The Tricksters

There was a special section of the cemetery. I finally found it and parked. The grass was thick and lush and sloped down to the creek bed that marked the edge of the property. The creek was dry, had lots of brush and chaparral and small trees, very typical for this part of southern California.

There were about 50 people in the parking area when I arrived. They were dressed more formally than most of the attendees at the recent funerals and memorial services I had attended; I have usually been the one that is a little overdressed in my black suit, the suit that has gotten too much use lately.

The rabbi was almost late and I think my friend was getting a little concerned; I don’t think he has a strong religious affiliation, sort of a rabbi for hire connection. Now, things could begin.

The funeral director, who had passed out yarmulkes and pieces of black cloth with pins, I passed on both, now invited the attendees to the seats. The chairs were placed under the temporary awning that was near the newly dug grave. This was about a hundred feet from the parking lot and navigating the thick grass looked to me like a serious issue for some of the women who were wearing high and in some cases stiletto heels – but to my surprise they did well!

The sun was shining brightly as if the morning fog had burned off a little early seemingly just for us. About 5 minutes after the service began, a strange thing happened; at first, it was a sharp singular sound, the bark from an unknown source. Then, almost at once, the chorus began, the sound of at least six individuals singing, barking and howling. The tempo and excitement rose into a crescendo that filled the air, and it went on and on. There was a quiet under current of whispers among the audience, “Coyotes, coyotes, coyotes.”

And then as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. I, and I’m certain many of the others though it must have been the soul of one of the recent internees, perhaps the woman we were burying, moving among the wild animals. But then, my serious self took over, as he so often does and I could see a mother returning to her family with a rabbit, or a vole or a gopher, and after the greeting ceremony and the re-establishment of relationships and hierarchy the prey was ripped apart and devoured.

These animals were permanent residents here, and they simply could not be bothered to this extent by the passing of a thousand souls every year. No, it must have been a rabbit. But then, the Indians do call them the trickster or the spirit animal. Who knows?

The Invisible Man or Regrets, I’ve had a few . . . .

Ron Pickett

“Escondido, CA. A ‘John Doe’s’ body was recovered from a culvert on Tuesday. His body was thrown off the bridge. Identification is pending.”

Walking was not easy any more, the pain in his left foot caused him to cringe with every step, and the throbbing ache in his right knee made him walk in a strange rolling motion. They would go away, they always had, but now, nearing eighty it took longer to heal, the body was not as resilient as in the past. But the brain was still there, still flashing from thought to thought, it was where he found refuge when his body failed him, or slowed him down.

He thought about a lot of things, the ferocity in the modern world, and then he remembered that this was perhaps the least violent time since humans emerged from the savannah. But now we see it as it happens – on a large screen - in vibrant color – with high fidelity stereo sound. What would the life of a medieval serf look like on a 55” screen? Maybe, he thought, seeing such violence can soften us a little, unless it makes us numb to what we are watching.

He thought about how his temper was shorter than it once was, perhaps he knew he didn’t have enough time left to wait, to watch, while people learned what he knew already. And he could only observe and try to keep his frustration in check when he saw things happen that he knew would be the result of actions he had cautioned against. He wondered about other old men; was he now, the person he had been frustrated by in the past? Perhaps.

But in the quiet times he was haunted by waves of darkness that came in from the corners of his mind. Times when he had used his stable, “average” white man appearance as a cover to hide his actions. He could easily be lost in a crowd, never seen, never remembered – he could expand like a cat being attacked by a dog, or, when he wanted to he could seem to be much shorter than his 6’1” frame, and he wanted to - often. He could put a completely bland look on his face, he practiced in front of a mirror, and he had to hide his eyes, his green overly bright and penetrating eyes. So, he wore sunglasses when he could and he let his specs get dirty and fogged and he wore a prescription that was much stronger than he really needed. Sometimes he even rubbed his eyes intentionally to make them red and rummy and to cloud this view into his inner self. The eyes are so telling and express things that are hard to disguise. Most people try to enhance their eyes, not dull them down, but he had learned that people would remember his eyes at times when they would not remember anything else about him.

Strange he thought, he had never been in prison; he had spent a few hours in police stations, being questioned about events that took place where he had been seen. But none of them led to anything more, he simply didn’t fit the image of a criminal and he was careful to seem bigger, or stronger, or more imposing than the faint and blurry video out-takes. He knew that with the new equipment, it was becoming much more difficult to take advantage of his ability to modify his appearance from inside. He could only do so much! Perhaps it was time to call it quits, but probably not for a while, he enjoyed his “hobby” far too much, and there was one big score that he wanted to pull off.

He thought, it’s hard to categorize who he was and what he did, perhaps that was one of the reasons for his success. “Robin Hood,” as the idea entered his mind, he laughed out loud. He thought about all of the criminals, “bandits,” that wanted to be thought of as “Robin Hoods,” the only poor people that they gave the proceeds of their crimes to was themselves! But he supposed the idea made them feel better about what they had done. Then he thought, “Steal from the rich! Laughable, the poor don’t have anything I want!”

At times he tried to put himself in a category. Con artist? Okay, he liked the artist part of the term, but it really only covered a part of his significant repertoire. Thief, sure, that was one of the things that he did really well, but it hardly honored his unique skill, sense of style and his passion for professionalism. Grifter was probably closest, although he didn’t like the sleazy, carny feel that it carried with it. He actually thought of himself as an entrepreneur; studying the market place and developing “solutions.”

 He wondered about the dark side, why did he have these feelings of dread; anxiety in the late night hours. When he was focused, he had no negative feelings about what he had done at all. Still he wondered, why the unsettling undercurrent that nibbled at him when he allowed it to. He thought about a couple of his capers, that’s an old word he thought, now it usually means a small kind of onion savory thing with the current emphasis on stylish cookery, but it used to mean an action or event or an escapade. He smiled, recalling being so transparent, normal and trustworthy that jewelry clerks would leave him with several trays of expensive baubles while they went to the back room to get something special he asked for. He could net a couple thousand dollars for a few minutes work and it would be weeks before the loss was discovered. All he needed to do was recall which stores he visited and not to go back for a year or so. But it was so easy that he quit doing this scam after a while.

He seldom worked with anyone else; could never trust them to keep their mouths shut. Occasionally he would use a friend as a distraction, but usually they didn’t even know that they were involved. A ride to the doctor’s office was a pretty good cover, and he had a built in alibi. What could be better. He had learned early on that the second thing people did when they got some money was to talk and brag about it – the first thing was to spend too much money!

He’s learned quickly, each of his capers (he was beginning to like the term) taught him something new and he looked hugely for those tidbits. He went back over each time as a sort of debrief. What had gone well, where had he made mistakes? How serious were the mistakes? What should he do differently the next time? One of the things he learned early was that he had to keep inventing new things to do, new ways of using his anonymity to disguise what he was doing. But he knew that if he repeated the same thing over and over he would get caught.

He looked for marks, people who he could scam. He was surprised by his discovery that the smartest people were the easiest to take; they assumed that they were smarter than he was and he found some easy ways to make himself seem a lot denser than he was. Asking questions that had obvious answers did two things, it made him seem both dumb and vulnerable and it made himself seem like the mark and an easy one at that. As soon as he had someone trying to help him, he was almost home free. He learned to look and sound defenses and nonthreatening through his demeanor and voice.

One of the first scams he used was the “found wallet.” Make sure someone else is watching and “find a wallet” on a sidewalk. Open it and show the money inside then offer to split the cash with the other observer after getting their agreement to post a bond. There are many variations using fake money in the wallet, giving offering to keep only the credit cards, calling the person who’s identification is in the wallet and offering to return the wallet for a reward, etc. It’s been done so often and has so many variations that it has gained a history all it’s own. He learned soon about the incipient larceny of the average person on the street. Calling the owner was one of the hardest variations to pull off; the observer would almost always object and would say something like “Wait, wait, why should we give it back? Finders- Keepers! And they are probably insured anyway.” He worked this for years occasionally, never too often and never in the same area, although his blandness made it really almost impossible for his marks to remember him. “Average height, average hair, no distinguishing characteristic.” And that was only for the ones who reported their loss, most were too embarrassed and never did figure out what had happened to them. He also found that there was a range of pot value – too big a wad of cash and the mark was overly cautious and dubious, too little and it wasn’t worth their time.

He found that this worked even better as he got older, people trusted him more and challenged him less.  One of the few things he had found about aging.

Sometimes he simply picked things up. Usually the items were not very valuable, but they added up. Sometimes it was just an apple from a fruit stand. He found that as long as he had a bag with something else in it, he could easily slip things into the bag.

He noticed that there were some groups that took all of the attention of store owners and employees. Young men, minorities, especially if they were a little raucous and having a good time could create a vast empty space for him to work. Lately, loud and angry groups of girls were beginning to have the same effect. He could become a ghost easily when there were teenagers about. Sometimes he even would tell a clerk that they better keep a close eye on a group of teenagers, then he would ease away picking up anything he saw of value. This technique gave him a “double blind;” the distraction of the unruly group and the comradery of sharing the same concern with the staff.  

For a while cell phones were really easy and valuable. He learned quickly which ones were equipped with antitheft devices or apps and he left them alone. Actually the way that he found out about this software was when a large angry man knocked on his door with a demand that he give him back his cell phone. He apologized and claimed he thought it was his own. He then became indignant with the man, asked him if he had picked up his phone by mistake and when he said that he didn’t he handed it back and the man left! He thought about becoming indignant and telling the man to leave his property, but a quick thought made him realize the man would be back in 20 minutes with a cop! But the lesson was clear – new technology could track itself.

His life was as normal as his persona. He had a wife and two kids, grown now, who helped him seem completely ordinary. He took the name John Smith, it wasn’t the name he was born with that was Ivan Petrov. He got the chance to change his name when he registered for Social Security. Even at the age of 16, he recognized the value of being invisible. His job was simple and provided a reasonable income, and it gave him both opportunities to be in the right place at the right time, and to think about new ventures that he could refine while doing his daily tasks. He only use part of his brain to do his job.

All of the money he “earned” went into a special place, and he tracked his treasure with some care. He was well into six figures now, and his final plan was just beginning to emerge. He needed to do a couple of things to finish his “second career.”

The decades of being hidden in plain sight had been a burden on his mental health. He had increasingly wanted to be the center of attention, the focus of interest. His final act would be something that would make him famous; everyone would know who he was.  He had considered several things: running for office was one, but his background would certainly come out, and he couldn’t stand a detailed scrutiny of his past. He thought about a very large donation to a charity, but that was fleeting and only a few people actually heard about such a donation. Certainly he thought about a magnificent score, a really big take that would make the front page of all of the newspapers and the 24 hour cable news networks. The problem there was that unless he was identified with the crime, he would still be in the shadows, the “invisible man.” He looked at other events in his neighborhood; chili cook-offs, children focused activities, sports and similar activities. But what could he do to really stand out and become known and famous?

He noticed that there was a convention that was coming to town. It was a national convention which was unusual for the small community where he lived. But it was for a small group, Professional Clowns. As he found out more about the convention, the possibilities intrigued him. Clowns were enigmatic; funny, light, jovial, fanciful and at the same time terrifying and dreadful. He liked clowns and had dressed as a clown in the past. It was one of his personas that he found strangely relaxing and always put him at ease. He played at birthday parties for a while, but the children got on his nerves so he quit. He began to like the idea of using the convention as a way to make his mark, to overcome his decades long insignificance.

The Clowns Convention would be like most conventions; opening ceremonies, workshops, demonstrations, a dealers product display area, awards banquet and specialty groups. The demonstrations were different from most conventions since they exclusively used members. Clowning had moved far from the days of “how many clowns can fit into the small car?” And the happy circus clowns. There were video displays, computer games, and very athletic events including dives from high platforms, somersaulting through burning hoops, rodeo clowns and special effects using indoor pyrotechnics.

Clowning had made substantial strides from the 1940s when clowns were innocuous and tame.  Now there was an entire group of clowns that used the dark side very effectively and intentionally. Glow in the dark clothing and face paint had taken the field into entirely new areas.

He was there for the opening ceremonies dressed as the quintessential Emit Kelly “Tramp clown.” He counted twenty others that were virtually indistinguishable. He wasn’t surprised. His time was spent checking out all of the areas. He was impressed by the technology and he purchased a few items, and he picked up a few items to add to the convention goody bag – he simply couldn’t help himself!

Then he saw it; he was at the opening ceremonies and at the side of the stage he saw the tower that led to a platform that would be used for high dives. He studied it carefully and decided that it was perfect. He had to do some preparation, a silk suit that he could fit inside the voluminous sleeves of his “Tramp” suit ready for a quick change. He could ditch his Charlie Chaplin shoes easily and he calculated he could make the switch in under two minutes. His special suit was really “special,” it glowed in the dark, had numerous lights and a special section that could hold a wide variety of pyrotechnic devices. It also had fake wings that would make it seem that he was flying when the lights came on. He loved it and had spent a lot of time in development and testing over the last few years.

He also noticed that there was a platform about 18 feet off the ground, a little less than half way to the top. That would be fine for his purpose. His plan developed over the next two days of the conference. He walked past the main stage at every opportunity he had and felt like he really knew the set up the “set” as he began to think of it. He would slip back stage and take off his “Tramp” outfit, take off his over large shoes, put on his new suit and swiftly climb the stairs. He would stop at the half-way platform and get the attention of the spotlight operator. Then he would set off a series of flash bangs, and cascade the bag of $100 bills over the audience. He would then take off his mask, tell them who he was and then make the announcement that the cash was to go to the Hospitalized Children’s fund, the clown’s favorite charity. He would say, “Turn in the cash and add a $100 of your own.”

Each time he thought through his plan, he would smile broadly. No more would he be invisible, unknown, the bland and boring person he had been all of his life. It was a brilliant plan!

The final day of the conference came and he was elated. He smiled and chuckled to himself all day; some people actually noticed him and nodded or waved or introduced themselves. He had hidden his bag of costumes behind the curtains of the main stage. He was wearing his normal flat, boring clothing and as had been his practice for years, he carried no identification. There were no marks on this clothing, he did not have a wallet or a watch or any other item that might identify who he was; it was a practice that he had learned the hard way – once when he was taken into the police station for questioning.

The final ceremony was scheduled for late afternoon, and he had taken a bus to get to the Conference Center. Most of the riders were in costume- happy clowns, sad clowns, and the viscious clowns that had become popular lately.   His mind was busy going over the plan in strict detail, the feeling of elation that overcame him was unlike anything he had experienced before. It was like the feelings he got when he pulled off a great scam, but it was better. The “scam high” always had a little edge of darkness attached to it; someone had to pay for his gain – it was a classical zero sum game.

The bus arrived at the front of the Conference Center and he settled into the crowd that was getting off. As they got to the sidewalk, he felt like the crowd was slowing him down, inhibiting his freedom and he had always rebelled at that. So he moved out of the small knot of clowns. He ducked under a rope and started across the street. The traffic pattern was changed, they had decided to change the directions of traffic flow because of the large crowds. He looked the wrong way and was struck by a bus that was accelerating much too fast. His body arched through the air and into the drainage ditch. He smiled as his body fell just far enough to be fatal.

THE EARLY RAIN

The air outside the window pane is brisk and damp. It hasn’t been like this for months, years actually. But suddenly everything is clean and washed, the rain was just in time. I think, “Floods always follow droughts.” But it may just seem that way, and it only seems that way when the rains finally come.

I taste the air, and it is loamy with the heavy fragrance of soil and sod and the washings from the trees, the dust that has accumulated for the past three years. The dust and the rain form a thin gruel – more discolored water than real mud, and it coats everything until it too is washed away – to the drain and then to the ocean. It gives me a sense of excitement; the world is not going to turn into a crisp, fragile pile of debris after all.

Seeds sprout suddenly from the soil; the seeds that have waited for months or even years. The seeds know that the rain will come again. They surge from the ground with such vigor that they move the soil up and out of the way, as if they don’t want to waste a minute or a second of this rare chance to be something, and they must beat their brothers and sisters who are competing for the limited light. They look exactly alike; the same size and shape and bright green. It seems that I could watch them grow it all happens so fast.  But they are too close, the way naturally falling seeds collect in the same spot. So many will die – too little sun, strangled by a brother, cheated of enough water. But it’s a numbers game – so much of life is. You roll the dice, you are the result of rolled dice, the numbers always win.

The sky takes on a special blue, different than the blazing summer sun that wilts and dries and chokes. This is a growing sun, with a special light that energizes everything it touches. But it is a false sun, one that brings things out too early, that jump starts life and in a week or two, the frost will come and most of these eager shoots will wither and die. But, perhaps there will be enough left over seeds to germinate following the next rain and the true warmth that will surely follow.  

THE LAST CARD

I set aside the last card and a feeling of increasing depression floods my mind. It used to be an uplifting event, kids then grandkids doing interesting things and achieving temporary greatness (at least to their parents and grandparents.) Taekwondo belts, swimming teams and school awards. Acceptance at prestigious or not so prestigious schools, graduations and jobs, marriages, divorces, children and more children and joined families.  I quickly forgot which children went with which parents or grandparents.

And I clean up the mailing list – changes of addresses, deleting Mr. & or a male first name. But that’s my task every year. Sometimes separating a Mr. & Mrs. Into two entries. And brutally deleting anyone who did not send a card or letter . . .

But this year the depression was greater than in past years. Cancer cured, but still recovering from the aftereffects, Cancer in remission, breast and prostate and colon and skin. Atrial fibrillation, but no mention of a pacemaker. A broken leg or hip. Recovering from the loss of a long term spouse. Trips, more sedate than in the past and moves some into “retirement communities.”

And perhaps the most depressing, a scheduled move for him, into a dementia facility in April, but he hasn’t been told about it yet.

How many stories are incomplete, untold, not appropriate for sharing I wonder. I know I didn’t talk about my new stent, a nice addition to my life acquired late in the year. There is no need to describe that, just list the many trips we took this year and my grandfather’s book of poems I’ve been involved in getting published, and all the other good stuff.

As I think about that, my depression slackens. A small smile eases onto my face and I begin to work on the plans for a trip next summer.

IT’S ONLY A VEGETABLE

My eyes felt tired, tight, the way they feel after doing a lot of work, or now, more likely a lot of play on the computer. So, I rubbed them, more than a little. It felt really good the loosening of the eyelids, the skin around the edges – the renewed flow of tears that was less than it should be; the cleansing and lubrication so I rubbed harder and moved my fingers in to stretch the loose skin.

Then it began, a slight tingle at first, a gentle itch, a teasing excitement. And then it began in earnest and the pleasant tingle changes to a burn, the itch to a roar of pain, the tease into a pulsing throbbing anguish and the change was almost instantaneous. I shut my eyes, no, that’s not right, my eyes slammed shut and I couldn’t open them. The pain reverberated around my skull. The pulsing searing pain took over my attempts at control. It rolled and bit at my eyes and eyelids and even the eye brows and the upper areas of my cheeks. I had no idea what had happened, Could it be the sting of a scorpion? Not a chance – the analysis, hah, analysis under the control of the intense rushing pain? Hah, both eyes were involved at the same time and to the same degree – further I haven’t seen any scorpions around here and how - - - this is stupid, I was way off base following this stupid train of thought.

I knew at once what it was. The two inch long, mid to dark green, waxy polished surface with the deep brown stem sticking out vegetables – yes that’s what they are vegetables, were the clear cause of this agony, vegetables! Can you believe it? I thought I might be losing my vision, my sight and it was a damned vegetable!

Well of course vegetable is a mundane, lackluster term for a jalapeno, but that’s what they are. I rubbed my eyes, this time being extremely careful to keep my hands away, I used the cuffs of my sweat shirt.

I kept trying to get my eyes open, I had to get to the bathroom to find some eye drops. I found a tissue and used it to sponge up the tears that were flowing freely down my cheeks. Time expanded – it seemed like hours, I could finally, barely open my eyelids a slight crack to see my way to the bathroom. I stumbled down the hall, and opened the medicine cabinet. Every time I opened my eyes, the waves of pain returned – stronger than before.

I enjoy chopping vegetables – I love to do a stir fry since it is based on chopping. So when I offered to help with the Chie Verde prep, it was more to fill my love of chopping than to actually help with the preparation of the dish that would be the entre, served to our guests the next day. If you take all of the seeds out, the chilies aren’t too hot, right? So you split them with a sharp knife and using your finger slip the seeds out and into the drain. Slice, slip and the chilies have been rendered harmless. I washed my hands, with soap, twice, okay? I understand these things. But I could feel the tingling on my index finger, slight, a light sense of thrill, just on the surface so I really knew that the soap had not been enough and I went about my business, until, until the dryness, the fatigue in my eyes caught me off guard and I succumbed to the desire to rub my eyes – and I did!

I don’t know how long the intense pain lasted; I can still feel it now, 24 hours later. I thought my eyes would be red and swollen, and they were – a little, a disappointingly small amount of swelling for the pain involved. I do enjoy the touch of the skin on my hands, the timid tingle that continues to land on my index finger. But now the pleasant sensation is followed by a memory of the blast of pain that took so long to recover from.

The Falls at Wailua

We walked along the sidewalk toward the overlook. Two women had set up a camera on a tripod and were preparing to take some pictures of the Wailua falls across the gorge. They seemed very comfortable directing the other tourists through their “set”.

We passed by and crossed the highway to look into the river valley beyond. I had briefly overheard them talking as we walked past, and the words and their implication started to come clear.

The younger woman who was in her late forties was operating the video, and describing for the older woman what to do and say. It became clear that the older woman was her mother; they looked alike and there is a familiar way that a mother and daughter work together when they are close. “That’s over 400 inches of rain a year.” The younger said to her mother who then carefully repeated the words. She moved to the railing, looked into the camera, and said them again while the daughter aimed the camera. The older woman was attractive, not worn down by the passage of years, but in my brief glance as we passed, I noticed something that at first I could not identify.

We returned from the lookout across the road and again passed through their camera angle. The daughter was giving her mother more lines, checking that she had them correctly and then focusing the video camera on her and “directing” her to recite what she had been told. This seems like it might have been abrupt or controlling, but it wasn’t. The daughter was at all times, in both her manner and her touch, caring and gentle and clearly loving towards her mother. It’s not easy to identify or describe, but there was a patience and a courtesy that encircled each move that she made, every tone in her voice – there could be no doubt about the relationship between the two women. And, the process was slow and had to be repeated often, but there was no shortness of temper, no expression of exasperation, the daughter was accepting, nurturing and loving in everything that she did or said.

The mother had the look on her face of someone who is slightly dazed; a little bemused, befuddled or confused at the things that were going. She wore a slight smile, a look that carries the slightest tinge of embarrassment, and a wonderment about why she should be embarrassed – she could remember a time when she would have been embarrassed by her limited ability to do what she was told, but she could only recall that feeling, she was not experiencing it now.

We walked to our car and drove away. As we looked back, the daughter was still working gently with her mother; she was taking as much care as a professional photographer and director would. It was as if the video was incredibly important, that it might well be one of the last, and it would be the memory of the older lady for all time.

At dinner in the hotel restaurant, we saw them again. This time, the daughter led her mother toward the exit. The mother carried a bag that was filled with gifts, and she was being hurried along. They disappeared from our view. I wanted to run after them and to tell the daughter what a wonderful person she was, how important what she was doing was both to her mother, and to herself. But more importantly to all of the people who saw the two of them together, caring for each other and caring about each other. But before I could move, they were gone from my sight.

Two of my posts have become books that are available at Amazon.com. "I Got Away With It - Perfect Crimes" and "Discovering Roots"