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Not-so-natural Disasters

A
nimals can sense it coming long before the humans. The cats run and hide; the cows in fields stop chewing and turn their heads; flocks of crows fly out of the trees; the deer feasting in Sue’s garden bolt. They know something very bad is about to happen: an earthquake, a tornado, a tsunami. We humans miss the signs; we sit here until it is almost upon us but even
we
can hear this before we see it. Suddenly it appears. It makes the turn right onto our dirt road and heads straight at us. The concussion waves are so powerful dishes start to shake and the plaster rattles. It is a 2001 blue Chevy compact driven by Spike, the nineteen-year-old son of one of the neighbors. To call it a car is silly. It is a giant speaker on wheels.

Spike’s head smacks the back of the headrest over and over as he drives past us. The only sound that escapes the car is a booty-shaking bass. What must it sound like inside that tiny car? The sound may be so powerful in such an enclosed space that his chromosomes may actually split apart, making it impossible for him to father children. So there could be an upside.

We are eighty miles in any direction from what anyone could properly call a city. We live on a dead end road, there are only five houses on the road past ours, and the space is so vast you can’t see one house from the other. How could you possibly get more peace and quiet?

By living on a NASCAR track, that’s how.

Spike listens to gangsta rap. There are very few gangstas in our little town of twenty-five hundred people. There is the guy who got arrested for stealing the large capstones from old stone fences and using them to build a backyard patio. And there was the obstetrician who left his wife and ran off with a nurse. And Monday’s paper always lists a few DUI violations but I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of crime that gives you the street cred that Lil Wayne and 50 Cent are rapping about.

Besides, Sue and I know Spike; we know he’s not a problem kid. He calls me “Sir” and her “Ma’am.” He’s about as scary as a Muppet. You couldn’t meet a nicer, more polite young man.

That’s why we feel so bad about wanting to have him killed. We have long discussions on our front porch about how to make it look like an accident. A gun seems so, well, traceable. Poison mushrooms, too imprecise. He may hate mushrooms and the rest of his family may like them. Tamper with his brakes? He might hit our house. Tie him up in the basement and make him watch
The Sound of Music
over and over? Please, we’re not that inhuman. Still, we watch
CSI
now hoping against hope to find a murder that even they can’t solve.

He makes ten or twenty trips a day, spreading his musical message. He needs a job, that would solve his problem and ours. So we made a few phone calls. Today a new car made a trip up and down the road. It was the Army recruiter Sue called to give Spike’s name and address.

Is Our Children Learning?

W
elcome back, class. I hope you all completed your Spring Break reading assignments,
Who Moved My Cheese
and
The South Beach Diet
. We’ll be discussing those and the other classics during English Lit this semester. We’ll try to get through
The Secret
before the ten-day “Pre-Summer-Holiday Student-Stress-Relief Break” which starts in one week.

There has been a change in the History curriculum: we’ll be studying the third season of
Glee
this year, not the second as it says in your printed class schedule. In the two weeks between the Pre-Summer Holiday and the April break we will be covering
That 70s Show
so if you haven’t been watching that, you’d better get started. There will be a quiz on the fashions of the ’70s as well as the decor.

Those of you who had Mr. Grunion for remedial Tivoing last semester should know what he did on his Spring Break. I suppose the easiest way to explain it is that he’s Miss Grunion now, and in addition to Tivo, she will be coaching the girls’ softball team. Go Redheads! As you know, the Redheads had a dismal one-and-fourteen season last year and Miss Grunion thinks they’re capable of doing much better. At least twice as well, she promises. Still, they did capture the “Courage to Show Up” Cup, which is displayed in the trophy case in the main hall. Two more of those and we will have more of them than any other high school in the state.

The school board has made a few rule changes, so listen up. All tattoos must be tasteful and PG-13. No swear words without a parent or guardian’s permission, especially on the fingers. There will be a limit of three piercings per face, excluding the ears. That is, you could have one eyebrow, one lip and one nose pierced, or two eyebrows and one nose, but you can’t have two eyebrows, a nose, and a lip. Is that understood?

It sounds harsh, but these rules are for your own protection. We had several painful and ugly accidents last year and no one wants a repeat of that. I think that sight of Billy Chambers stuck to the tennis court fence will haunt me for the rest of my life. They say his nose reattachment went well, but he still hasn’t returned to class.

As you all know, thongs must be worn
inside
your clothes. What you do at home is your own business, but here at school we have standards. There will be no online shopping allowed this year during school hours. Those laptops are for studying, people, not shopping. And don’t bother to try. We’ve worked out a deal with FedEx—they will no longer deliver packages to this school except to teachers and administrators. Is that clear?

Between the Post-Christmas Holidays and the Pre-Midwinter Rest we’ve added a teacher’s conference. So there are only ten school days between December 15th and April 5th and we will have to cram in a lot of work.

Sit down, Mr. Wilson. The mid-morning snack bell hasn’t rung yet. The Starbucks will still be in the cafeteria when the bell rings. Which reminds me: those of you who have signed up for “Cell Phone Plan Management,” would you please raise your hands? That’s not many. I know it’s the toughest course we offer, but you really should think about taking it. It will stretch your minds and save you money. There’s the bell. Remember, you’ve only got an hour snack this year, so try not to be late for your next class.

Why Isn’t this Man Running the World?

T
here is a man who knows how to solve all the problems in the Middle East quickly and easily. He knows exactly what we should do in Iraq. He has the solution to global climate change, the high price of gas, the immigration turmoil, affirmative action, stem cell research, gangs, and the drug problem.

He can speak extemporaneously for hours on tax fairness, campaign finance reform, universal health care, voter fraud, education reform, farm subsidies, and foreign aid.

Nothing is too big or too small to escape his notice. In the past half hour he has touched on Indian casinos, the crisis in Darfur, Al Gore, Rosie O’Donnell, globalization, spice rubs, and the iPhone.

And where is this man? Teaching at one of the great universities? Writing position papers for some prestigious think tank? In the executive suite of a multi-national corporation? Out on the campaign trail running for office?

No, he’s right at the table next to us at the Big Pig restaurant. What luck! Not only is he an expert on world and national affairs, he is extremely principled and highly moral. He has nothing but contempt for athletes who take steroids or athletes who don’t win one hundred percent of the time. They are miserable, despicable failures who lack character. They are bad role models who corrupt our youth by sending out the wrong message about hard work and dedication.

Worse, they screw up his betting system. Which is why, through absolutely no fault of his own, he’s three years behind on his child support, because of all those lazy, good-for-nothing, overpaid athletes.

The overpaid athletes rank right up there with the overpaid Hollywood celebrities who change partners faster than you can change channels on your TV. Their marriages fail because they are so self-centered and egotistical. They can’t think past themselves. Whereas his own three marriages failed because his wives were all nagging witches. Nag, nag, nag—Nagging him to get a job, nagging him to stop drinking, nagging him to take a shower, nagging him to fix the car so she could drive to work instead of walking to the bus.

“The walking would have done her good. Get some pounds off her butt.”

So, it’s not just world and national affairs that he’s an expert on, he is also an expert on women, most of whom do not come up to his high standards of height-weight proportion, gymnastic ability, and buttock size.

That restraining order that his second ex-wife has taken out on him that says he can’t come within a thousand yards of her or the kids is based on a complete misunderstanding. He was simply cleaning the baseball bat when it slipped from his hands and accidentally destroyed the dinette set in the kitchen and her collection of Lladro figurines in the living room.

Now, because of her, his children will be deprived of a father’s tender love. How will they learn how to fish? To hunt? To cheat on their taxes? To hotwire a car? To post bail? To drive on a suspended license? Who will teach them that? An overpaid, morally-deficient judge?

As we ate dessert, we learned how to solve our problems with North Korea, our trade deficit with China, oil drilling, and the crystal meth epidemic. Finally he left and we got to pay our bill in delightful silence.

“This guy can’t even run his own life but he thinks he should be running the world,” I said to Sue.

“What makes you think he isn’t?” she asked.

Merry Christmas, Inc.

T
he Christmas card from our bank is on the mantel with all the other Christmas cards: the ones from the credit card companies, the one from the auto dealer, the one from the mortgage company, the ones from the charities we stopped giving money to fifteen years ago, the one from our senator, the one from our congressman, the one from a hotel chain we stayed at once, the one from Recliner City, and the one from our cell phone provider. Yet they say no one has the Christmas spirit any more.

I thought my mortgage company was your typical cold, hard-hearted, bottom-line conglomerate, and then we received this bright red and gold Christmas card that says “From your friends at First Financial.” How I misjudged them. It turns out I have many dear, close friends there. Why there’s what’s-her-face and what’s-his-name—that guy with the toupee—Bob or Charlie or Pete or something. I don’t know why we’ve never had them over for dinner. Maybe it’s because we’ve had no contact with them whatsoever in the six years since the closing. Who could miss the personalized seasonal message they put on the bulk rate meter stamp: “Can You Save Money by Refinancing this Season?”

Our auto dealer’s card had a picture of all their salesmen wearing Santa hats gathered around their latest, shiny, fire-engine-red sports car. “’Tis the Season to drop in and test drive the brand-new Labrador. It’s big and friendly and loves attention! Buy one today! From Santa’s Helpers at the New and Used Auto Warehouse!” It was addressed to “Resident.” It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know they’re full of the Christmas spirit. I guess we have to send them a card now. We got one from the Tire Barn, too. Better add them to the list.

Our stockbroker sent us two cards, one for my 401k and one for my regular account. That’s so thoughtful. How does he remember? He must have a brain like a computer. And such an expensive-looking card. Five dollars apiece, I would think. I wonder where he gets all the money? The broker’s card covers all the holiday bases; it says “Happy Holidays,” “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Hanukkah,” “Feliz Navidad,” “Joyeux Noel,” “Kwanzaa Yenu Iwe Na Heri,” and “Gajan Kristnaskon.” His pagan customers must be miffed that there’s no “Have a Festive Saturnalia,” but you can’t please everyone.

I do a lot of business online, so I get a lot of online Christmas cards from people who have my credit card number and my e-mail address. It’s becoming a long list. Should I print out their cards or just leave them on the computer? Some of them sing and dance. Don’t you love it when you’re supposed to be hard at work and you open an e-mail and then, at double the volume of anything else going on in the office a bunch of barking dogs start singing “Jingle Bells?” My boss had the bonus envelopes in his hand when that happened. Now I’ll never know what mine would have been.

I do get a lot of cards from old friends and far-flung family members, but they rarely contain any coupons or an offer for a free, three-day visit to a time-share like the cards my corporate friends send me, or ten percent off last Christmas’s hot toy. I want to call up my cheap relatives and say, “Hey, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you know the true meaning of Christmas? I’m taking you off my Christmas card list,” but then I calm down and ask myself, “What would my big box store do?” They never take
anyone
off their Christmas card list.

Spare the Taser, Spoil the Child

T
here was a huge crash from the living room. A second later New Hampshire skated through the kitchen on his Heelys screaming “Watch me! Watch me!” as he slammed into our refrigerator.

New Hampshire is my cousin’s six-year-old. He  won’t eat vegetables, and is allergic to gluten, peanuts, latex, penicillin, cats, bees and shellfish. He is, against all odds, overweight. And surly. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to their visits.

His parents, Hanna and Pat, had their hearts set on naming him after a state like Indiana Jones but all the good state names were gone by the time he was born. In New Hampshire’s first grade class there are two Dakotas, two Nevadas, a Montana, a Georgia, a Florida, a Virginia, a Tennessee, and an Arizona. Hanna thought New Mexico sounded too Latin, Massachusetts sounded too WASPy, and Oregon was too California. Pat confuses Iowa, Idaho, and Ohio, so those were out. All in all, the kid’s lucky he’s not going through life named American Samoa or Dry Tortuga.

There was some worry what nickname his classmates and friends would give him: “New” or “Hamps” or something strange or rude. They need not have worried. The kid cannot possibly have any friends. His sister Chardonnay has let it slip that several teachers threatened to put him in “the hole. Whatever that is.” I’ll have to rent
The Great Escape
for her someday.

“What was that crash?” Sue asked.

“It wasn’t me,” New Hampshire said before Sue had even finished the question. “It just fell over all by itself.”

“What fell over by itself?”

“That big stupid red thing.”

“That big stupid red vase we got on our honeymoon in Venice thirty-two years ago? That big stupid red thing?”

“Ye-ah, I guess.”

Sue and I said nothing as we waited for the parenting to begin.

“New Hampshire is an Indigo Child,” Hanna said as New Hampshire skated as fast as he could toward me and, at the last moment, kicked me as hard as he could in the knee. He giggled and then tried to kick me again.

“I’m sorry. We had no idea. Is there a cure?”

Hanna and Pat and New Hampshire all burst out laughing. “A cure? I hope not. New Hampshire has evolved. He’s the next step on the evolutionary ladder. A smarter, better human.”

“You’re saying he’s not human?”

“We don’t let non-humans play in the house,” said Sue. “Or skate,” pushing New Hampshire out the back door. “Can he sleep outside?”

“It’s not a disease, it’s evolution. He’s evolved past us the same way we evolved past the Neanderthals. That’s why people have a hard time understanding him.” Hanna carefully explained to us that Indigo Children don’t like to follow rules, they have trouble waiting in line, they are very demanding and insist that they be served first because they know they are special. “He’s on a totally different plane than we are. To him, you and I are little more than cats and dogs that can talk, that’s how advanced he is.”

“We had a word for children like that when I was growing up,” Sue said. “But it wasn’t ‘Indigo.’ It was . . .”

“I know, I know, but New Hampshire is beyond ‘gifted.’ Indigo Children are very intelligent. They also tend to be hyperactive and aggressive.”

“Why do they call them Indigo Children instead of . . . ?” Sue asked.

Hanna interrupted again.

“They’re Indigo Children because you can see their auras. They can see the future.”

“You mean he can predict what he’s going to break even before he breaks it? That
is
amazing.”

“New Hampshire has evolved past material things. They mean nothing to him. All we can do is watch and admire him.”

“I wish you had mentioned this Indigo
Child
thing before. Our house isn’t really advanced being-proofed. We don’t have any furniture that won’t break when he jumps up and down on it, or the kind of pottery that doesn’t break when he runs through the house at a hundred miles an hour like his hair is on fire. Or can he fix the things he breaks with his superpowers?”

“No, not yet, but that may come,” said Hanna. “Right now we just have to learn to live with it.”

“Are there any other Indigo Children in his school, other kids like him?” Sue asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Hanna. “Practically all of them.”