor.

But honestly, how could I not give credit to Howard, the Amazon Parrot who had shared our home for twelve years? I proceeded to list and describe just some of the reasons why he deserved special recognition.

On the day my husband and I found him in a Montclair bird shop, I was sold. Typically, Farrell was the one on the lookout for pets of any kind. But, upon seeing several baby parrots, and after the saleswoman placed one in my lap, who looked at me and said “Hello!,” I was the one exclaiming, “Let’s take him!”

He quickly gave himself a name — Howard. He had been mimicking all of us when we came home because we always called to him, “Hi, how are you?” Soon he started saying “Hi Howar,” as he learned the greeting. We decided, maybe that was his name. He just had left off the “d.”

The parrot became a household member very quickly. Our young adult children, Beth and Peter, fell in love with him, exchanging comments all the time. Beth, who was living on her own, would start her weekend visits with us by saying, “Hi Funny Lookin’!” as she walked over toward Howard’s cage. After this happened a few times, the parrot began each visit with her by calling out, “Hi Funny Lookin’!” whenever she would enter the house. It was hilarious!

His large cage was in our family room, with a perfect view of the front door. Before long, he said, ”Good-bye!” when we left the house, and, “Hello!” when we came back home, never getting his greetings wrong.

Howard continued learning words, phrases, and music daily, just from listening to our conversations. Soon he was saying things like “I want pizza” (we always shared pizza with him and he loved it); laughing along when he heard chuckling on TV; jiving to Rock ‘n Roll music we played on the radio; calling Farrell in my voice, “Faaaarrrell!” “Faaaarrell!” until Farrell would come running into the room to ask me why I wouldn’t stop calling him.

One of Howard’s greatest accomplishments was learning the words and melody of the famous song Oh What a Beautiful Morning. I would wake Peter up every day by opening his bedroom door and singing it to him. Howard listened and learned it quickly, and before long he could sing a duet with me that went like this. I would start with, “Oh What a Beautiful,” and then stop and wait for him to add, “Moooorning,” followed by me singing part of the next line, “Oh What a Beautiful,” and Howard’s completing it with “Daaaaaaaaayy.” We continued in this way throughout the song, “I’ve got a wonderful feeling! Everything’s going my way,” and ending with the last line from me, “Oh What a Beautiful” and Howard’s vibrant conclusion, right on key, “DAAAAYYYYY!” When he belted out the last word, I had visions of Ethel Merman on a Broadway stage.

Another of Howard’s funniest moments was the day he looked out of the open front window from his cage and saw me pulling our car into the driveway after work. I got out, slammed the door, and heard him say very loudly, “UH-OH!” Apparently, he expected the worst!

One evening when my mother-in-law was visiting, she walked past Howard, who was standing on top of his cage. At that moment, the parrot grabbed the wiglet from on top of her head, and turned it this way and that, studying it closely. Farrell’s mom looked up and saw the bird inspecting her hairpiece and started laughing hysterically.

“I guess he realized it wasn’t attached and decided to check it out,” she said, as she laughed even harder. Lucky for us, she had a great sense of humor!

Another of my favorite memories was watching Howard rearrange his “furniture.” On days when he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he would remove all of the food and water bowls hanging from the bars of his cage and then put them back, but in different locations. He must have been looking for a change of pace, or maybe just doing a little straightening up.

After submitting my entry to the magazine, I was certain that our Amazon parrot would be selected as the winner. And, the next time that Farrell, Beth, Peter and I were all together for dinner, I announced, “We have a great family goal to work on. Let’s all focus on teaching Howard to say “I’m the champ!” Because whether he wins the contest or not, he really is a WINNER!”

Elvis Never Died Like They Said

by Patty Perrin | Jan 26, 2021 | Creations, Fiction, Humor

By L. Stevens

I could see Jackie Carter was annoyed. Heads turned and ears pricked up in every cubicle in the office. “Larry, damn it! Go buy your own stupid cake if you want one. I’ve got better things to do. Now skedaddle!” Jackie’s workload had gotten much heavier since the recent layoffs at the Food Service company where we worked, and Larry Thigpen was wasting her time.

A while later, I stopped by her desk. “What’s that about a cake? Larry wants you to buy a cake?”

Looking exasperated, she shook her head. “I swear, does that man have a real job here, or do they pay him to walk around and pester people about Elvis Presley and UFO’s? It’s maddening. I had to shoo him away from Janice the other day. He had her all worked up—for a good twenty minutes—about the crop circles. Did he show you those pictures?”

“I have to admit, those things are fascinating,” I said. “You know, another ‘ride-with’ canceled on him this morning, so he’s got time on his hands today. We know what that means.” Larry Thigpen is the company’s sales trainer; part of his job it is to ride along with junior salespeople as they make customer calls. In theory, it’s to train them in sales skills. However, it was not uncommon for a struggling trainee to be terminated shortly after spending a day with Larry. Some think he’s the General Manager’s “hatchet man.” So, for job security, junior sales reps on his schedule often make excuses and beg off, leaving Larry with an entire day to kill.

“Most of the reps run from him. I can’t imagine why. Looks like the company would lay him off,” Jackie said, sarcasm in her voice.

“Not going to happen so long as his buddy Bill is General Manager,” I answered. When Bill Snyder was hired two years ago, he brought along his crony Larry to report directly to himself, by-passing the Sales Manager and the Training Department. The two had lunch together at least once a week.

Larry made a point of letting Jackie, the office supervisor, know. “I’m going to lunch with Bill, in case anyone is looking for me.” And Jackie would roll her eyes.

“What was the deal with the cake?” I asked, recalling why I’d stopped by to see her.

“He wants me to take up a collection in the office, like I do for employees’ birthdays, and order a cake for Elvis’s 80th, in 2015, right after New Years’. Remember he brought one in last year? He’s asking for donations this time.”

“That’s a laugh. I wonder when O.J.’s birthday is?” He’s been on that kick lately, too.”

“Tell me about it. He just eats up the attention when people argue with him. I’m too busy for his foolishness.”

Back at my desk I checked a new personal email on my phone— a ‘prompt’ for the next meeting of my fiction writers’ group. “Write 1,000 words or less about your most unforgettable character.” This will be easy. Larry is industrial strength unforgettable. The piece will write itself.

Days later Larry Thigpen stood at my desk, miffed about the story I wrote for the ‘prompt’, which I had also emailed to the folks in our department.

“Pulver, I don’t appreciate you making me sound like an idiot. You never heard me say Elvis is still alive—he could be dead by now, we don’t know. But he never died like they said—they made it to look that way.”

My tale told of a whacky Elvis Presley enthusiast. My character ‘Harry’ often visits the ‘Evidence Elvis is Alive’ Facebook page. There he ‘friends’ a man called ‘Barry’. They get on famously. In the office, the story got a lot of laughs.

The flesh and blood Larry Thigpen cherished an autographed copy of “The Elvis Conspiracy” by Meg Keller. He’d picked up that prize when he and his wife departed West Palm Beach at 1 A.M. and drove eight hours to the author’s Barnes and Noble book-signing in Atlanta. The man is dedicated.

He glowered. “And what’s the stuff about me claiming O.J. didn’t kill Nicole? What’s O.J. got do with Elvis?”

“Take it easy, man,” I said. “It’s only a story. Fiction, get it? About two guys named Harry and Barry.”

“Bullshit!” he snarled. “You changed my name from Larry to ‘Harry’ and threw in ‘Barry’. Who’s that supposed to fool? Harry can kiss my hairy butt, and that goes for Barry, too!”

“I like the name ‘Harry’,” I lied. “And O.J.? I remember you telling me, some time back…” He scowled, but I continued. “But everything about Elvis was true, wasn’t it? Things you’ve said yourself.”

“It’s still a bunch of crap,” he said. “You made me look the fool—I heard people in the office laughing.”

He wasn’t wrong. The character in my razzing satire could only be Larry. And I did make his obsession with ‘The King’ sound ridiculous.

He never stops with his insistent, overbearing, contrary nonsense. When you try not to take the bait, he keeps it up. No matter how you fight him off, he comes back for more. Jackie is right; it’s all about his being the center of attention. So, it’s hard to resist a response. And, I’ll admit, sort of fun.

“Help me out here, Larry. The part in the story I wrote, where the Mafia guys think he’s a government mole, that Elvis is working with the FBI in Las Vegas? You saying that’s B.S.?”

“No, no, that’s true,” Larry insisted. “It’s proven fact Elvis went to the White House and volunteered in the war on drugs, and President Nixon gave him an honorary badge. In Vegas, some mob guys figured Elvis was a stool pigeon.”

We’d had this conversation more than once, but when Larry gets going about Elvis, he doesn’t mind repeating himself. “Was he?” I prodded. “Working undercover for the Feds, I mean?”

“Well, somebody sure must have thought so.” He raised an eyebrow, looking pleased with himself, as if he’d dispensed some indisputable logic.

I persisted. “So, to keep Elvis from getting rubbed out by the mob, the FBI faked his death and put him in the Witness Protection Program?”

“Exactly. That’s why the family spelled his middle name wrong on the
tombstone—with two” A”’s. His birth certificate spells Aron with one “A”. They knew they wasn’t burying Elvis.” The way he said it, it sounded obvious.

“I mentioned that in the story. And the million-dollar insurance policy on his life they never cashed—is that the truth?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Would have been a crime to collect it when they knew he wasn’t dead.” Larry had simmered down, happy for the opportunity to go on about ‘The King’.

“Can I ask you something, Larry? If people in the office are laughing— like you say—what does that tell you?”

He ignored that with the grace of a matador, and stayed on the offense.

“How come you didn’t talk about the picture I showed you in the ‘Conspiracy’ book, the one of Elvis with Muhammed Ali, seven years after he was supposed to be dead?”

“The photo was fuzzy. It could have been Engelbert Humperdinck for all I could tell.”

“It’s Elvis. Come on, man. Humperdinck would’a sued the pants off the writer and the book publisher. That’s misidentification. Premeditated.”

‘Premeditated misrepresentation’? I choked on my Snickers bar. “Sweet Jesus, Larry! Nobody said it was Engelbert…ahh, never mind. The thing is, my story could only be a thousand words. I couldn’t put in everything.”

Larry jumped all over my lame excuse. “Man, you lie like a dog! How come you mixed in O.J., if you were running out of words?”

“You don’t understand fiction—I used that to make it colorful.”

“Colorful, my ass!”

“But I’m curious, Larry. Do you honestly believe O.J. wasn’t the actual killer?”

“Let me just say this: O.J. was a world-class athlete. A millionaire movie star. Everybody said he was a stand-up guy.”

“He was great in ‘The Naked Gun’.” I admitted.

“And you believe those lying bums on the LAPD over somebody like O.J. Simpson? Shee-it!” He was warmed up now. “No way he did it, and I can pretty well prove it to anybody with common sense.”

“You can prove it?”

“Sure. When they brought in the bloody glove, it was a dead giveaway. There was no way those detectives didn’t plant it for fake evidence.”

“The glove didn’t fit, you’re saying. But did you ever think that probably the leather glove dried up and shrunk?” I asked.

“Shrunk’s not the point. Here’s the deal. O.J. was a professional football running back, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So, the guy who hardly ever fumbled the football when he was playing is going to let a glove slip off his hand— and leave it laying there? No way! The first thing a football player does when he drops the ball is, he jumps on it to recover it, from pure instinct, like second nature. If O.J. fumbled that glove, he’d a snatched it up in a heartbeat. Right there’s the dead give-away. But I guess the cops was too dumb to think of that angle. I’m surprised Johnny Cochrane didn’t point it out. I damned sure would have.”

“You’d have made one hell of a criminal attorney, Larry. You should have been on the defense team.” The image of Larry, sitting alongside Johnny Cochrane and Robert Shapiro in the televised courtroom broke me up. I laughed, and couldn’t control myself; tears ran down my face.

“I’m glad you think it’s funny. Interesting how you’ve got time to write cute stories to pass around the office—at a time like this, people being let go. Did you send a copy to Bill? I imagine he’d get a real kick out of it. Maybe I’ll do that.”

The snake! Is that a threat? It feels more like a challenge, to me.

The next day Jackie Carter called out as I walked into the lunch room. “Pulver, come here. You gotta’ hear this.” Mischief danced in her eyes. I took a seat at her table.

She lowered her voice. “So, you know that Larry Thigpen brags to the new sales trainees about what a good golfer he is, right? Well, this morning it bit him in the butt. What a hoot!”

“Yeah. It beats me why he does that. What happened?”

Jackie explained what she’d heard from the grapevine. Mr. Jenkins, the owner of our company, needed a decent golfer to host the execs of a large account at his country club’s course on the weekend. Tom Boyd, our sales manager, is a low-handicap player. He usually does those honors. But Tom was out of town.

It seems my buddy Mark Shapiro overheard Mr. Jenkins’ secretary talking about it, and he suggested Larry could do it. As Jackie got it, when they told Larry that Mr. Jenkins wanted him to play, he turned green.

“Hah! I’ll bet his sphincter muscle puckered. He can’t break 100. He stinks.”

“So I’ve heard. Can you imagine? Mercy!” she howled.

“That must have been something to watch. Last thing he’d want is to embarrass himself for eighteen holes. In front of important customers, to boot. At that ritzy private club? No way…”

“Isn’t that too funny? So, I guess he talked his way out of it. I’d love to have been a fly on the wall.” Jackie raised her hand in a ‘high-five’ move.

Just then Mark Shapiro come through the door, heading for the coffee pot. I yelled, “Hey, Mark, I salute you, Sir. Good one!” I was sure he’d set Larry up, had called his bluff.

He filled his cup and walked over to us. “Not as good as you’d think. He weaseled out. Told Ellen he never claimed to be a good golfer. But, shoot, I’ve heard him say exactly that. More than once.”

“That would be Larry,” I said. So, Larry Thigpen got a comeuppance. Good.

Mark looked uncomfortable. “I’m not so sure you’ll appreciate how it went, Pulver. He threw you under the bus.”

“Me?” My pulse quickened. “How?”

“Well…Ellen called me to her office, wanted to know why I’d recommended Larry, when he said he’d never played golf. I said I was sorry. I understood otherwise, my mistake.”

He hesitated, then added, “And he also told her, ‘No doubt that’s something Arthur Pulver dreamed up for his ‘fiction writing’ club, and spread around the office.’ Then Bill walked in and asked her what was going on. I got the hell out of there, so that’s as much as I know.”

That lying bastard! He lies, then blames me! This can’t go unanswered…

~~~~~

Office chatter on Monday morning, the 29th of December 2014, was of Christmas gifts and plans for New Year’s Eve. I was excited about something else altogether.

In the days since Christmas, I’d researched Elvis Presley history and hatched my plan for payback. And was it a dandy! Pulver, old man, if this works, you will have outdone yourself!

I headed for Jackie’s desk and handed her a note. “Check out this webpage, and make sure Larry gets an eyeful. This should interest him.” In a minute the page was loaded on her monitor.

____________________

Palms News Service

DOES ELVIS HAUNT THE WEST PALM SHERATON?

by Edward Glenn

December 19, 2014

The appearance by Elvis Presley in our town on February 13, 1977 would sadly be part of his final tour. That night, the entire fourth and fifth floors of the West Palm Sheraton served as headquarters for the 42-year-old King of Rock n’ Roll and his entourage. The motor lodge on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard was a stone’s throw from the West Palm Beach Auditorium, the site of the concert. Six months later he was gone.

Until about five years ago — according to some recent reports in West Palm Beach, when guests at the historic Sheraton reported seeing apparitions they describe as “Elvis’s ghost.”

Your correspondent met this week with Jack Bartleson, General Manager of the Sheraton property. “People tell similar stories as the first time, five years ago,” he informed me. “At least ten guests claim to have seen Elvis’s ghost.”

The ‘appearances’ began in January, 2010, according to the manager. He had organized a “75th Birthday Party” for Elvis. “It was a publicity thing. We invited local musicians, Channel 5 TV, and a writer from the paper. We decorated the lobby and the banquet room with photos and memorabilia, and I hired an Elvis impersonator as the ‘guest of honor.’ He wore a white jumpsuit like the one Presley wore at the Auditorium.

“The party was a success and ran late that night; the media was long gone. As we wrapped things up, a middle-aged couple came from the elevator. They rushed up to the Elvis impersonator in the lobby, who was saying his goodbyes. The gent says: ‘How in the world did you do that?’ He thought the fellow had tricked them somehow.”

“The Elvis guy asked what he’d done,” Mr. Bartleson continued. “The couple described coming back to the hotel shortly after midnight. They got on the elevator, and when the door closed, they claimed to see another ‘Elvis’ at the rear of the lift. They hadn’t seen him at first, but there he was, dressed in black, not white. Naturally, they took him as part of the festivities. When they got to their floor, and the door opened, they turned to say goodnight to him. But whoever, whatever, had disappeared– they were alone. That’s what they said.”

The manager went on, “The couple came back down to investigate. When they got on the elevator, according to them, no sooner had the door closed, than ‘Elvis’ was back.

“It petrified them. But when the door opened at the lobby, just as before, he was gone. “

Bartleson stressed: “I can verify, the couple was sober, and not crazy. But very frightened.”

Concerning later sightings, the manager was equally definite.

“The same thing happens, always after midnight, on the 8th of January, his birthday. People say he never speaks, just looks sad.”

Until recently the hotel had not gone public about the phenomena. ”It would disturb some folks, obviously. We kept it quiet.

“But two weeks ago, a guest went to the newspaper. After that, others confirmed the same thing. At this point, we might as well enjoy the free publicity.”

However, Bartleson had a disclaimer about the upcoming 8th of January, Presley’s 8oth birthday.

“Only registered guests for that night will have access to the elevators, until the following morning. If it takes a security guard to enforce it, I’ll hire one.”

________________________________

Jackie sounded doubtful. “Well, yeah, this will definitely get his attention. But why show it to him? It’s all we’ll hear about.”

“Hopefully, he’ll want to go check it out for himself.” I was certain he would.

When Larry got to the office that morning, I watched and listened from my nearby cubicle, as Jackie pointed to her monitor. “Take a look, Larry.” The screen displayed the article by Edward Glenn of the Palms News Service. He read it once, and then again. Minutes later, we heard his eager-sounding voice, as he walked toward the front exit, cell phone to his ear. “Can you stick my name on standby? If you get a cancellation, call me.”

“Hear him? He’s trying to reserve a room for January 8. He’s taken the bait,” I told her.

“What bait?” Jackie asked.

“There’s no Mr. Bartleson, or Palms News, or Edward Glenn. I made it all up and posted it on a WordPress blog. I’m a fiction writer—that’s what we do.”

“Seriously?” she cried out, as she slapped my hand. “You’re wicked—I fell for it, too. How funny!”

There was no birthday cake for Elvis on January 8. As the office closed, I heard Jackie ask: “Larry, are you going over to the Sheraton tonight? I’m curious to know if the ghost shows up.”

He grunted. “See you.” Then he was out the door.

Early the next morning, Larry was at Jackie’s desk. I watched and listened in. “Show me that ‘ghost’ article again, will you?” he barked. “Something is very screwed up.”

“I don’t know that I can find it.” She looked him over. “What’s the problem? You look awful.”

“No shit? If you’d been in and out of an elevator ‘til three in the morning, you would too.”

“Oh, my lord! You went there? So, did he show up? The ghost?”

He ignored her questions. “Get me that article. I want to read it again. See this?” He placed a business card on her desk. “John Richards is the manager of the Sheraton. The night clerk never heard of… what’s his name…” He pulled a note from his pocket. “Jack Bartleson. Stupid kid didn’t know anything about the Elvis party, either. I gotta see that article.”

“Larry, I’m busy right now. Maybe later. I’ll let you know what I come up with,” Jackie said. I’d taken the article down, but there was more ammunition coming.

In an hour, she called him to her desk. I listened in and situated myself to watch the proceedings. “I didn’t find it. Maybe you should call the newspaper. But—I found two things on Jack Bartleson.” She brightened. “One, his obituary. And, there’s a small article, ‘Jack Bartleson, manager of the West Palm Sheraton, found dead of heart failure,’ says he died on August 16, 1977.” She waved the fake printouts I’d given her earlier.

“August 16, 1977?” Larry had turned pale. “That’s nuts! That’s the day they claimed Elvis died…”

“How odd,” Jackie said. I could see her struggling to keep a deadpan expression.

He sputtered, “But they wrote the first article now, not 1977—about Elvis’ 80th birthday. This here says the hotel guy’s been dead almost forty years. How… did they… interview him… this week?” He looked disoriented and a bit wobbly as he found a chair a few feet away and sat down.

Jackie was magnificent. She was a fine actress; I’d had no idea. “Good Lord…you’re right!” She cried out. “Amazing! It looks like… Mr. Bartleson died the same day Elvis went into Witness Protection.”

Then she put the cherry on top. “Weird, isn’t it, Larry? I mean—you couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.”

The End