Diet…Foiled

So, a couple weeks ago, Pam put us both on a diet. With only a couple of exceptions, we have both been faithful to its requirements. Pam has lost weight. I have not. This is a reversal of previous diet regimens we have done through the years where I would immediately drop ten pounds within two weeks while Pam struggled, which caused her great consternation and no small amount of personal resentment. Now apparently, my age and recalcitrant metabolism have caught up with me. So far, she has resisted gloating.

But, thanks to Gary Larson, I have stumbled upon the problem…

The Guest

The guest woke up five minutes before the alarm, eyes open, squinting across the way to the digital clock. 5:55 am. All of life comes down to waiting around for the next thing, he thought as his bare feet hit the floor. He liked the still hours before daylight, preferring the day before it had the chance to disappoint him. They all start out the same, dark, still and full of promise. He pressed the red button on the top of the clock as he passed on his way to the bathroom. Bending over the sink, he looked in the mirror and took inventory. Puffy, watery eyes. A three day growth of beard, spiked with white and gray. Fashionably bald head. The acne scars from forty summers ago reminding him that although he wasn’t the man he used to be, there were remnants of the younger man that still lingered. His teeth, still crooked, but no longer white.

But he was alive and reasonably healthy. Waiting around for the next thing seemed better than the alternative of having nothing to wait around for. Today the next thing was due to arrive. He would board a plane and fly back home, having spent a week scouting out potential properties for the real estate investment trust he had started and run for over twenty years. It was the sort of five day working trip that had become a customary part of his life. He would fly out on Monday mornings and spend his time driving from site to site for 10 hours a day, then collapse in his hotel bed at night. When sleep finally came it was spotty and fretful. Then on Friday he would fly home, stop by the office then drive home to his wife of 30 years, who would greet him at the door with a warm smile a soft hug and a gin and tonic. She would ask him about his week with what passed as genuine interest. She would listen to a version of the same story he had been telling for nearly half their lives together. She would nod and make the same observations she always made…that sounds like it has potential…oh for heaven’s sake, that’s crazy. Then, as a signal to her husband that it was time to wrap it up and listen while she talked about her week,  she would say…well, I’m just thankful you’re back home safe and sound.

They were both waiting around for the next thing.

But restlessness was not the same thing as ingratitude. Life was good. They had plenty of money in the bank and they loved each other. The only thing left to overcome was the nagging feeling that there was simply nothing left to do. It was the price paid for accomplishments coming often and early in life, the suspicion that you have peaked too soon, that the rest of your life will be a series of curiously mild disappointments. 

But today there was one more property to look at and a plane to catch. He stood at the window of his hotel room in his underwear watching the street lights turning red and green through the mist of a morning rain. The streets were empty except for a single white van going too fast towards the red lights at the corner below. The van skidded to a stop with its side door open, something was thrown onto the curb, then it sped away, running the red light and disappearing out of view. Probably the morning newspapers, he thought, until he took a closer look. It was covered in a long brown jacket, with two boots sticking out of one end and a head out of the other. Whoever it was wasn’t moving and the rain was coming down harder now. He looked on with detachment. Whatever was playing out on the streets below was none of his business. It was a big city. Strange things happen in the wee hours in big cities. Nevertheless, he wished he had stayed in bed a while longer and not been up to see it. Now the image would be stuck in his head all day, an image of a human being being discarded on a sidewalk in front of his hotel in the pouring rain. But, someone will walk by soon and see him, probably one of the bellmen at the entrance of the hotel right across the street. Either that or someone walking to work on the sidewalk will see him. What time was it? Five in the morning. When do city people start filling the sidewalks these days? He took one more look then stepped in the shower, the hottest water he could stand. Where are the cops when you need one?,  he thought as the steam rose around him. Half and hour later, clean and dressed for the day, he walked over to the window. It had moved, no longer splayed out on the sidewalk like it had fallen from the sky. Now, back up against the wall, knees pulled up tight to the chest and face turned skyward, a broad smile on the face. The rain had stopped and he found himself in the elevator headed down for a closer look.

The hotel lobby smelled like new things, new carpet and new furniture. A recent remodel had turned the space into something obscure and disjointed. There was a feeling that it hadn’t been used enough, too few people had spent enough time in it to make it feel human. It was too clean, felt too much like a movie set. Even the guys and girls behind the computer screens in their blue blazers and great haircuts looked brand new, like robots manufactured for this one job of smiling broadly and welcoming guests. When he walked through the massive revolving doors that led out to the curved entryway, the uniformed bellman wore the same blazer, along with a sharp and tidy cap splashed with a bright red brim and white gloves. Less than 100 feet away, sat the man who had been dumped on the sidewalk thirty minutes ago, slumped against the First and Merchants Bank, still smiling up at the sky. 

“Good morning Sir,” smiled the bell captain.

“I was up in my room earlier when I noticed a van speed by and dump that man over there on the sidewalk,” he replied, pointing across the way at the smiling man in the wet brown coat. “Did you see the van?”

The bell captain maintained his officious smile and answered, “I’m afraid I didn’t sir. But I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s a regular on that sidewalk. ‘Homeless but harmless’ we like to say.”

The guest looked away from the bell captain, suddenly annoyed by his smile. The sun peaked through the clouds and lit up the puddles in the street, streaked with oil, a sheen of color along the edges. He walked to the corner and even though the streets were still empty, waited for the lights to change before walking across to the sidewalk in front of the bank. The closer he got to the man the less sure of himself he felt. Why was he standing beside this poor soul this early in the morning in a city a thousand miles from home?

His eyes were closed, the smile radiant, his head turned upward, the morning sun revealing the wrinkles and scars of a life lived outside. The smell of him was bracing, something close to wet grass and empty dumpsters. To his left, hidden away in an alcove of the bank’s facade was a backpack. The guest hadn’t noticed it before. It was covered in duct tape held together with bungee chords wrapped tight around its exterior. His left hand lay on top of the backpack, his right hand closed tightly into a fist in his lap. Altogether, the man gave off a miserable appearance, looking haggard and impossibly uncomfortable. Yet, he smiled, the happiest of smiles, one that would be expected to accompany the most delightful memory brought forth from the sweetest of dreams. But he was wet, filthy and smelled increasingly like damp mown grass. The guest looked down on him with pity and was about to turn around and head back to the hotel when the man spoke.

“Anything I can help you with on this fine morning, sir?” He opened his eyes and squinted up into the sun revealing eyes that although bloodshot, couldn’t hide their bright steel blue color.

When he heard the voice he took a step back, startled by the clarity and deep baritone, then felt embarrassed by the fear. Whatever this man was, he seemed harmless.

“I’m sorry, I er…I am a guest at the Bouffant across the street and I…”

“The bank don’t open until 9:00.”

“No, I know…I mean…I don’t need the bank. I just saw you get thrown out of a van an hour or so ago from my room up there and wanted to check on you.”

“You were up early then…”

“Yes, I suppose I was.”

The sun had broken through the morning clouds and the street was awash in bright light now with only wispy thin clouds racing by against the bright blue. The light revealed more than it explained in the man’s face. But even when he spoke, the smile remained in place.

“I asked the Bellman if he had seen anything…”

“That’s Carl. Carl don’t see nothing,” then a low laugh.

“So, are you alright? Looked like a rough fall from up there,” pointing at the wall of glass at the Bouffant.

“It was nothing. Just a misunderstanding. You ever have one of those?”

“Quite a few. But generally mine don’t involve being thrown out of a moving vehicle.” 

“Well, I’d imagine you have a higher class of associates than me,” then another laugh, this one warmer and more sincere.

The guest couldn’t hide a smile of his own. He looked down at the man and felt awkward towering over him. He felt a momentary urge to sit beside him, then thought better of it and extended a hand instead.

“Look, I’ve got a couple hours before my appointment. Would you like something to eat?”

“You mean like…breakfast?”

“Sure. Breakfast.”

“I don’t know, brother. You eat too big a breakfast and by nightfall you’re so hungry you could eat your shoes…”

“ My Mother always insisted that breakfast was the most important meal of the day.”

The man reached for the guest’s hand and got to his feet. 

“Your Momma tell you that?”

“Yes, among many other things.”

“Maybe some coffee. That would be nice. There’s a Dunkin’ around the corner.”

The guest looked up and down the street, then back at the hotel where his eyes locked onto Carl’s. He didn’t understand what it was about the Bell Captain that had annoyed him so. Maybe it was the homeless but harmless remark that had seemed uncharitable and too dismissive. Now, Carl was looking on with thinly veiled concern at his interaction with one of the harmless. 

“How about you come with me to the restaurant in the hotel. It’s 7:00 o’clock. They just opened.”

“You mean…the Bouffant?” For the first time the smile ran away from his face. “They won’t let me in there.”

“I’ve stayed in this hotel at least a dozen times. I’m a Bouffant Rewards member. They will let anyone in I bring with me. You are my guest this morning. And, I’m sorry…what’s your name?”

“No names, man. You don’t need to know my name and I don’t need to know yours. That ok with you?”

The guest smiled then glanced at Carl who was still watching their every move. “I’m fine with no names. Let’s go get breakfast.”

The guest noticed a slight limp in his walk as they crossed the street. He wondered how old he was. There was no way of telling, probably much younger than he looked. Carl stepped towards them as they neared the revolving door, a look of grave concern on his face masked by the most insincere of smiles. He looked at the guest and said, “I see you’ve met Phillip.”

The guest stopped to revel in the awkwardness of the moment. He had taken a keen dislike to the Bell Captain and was now enjoying his discomfort, something that came as a surprise to him, he not being the sort of man who spent very much time perpetuating or participating in drama. But, as he noticed how disturbed at the prospect of this man entering the hotel the Bell Captain was, he leaned in with great vigor. “Yes, I have. As it turns out, neither of us have had breakfast. So, we decided to have it together in the Guilford, since it opens at 7:00.”

The Bell Captain’s smile was gone, replaced with incredulous horror. “I’m sorry. Is Phillip a guest of the Bouffant?”

“No.” Now it was the guest’s turn for an insincere smile. “However, he is my guest.” Then they both stepped into the revolving door and left the Bell Captain to his incredulity. Inside the slowly moving door, the full extent of his smell was overpowering, like a dog who had been left outside in the rain all day, mixed with the body odor of a man who hadn’t taken a shower in weeks. He looked at the guest and laughed, “That Carl is an asshole. Phillip ain’t my name man. Do I look like a “Phillip” to you? I told him that was my name one time a few months ago and he believed it. Dumb as a box of hammers, that one.”

As the door finally ushered them into the hotel lobby, the man looked around in disbelief, as if walking into a fancy hotel for the first time, or so the guest thought in his ignorance.

“What the hell have they done to this place?” He asked. “If they were going for inauthentic and unwelcoming, they hit it out of the park.”

The guest was surprised but didn’t disagree. “Yes, I was here about a year ago and they were just starting a redesign, but I hadn’t seen the change until I got here yesterday. Does give off a certain amount of…”

“Bullshit aesthetic,” the man offered.

“Yes. That about sums it up.” Who is this man, the guest wondered as he led them towards the entrance to the Guilford and it’s equally horrified maitre’d, who, in his defense, could probably smell them coming from across the lobby.

“Two for breakfast,” the guest said. 

The maitre’d scanned the large dining room with its square tables covered with white linen and saw only four tables occupied with guests. He handed two menus to a waiter who led them to a table in the back corner of the dining room as far away from the other guests as was possible. 

The waiter placed one menu in front of the guest and asked if the table wanted coffee. The guest answered, “Yes, coffee would be nice…along with one more menu.” The waiter smiled stiffly, backed away to make room for the coffee tray consisting of one silver pot along with a small container of real cream and a glass bowl filled with brown sugar cubes. The guest had become attached to the Bouffant over the years for this very reason, first class, old school touches of grace. He could have stayed in a Courtside or Homewood Suites for half the money, but he much preferred linen table cloths and real waiters to the serve yourself continental breakfast fare at the cheaper places. It was a life upgrade that he could afford, had earned and enjoyed. But as he looked across the table at his guest, who had taken ahold of the shiny silver pot with a gnarled and dirty hand, he felt conspicuous in the still mostly empty dining room. He watched him pour the cream in his cup, then raise the steaming cup to his lips. After taking a silent taste he set the cup down and said, “Gave up sugar years ago. Don’t usually take cream either but that’s the good stuff.”

The waiter returned with a menu, placed it down in front of him, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone but the impertinent guest who was responsible for this outrage. 

The guest carefully studied the man across the table. Despite everything that was clearly evident, there was something odd about him, something that didn’t add up. He watched him sipping his coffee, his eyes studying every detail of the room as if he were taken mental inventory.

“This place is famous for their omelettes. I am particularly fond of the Southwestern, “ the guest offered by way of recommendation.

“Not a big breakfast eater. Maybe some toast.”

“You sure? You look like you could use a good meal.”

“Not this early in the day.” Then he placed his cup on the table, leaned closer to the guest as if preparing to whisper a secret, “Looks to me like you’re just dying to ask me a question but can’t find the right words…”

“How did you end up living on the streets?” 

The man laughed and leaned back into his chair. “That’s better! Those are good words!”

“And what was the deal with getting thrown out of that car this morning? I mean, its not every day when you see something like that so naturally, I’m curious.”

“You gotta let that go, man. Sometimes you just get in the wrong vehicle, brother. That’s all that was. As far as why I’m living on the streets, that’s much more complicated. Where do you live?”

“Me? I live back east.”

“In a house?”

“Yes. A house.”

“So the only thing different about you and me is that you live a thousand miles from here, in a house, while I live over there across the street…and you smell better, and got nicer clothes, probably a fine lookin’ wife and lots of money in the bank, while I live up against a bank…so we not that different.” Another radiant smile lit up the man’s face as he poured himself another cup, this time taking it black. “That creamer gonna make me constipated if I’m not careful.”

“But when did it all start? How did you get here?”

“Got fired from the company I worked for back in the day. Same company that built this building we sitting in. It was a misunderstanding. Accused me of stealing another man’s tools. Wouldn’t give me a recommendation, so it was hard to find work. I bounced around some. Lived at the YMCA downtown for a while. Then one day I woke up and realized I liked having no one bossing me around. I kinda enjoyed the challenge of making my way day by day. Weather around here is mostly fair and when it gets too cold or too damp there’s dozens of shelters for folks like me. But I only go there as a last resort. Those bastards are crazy man.”

He nibbled at his toast like a man with a full stomach. He worked his napkin expertly, making sure no crumbs clung to his beard. After finishing his second cup of coffee, he turned to his sweating glass of ice water and downed it in one gulp. “It’s essential that you stay hydrated. That’s what they always tell us at the shelter.”

The guest finished his omelette, took the napkin out of his lap and placed it gently on the table.

“But how can you stand the uncertainty of it all? I mean, what do you do for money?”

“What uncertainty? I know exactly what’s gonna happen every day. The sun will rise in the east and set in the west. I’ll set up shop at my spot just before the lunch crowd hits the sidewalks. By one o’clock I will have picked up twenty or thirty dollars in tips.”

“Tips?”

“I tell them jokes and the nice ones give me tips.”

“You’re a pan handler.”

“Who pays his own way in the world.”

“Who relies on the kindness of strangers.”

“Yes.”

They stopped to rest. Each of them unsure what was next.

The man asked the guest, “You’ve asked all the questions. Now I’ve got one. Why are you sitting across the table at the Guilford having breakfast with a bum off the streets?”

The waiter slipped the bill onto the edge of the table without comment. The guest added the bill to his room charges, signed the receipt and placed the pen on top. Then he looked up and answered, “Because…you were the next thing.”

Pale and Pathetic

What in the Sam Hill is going on with all these people putting their Christmas trees up before THANKSGIVING?? As CEO and President of the Thanksgiving is Better Than Christmas Association, I am appalled. Before we even get the chance to be thankful for the manifold blessings in our lives, we are hellbent on erecting a Christmas tree, that great heathen symbol of excess. (Look it up).

VS.

Our neighbors had a busy weekend getting the jump on us. By the time the sun set last night, the sparkling lights could be seen through their picture windows, taunting me with their too much/too soon Christmas cheer. Its hard to fault them, what with their little ones all over the place. Kids aren’t yet old enough to appreciate the charms of Thanksgiving with its themes of gratitude and the delights of hearth and home. Especially since there are no gifts. Perhaps if Thanksgiving came with its own outlandish mythology, maybe a Thanksgiving spirit who made his appearance through the smoke of only the most sincere fires from the most appreciative fireplaces, bestowing hearts of gratitude on every boy and girl in the land. Who am I kidding? How could a Thanksgiving smoke spirit handing out gratefulness compete with a fat man dolling out toys to every kid, angel or brat?

Alas, Thanksgiving will forever play second fiddle to Christmas. Aside from the celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior, Christmas is to Thanksgiving what the Monkees were to the Beatles, a pale and pathetic knock-off.

But, I have already forgiven my over-eager neighbors. It is their only real flaw.

The Art of Overdoing Things

I already know that I will overdo it today. First of all, it’s Saturday, the day suited to overdoing things. And second of all, in two weeks all of my kids and grand pups will be here for Thanksgiving, so the yard has to be in top shape. When there are three retrievers romping around in the yard, it needs to be ready. In addition to all the yard work, this afternoon I have a shift at Hope Thrift. So, by the time all of that is done, Pam will be telling me…I told you so. But, here’s the thing, I love yard work. Ever since my dad gave me full responsibility for our lawn back when I was 12 years old, I have enjoyed nothing quite so much as putzing around in the yard. Besides, when you spend your days trying to explain abstractions like the time value of money, Asset allocation, and diversification for a living, doing yard work feels like salvation. It is measurable and progress can be photographed. A wonderful thing.

So, here are a few before and after pictures of my toil today for your edification…

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

BEFORE

AFTER

Every sore muscle, every cramp, worth it. 

Time to Laugh

It’s been a busy week. I’ve dealt with a lot, from grieving widows to stressed and overworked teachers. Sometimes, by the time Friday arrives you just want to laugh at something…anything. So, an old friend sent me this…

Not bad. Not bad at all. Then, there’s this…

My son once asked me how poo was made.

I took a deep breath and reluctantly explained it to him.

Clearly traumatized, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes and asked, “what about Tigger?”

Getting back to the stressed out and overworked teachers, my wife has been arriving home in darkness, around 5:30 every day this week. This despite the fact that her official day ends somewhere around 1:30. Well, apparently the apple didn’t fall too far from then tree. A teacher friend of my daughter recently took this picture of Kaitlin’s car in an empty school parking lot…

It is the life they have chosen, I suppose. It’s why every time I hear someone say, “yeah, but they get the summer off,” I want to beat that someone to a pulp.

Slack-Cutting

I’ve decided that I’m in the slack-cutting business. It’s a good business to be in at this moment in time since it seems I have very little competition. I could have —and probably should have — opened up shop years ago, but I didn’t have it in me. Back then I knew everything. 

You learn that some old friends of yours have separated and are contemplating a divorce. Twenty years ago news like this would have provoked a different reaction in me… back in the days when I knew everything. Divorce was simply a failure of the will, indicative of weakness and emotional laziness and more often than not an indication of infidelity, already committed or actively contemplated. I came to these conclusions not because of personal first hand knowledge, but rather from inflexible judgment. Twenty years later, although many of these judgments may still be true, I come down firmly on the side of mercy and grace, two vital components of the slack-cutting business.

First of all, I’ve never gone through a divorce. I have absolutely no idea what its like. I don’t know the first thing about the anguish, sadness, and pain experienced by the participants. I cannot think of any human experience that produces anything approaching divorce-level despair other than the death of a loved one. In many respects, a divorce is exactly like death. Something has died which produces both mourning and grief. Somewhere down the line I have started to react to news of divorce more like someone who mourns rather than judge and jury.

But, its not just divorce, it’s practically every area of human failing. Being in the judgment business is exhausting. I’m no good at it primarily because I’m much more aware of my own capacity for failure than I used to be. It’s such a strange thing. When I was younger I looked at most older people and felt that the older they got the more judgmental they became. But as I have gotten older its been a different story. I’m more aware of my own sin, not less. I’m more aware of my inconsistencies and hypocrisy, not less. Grace has become for me an absolute essential, not merely an abstract spiritual concept. Not only do I desperately need it, but I’ve found that giving grace to others has made me…happier. Leaving the judgment to God has taken a heavy burden off of me. Cutting people some slack can be a profitable business.

I wish my friends well. I pray for restoration if it is possible. But if not, I wish them well and hope they both find peace and a more fulfilling life.

Napping and Fartgate

Ok, Joe Biden isn’t the greatest President we’ve ever had. In fact, his first year has been awfully close to disaster territory. Having said that, I must rise to his defense with regards to the flack he has caught from two recent incidents which occurred during his recent European trip…the alleged presidential nap taken during the Climate Summit in Scotland, and Fartgate. First, the nap…

Yes. The president seems to be catching a quick power nap during a boring address by someone no doubt speaking a language other than English. I should point out that this was relatively soon after he arrived in Scotland from Washington, so jet lag played a factor here. Also, if there were a thousand cameras pointed at my face during any meeting I have ever attended in my 38 years of business meetings, I would not only be napping, I would be head thrown back, mouth wide open, snoring napping. I thought the fact that he wore a mask was well played. At least his head was erect, and his arms professionally folded. As public naps go, this one was pretty buttoned up.

Now, for the flatulence uproar…

So, apparently when Joe had a meet and greet with Camilla of the Royals, after a long day of climate change discussions, the President had a bit of a gas emission of his own. According to informed sources from the British newspaper, the Dailymail, the emission was “loud, long and impossible to ignore.” But, ignore it he did, always the safe play whenever this happens. Camilla was astonished by the the incident and apparently “hasn’t been able to stop talking about it since.” Well now…What ever happened to the famous royal family class and dignity? Since when is it considered good form to blab about another’s er…slippage to anyone and everyone who will listen? Especially when one of those listening is a reporter from the Dailymail?? 

Look people, the man is 78 years old. What are 78 year old men known for? That’s right…naps and involuntary flatulence. It’s just part of life. I say give the President a break. If you want to fuss at him for fiscal policy, immigration, the supply chain, or COVID mask mandates, have at it!! But he should get a pass on naps and farts. Look, if the most embarrassing thing his predecessor ever did was let one fly every once in a while and take a few naps, he would probably still be President. Besides, think about this…what President ever created any mischief while…napping? The answer is none. In fact, wouldn’t we all be a lot better off if more of our election officials would take more naps, not fewer, and of longer duration than Biden’s cat nap in Scotland?

Nap on, Mr. President, and go a little easier on the broccoli.