Still In The Garden

“STILL IN THE GARDEN”

By Noel Laflin

3-03-02

          I was the second person to inherit the old cat.

         My call to Ruby, one warm October day, was meant to be one of pleasantries as well as an offer of assistance with her upcoming relocation.  Ruby was finally giving up the old house in Long Beach and determined that it was time to move into a retirement community.  My father had done much of the legwork, by way of careful research, and recommended Bixby Towers as his choice, if it were he that sought such a place.  Ruby had been relying on the judgment of both my mother and father for more than twenty years.  She agreed with his choice and arrangements were made.  An apartment in the Towers was selected and the old house Ruby had inherited from her sister, Opal, was put on the market and sold very quickly.  Ruby may have been old and operating off of one feeble lung only, but she was fast on the move with her packing, sorting, tossing and giving away of things.  When I happened to call, it seems that one of the things she was in desperate need of giving away was Targa, Opal’s old cat.  The cat had come with the home, after the sister’s passing.

           “I just don’t know what I am going to do with Targa,”
Ruby gasped.  Sixty years of cigarettes and one lung removal later, on top of severe emphysema, lent a wheeze  to every sentence she spoke.  “They won’t let me take Targa to the new place,” she cried.  “There is a ‘no pet’ rule,” she panted, “although I hear fish are allowed.  Just not big ones, I suppose,” she reasoned, laboring for air. I am not sure what got into me at that moment, but as I paused to let her catch her breath, I thought, 'why not?'

    “Ruby, I’ll take Targa for you.  I will give her a good home in the garden.  You know how pleasant it is there; she can nap in  the warm sun to her heart’s content.  Zane won’t mind, I’m sure.”  The youngster, Zane, my gray tomcat was always on the prowl anyway and probably wouldn’t even notice the old, brown, long haired feline that would soon share his space. At least, I hoped        he wouldn’t mind. Zane would be three on Halloween.  Targa’s  age was uncertain.  She was at least twelve years old, most likely older.  She was in her golden cat years, that was for sure.

Ruby began to cry and wheeze simultaneously. “Oh, that would be so wonderful,” she sniffed.  “Targa is all I have left of Opal, the last of my family, I guess.  Thank you.” 

This former neighbor and friend of two decades had literally watched me grow from boy to teen to adult and had been most kind to me during all of that time.  She still referred to me as her ‘gardener’, as I had kept her lawns trimmed, back in the old neighborhood in Anaheim, for ten years or more.  She had always paid me most handsomely.  She never forgot a birthday or graduation of any sort either.

But over the years, as she battled alcoholism, loneliness, loss of husbands and health, as well as the last of her kin, she somehow became a member of our family. We, in return, viewed Ruby like any eccentric aunt or older cousin.  She was family, short and sweet, which pretty much-described Ruby’s physical description, too.  Well, she was at least short.  Once she beat the bottle, she also became sweet. 

She no longer showed up on New Year’s Eve, for example, wearing nothing more than a raincoat, as she did during one memorable changing of the year celebration.

“I’m naked as a jaybird,” she slurred, flashing my mother in the kitchen. She had also forgotten to put in her teeth.  Or perhaps she had left them out intentionally as the new set of dentures were not fitting as well as the old ones that her dog, Fluffy, had gotten hold of one Saturday afternoon and chewed into unrecognizable pieces. Despite all this, mom somehow bundled her up before she had a chance to scare the rest of the guests and got her back home, next door, and into bed.

      In pre-sober days she was liable to stumble over to our house at any given time, drunk as a skunk, railing on about one injustice or another.  Or, perhaps she would tell us for the two-hundredth time how she had met one of the husbands (Frank, as I recall) and remind us of what a looker she was back in the bad old days of Chicago.  And a looker, she was.  I have a small black and white photo of her standing in a doorway, somewhere in Chicago, most likely, taken during the late thirties or early forties, and looking quite stunning.

         But, as the years went on and she lost her youth, as well as husbands, that little woman found solace only in her highballs. Ruby could go through a fifth of bourbon every night.  My dad and I knew, as we carried her trash out to the curb each week and heard the clinking of bottles rattling about in the dinged up metal trashcans.  But come early the next morning, there was Ruby, made up and dressed quite eloquently, driving off to her secretarial job, looking none the worse for wear.  I really don’t know how she did it. 

Over time, the bottom fell out, however, and Ruby was hospitalized after a bad seizure.  It was my dad who found her and got help.  She went through terrible withdrawals while bedridden, seeing snakes and all.  She eventually emerged from the ordeal, sober.  She remained that way for the rest of her days.  Again, I don’t really know how she did that as rapidly and as gracefully as she did.  She was one resilient woman, all four foot, eleven inches of her.

Many of those old remembrances, along with dozens of others, fast-forwarded themselves through my head as I drove home with Targa.  It was late October.  Ruby would be moving into her new apartment the first week in November    She had said her goodbyes to the cat, cried one last time and then sent me packing with at least fifty cans of cat food.

       It was while I was unloading all of the cat food that I lost Targa.  The drive back to my place had been uneventful.  I had also gotten the cat into the house without trouble.  But somewhere along the way, apparently, I left the front door open, while going back for more food still in the truck and in so doing forgot about the cat.  By the time I figured it out, she was not to be found.  Perhaps she had made a dash for daylight.  Damn, what was I going to tell Ruby?

I searched the place high and low, checked the garage, as well as both back and front yard.  Still no cat.  If Ruby called, I decided that I would just have to lie and tell her that all was well, that the cat was in the garden, doing just fine, resting peacefully.  I would stall for time, hoping I would find her.  I even combed the neighborhood by flashlight that night, to no avail.  I went to bed dreading the worst. 

The next morning, October thirty-first, I stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.  I sleepily reached into the shower and turned on the water, full blast, warming it up.  

“YEOWWWWW,” screamed, Targa, water hitting her dead on.  It was one pissed and startled cat, which went flying out of the shower, leaping over my head and darting into the darkness of the bedroom.

“Happy Halloween, to you too, you little hairball!  Great trick!” I yelled, feeling my heart wanting to tear out of my chest. “Jesus, you scared me, cat!”

       I’d checked everywhere but the shower, the night before, apparently.   After pulling one slightly wet feline out from under the bed, I let her out into the garden, where she eventually calmed down and dried off.  Now I could make the call to Ruby and tell her just how well Targa had adjusted, without lying, too much.  She was still in the garden, after all, when I did make that call later in the day. 

“Yes, she’s doing fine, Ruby, exploring the garden, doing fine in the garden.” 

Within time, this old cat and I grew on one another.  Even Zane gave the old lady the dignity she deserved.  Maybe it was the sharing of canned food that won him over.  Up until then he’d only experienced the dry stuff.  Whatever it was, Targa became a fixture in the garden, sitting atop a Koi pond, dreamily watching the fish swim round and round, or finding a warm patch of sun up on the fence and sleeping the day away.

At every family gathering Ruby would ask the inevitable: “And how’s Targa?”

To which I always answered: “Fine, Ruby, just fine.  Targa’s still in the garden.  Sleeping peacefully, no doubt, as we speak. I always returned from the gatherings with more cans of cat food.

The next two years were rough on both Ruby and her former cat.  Both were growing a little weaker each day, slowing down considerably.  Even Ruby’s asking about the cat began to slacken off, as her own health deteriorated.  But my ready answer to her, when now occasionally asked, was pretty much the same each time: “Targa’s fine, Ruby, still in the garden, resting easy.”  Ruby would be satisfied and more cat food would find its way to my house eventually.

So it happened one early September morning, nearly two years after acquiring Targa that I was brought out of a sound sleep, by the sound of a strange gasp or cry.  To this day, it is hard to explain the noise I heard, but it was similar to a muffled, “Oomph!” The night had been warm and the sliding door to my bedroom was wide open.  I heard that expulsion of air quite distinctly, over the splash of water falling in the ponds, coming from the garden. 

Groggily I went out to investigate, flashlight in hand.  The scanning beam caught Targa, lying on the ground, gasping for breath.  It appeared that she had jumped from the top of the old wooden fence to the garden floor, as was her custom, and had the wind knocked out of her old frail body, upon the hard fall.  I bent down to stroke her and noticed that she was not responding to my touch.  I grew concerned and gently lifted the old gal and set her on my lap.  She wheezed, laboring for breath. It was not unlike the sound Ruby frequently made when exhausted by words or extended movement.  The similarities were uncanny. 

As I stroked her head, scratched behind the ears and gently tried to reassure Targa that all would be well, she suddenly breathed her last and went limp across my knee.  The cat was dead.  This last jump and consequent hard landing had done in her old heart, I guess.  Her bony body was now quite still as I continued to scratch behind the ears, weeping as I spoke to her. Warm tears baptized the soft pelt.

It was four in the morning. The air was still, warm and dark. A thirty-six year old man sat cross-legged in his garden, cradling a dead cat and carrying on like a heart-broken child.  He remained in that position until the first rays of light broke over the horizon.  As night gave way to day, he stiffly rose and carried his light burden into the house.  Moments later he emerged, now wearing tennis shoes and an old sweat shirt while carefully cradling something loosely wrapped in an old faded sheet.  He set his parcel down and located a shove.  He began to dig a hole, not far from where he’d sat before.  The hole grew deeper, as dirt and rocks were separated and piled beside it.  Eventually satisfied with its depth, he picked up the shrouded small bundle and gently placed it at the bottom of the hole he’d dug.  After a last touch to the sheet, and a few whispered words, he began to slowly refill the hole with dirt.  A large stone was found and placed atop the packed down earth.  Smaller rocks were placed around the rough, gray centerpiece, in tribute.  Rose petals were sprinkled about.   Finished, the man slowly went into the house and called in sick to work.  He had not felt this tired or this sad in quite some time.  He just needed the day alone.  The man unplugged the phone, shut off his pager, and then crawled back into the rumpled bed he’d jumped out of some hours earlier and cried himself to sleep.  “All this, over a cat,” he thought, drifting off. “ Jesus.” 

Fourteen months later Ruby had a fall of her own and died the next day. She was eighty years old.  My father and mother made all of the arrangements for her burial and estate settlement, as were expected of them.  

I had never told Ruby about Targa’s  passing.  Interestingly enough, she never asked how the cat was doing during all that time. I was prepared but never had to use the standby reassurance line of mine.  Maybe, Ruby just knew instinctively that Targa was still, in the garden.

             

          

     

.

     

 

Cats & Jam

“Cats ‘n Jam”

By Noel Laflin







                                                                                                                                    

August 31, 2001
Friday Afternoon
Orange, Ca.

This has been a summer of missing cats and plentiful plums.  I am reminded of my own absent feline friend each time I’m in the garden picking the bountiful fruit harvest.  Bo has been AWOL for a fortnight now.
 

My garden has always been an animal sanctuary of sorts.  Opossums, raccoons and shrews come to feed and drink once the sun goes down.  The raccoons are a nuisance, as they love to fish in the koi ponds.  More than once, over the years, they have had one hell of a dinner.  They are carnivores and thieves by nature.  Not long ago I was awakened around two AM by loud splashing.  I flipped on the patio light.  A huge raccoon had my prize koi in his paws, as he bent over the pond closest to the house.   I dashed out into the back yard, stark naked, grabbing blindly for any handy rock to throw.  I nailed the son-of-a bitch in the head.  Whether he was simply stunned by the blow to his skull or by the sight of this crazed and naked middle-aged man, scrambling for more rocks and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs, I will never know.  All I do remember is that he dropped the fish back into the water and made a beeline for the fence.  I got him one more time with a second throw.  He has not returned.  I am sure he has put the word out to his clan to stay away from my little oasis, no matter how attractive the smell of easy fish may be.  Although scarred and no doubt scared by the large claws, the fish survived.

The opossums and shrews are tolerated in the yard, as they are not meat eaters.  They can be loud, however, as they sit by the cat bowl munching away on Friskies.  My cats don’t seem to mind them.  Many times I have shined the flashlight into the yard to see a young opossum and the old cat, Zane Gray, sitting side-by-side taking turns at the food.  The opossums and shrews will also eat most of the plums that have to the ground, thus helping me with the cleanup of rotten fruit.  These guys are okay.
       

Shade from the large trees, including the three plums, help keep my small yard cool during the day’s summer heat.  Normally, the cats (mine and neighbors’) can be found lounging about the mini jungle fortress, saving energy for nocturnal prowling.  But Bo’s latest nighttime prowl is now going on two weeks

As I climb higher into the largest tree, laden with deep-purple Satsumas, I scan the fence line and beyond, hoping to catch a fleeting glimpse of the tardy tabby.  “Where the hell are you, Bo?” I mumble for the umpteenth time.  “Damn!”  No cat in sight.  I continue filling another bag with fruit.

The Santa Rosas were the first to go plum crazy this year.  So much so, that David and I put up sixty-three half-pints of jam from these two trees alone.  All of this started on July Fourth, as I went out to gather some of the beauties for our breakfast.  A few plump ones soon led to a full bag as I realized that the whole damn tree was bursting at the branches.  The younger tree had its own harvest to consider and I had not even gotten to that one as yet.  If the limbs should break, not even an entire army of opossums and shrews would be able to cope with the potential downfall.  Two more plastic shopping bags were soon filled.  “What to do, what to do?” I wondered.   I approached David with a question:  “Have you ever made jam before?”

Recalling past instructions from my mother, we headed off to the store in search of Mason Jars, Pectin and sugar.  Large pots were dug out of kitchen cabinets for the sterilization of jars and lids.  Plums were rinsed, pitted and chopped.  Soon the cooking began and the entire house took on an aroma that took me back forty years in time.  I pictured my mom at the stove, stirring the fruit, adjusting the heat, lining up steaming, hot jars for the filling of the dark purple liquid.  My mother’s jam was renowned throughout the neighborhood.  I would be happy if this batch just set up all right.  We were pleasantly rewarded.  Not only did it gel properly, it tasted divine.  My mom would have been proud.  Small firecrackers, in honor of the day, bordered the labels on the jars.  It was, and continues to be, a hit with friends, neighbors and co-workers.

Bo was around during this time - although in the past he frequently was one for taking off for a day or two.  Hell, once he set an all-time record, at sixteen days away, before he sauntered back into the garden one morning, rubbing against my leg and purring as if nothing were wrong.  He had taken his leave of absence a day or two before Halloween, as I recall.  By mid November, I had nearly lost hope of his return.  I was convinced he had been catnapped for some gruesome, sick sacrifice, the likes of which one reads or hears about during All Hallows Eve celebrations.  I was in a sad state of mind already as his disappearance had followed the death of my mother just two months prior over Labor Day weekend      

So it was that I had just about given up on the lad when he came home.  No explanation, at all.  He did not look the worse for wear.  If anything, he looked well fed and cared for.  Did Bo have a new family somewhere about the neighborhood?  I have often wondered about that and asked him that too.  But he refuses to answer.  All I’ve gotten in reply is a rub to my leg and a push of his head against my hand. Of course he’s always hungry upon his return.  I have bribed him with canned food, hoping to keep him at this home for a while.  It’s worked in the past  . . . for a while.

Since that legendary Houdini disappearing act four years back, I have paid little attention to his wanderings, as he always makes it back to the garden and into the house for a long nap.  If he weren’t fixed, I’d swear he was just whoring it up somewhere.  But he’s approaching the old record, to be measured in weeks now.  Labor Day is nearly upon us.  I am concerned. Old fears begin to taunt.  A deep sadness over the loss of mom four years ago and the death of a beloved puppy twenty years ago this coming holiday also haunts me.  “Not now, Bo, not this weekend, please,” I whisper to the garden spirits above.

Peaches came our way between the harvesting of the two plum varieties and Bo’s most recent disappearance.   A  friend's tree went wild this summer also.  Twenty-seven half-pints of the golden-cast liquid amber were put up in our kitchen during the heat of August. “Tastes just like peach pie,” my good friend, Seritha, noted.  She was right.  When spread on a warm English muffin or any kind of toast or hot biscuit, the distinct taste of peach pie smacked the taste buds.  Whereas the plum jam was tart and tangy, this was an out-and-out assault of sweetness.  Oh, mom, you would be so proud!  There was more praise from neighbors, friends and co-workers.

And so I found myself measuring summer days by picking fruit and putting it to the boil.  The Satsumas were too good for jamming, however, and were eaten fresh.  I could have sold the suckers, judging once more, by the reaction of friends, neighbors and co-workers (fellow salesmen, in particular).  Damn, they were good.  That’s what took me to the top of the tree again, the final day of August, (the fourth anniversary of my mother’s death) reaching for the last of the plums while scanning for a missing cat.  Noting the melancholy date and sudden lack of Bo once again put me in a wistful mood.

I recall that Bo wasn’t the only cat to have disappeared this past summer.  My neighbor, Gail, lost one of her cats in late spring.  Homemade fliers giving a description of the lost guy were distributed throughout the neighborhood.  He was never found.  Then Krysten's cat, Pepper, abruptly vanished six weeks ago too.  More fliers and signs were posted.  The calico never made it back home.  Some of us believe that coyotes may have done them both in.  They are about as high on my list as raccoons.  They have moved boldly into our neighborhood.  Water and small prey are plentiful.  These scavengers are thriving on the pet world.  Can’t blame ‘em.  They are hungry, after all.  Intellectually, I understand.  Emotionally, I am pissed off, especially when it’s our pets that are in danger.

I left the tree with the last of the plums and a heavy heart.  There was no cat in sight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

September 3, 2001
Labor Day
Orange, Ca.

Without a word of an apology, Bo returned to the garden this morning.  He looked none the worse for wear.  I brought him into the room and gave him the third degree.  It did not faze him.  He only pushed against my hand, suggesting that the ear scratching should continue.  I stopped the petting only long enough to open a can of good food and lay before him.  The bribe ought to work for a while  . . . maybe.  Meanwhile, we humans had toast and jam for breakfast. 

  

   

           

             

Dragon Sal and the Hong Kong Boys

Dragon Sal and the Hong Kong Boys

or

All Washed Up

By Noel Laflin

3-20-02

                                                                   

I received my most recent Social Security Benefits Summary the other day.  This is the slim fold-open document which lists all of the years we have ever worked, what we made annually and approximately how much money we can look forward to receiving should we be ever be disabled, retired or dead.  Not that we would receive the death benefit obviously; that would go to survivors (spouses and children), should one have any, otherwise back into the general pot for others to share in someday; if there is a someday for any of us.

Regardless of the future outcome with Social Security, what caught my eye on this summary was the first year of income of which I am on record of having earned and paid taxes to Uncle Sam.  It was 1969.  I made, according to my official document, sixty dollars. I was sixteen years old at the time.  It was a princely sum as I recall.

Now, this summary does not list places of employment, but one rarely forgets the first official job of one’s life.  Thus, I have not forgotten the Dragon’s Den or my brief stay there, these many years later.

It all began with a lead from a tenth grade buddy.

“Como estas, y’all?” Mrs. Whitten, our sophomore Spanish instructor with the thicker-than-molasses Alabama accent greeted us one lazy fall day. 

“Bien, grassy ass, you old deaf bat.  Y tu?” the class replied as one.

“Bien, gracias, bien.  Now, if y’all will turn to chapter seven in this here book, we shall proceed,” the old woman with rapidly thinning hair slowly drawled.  She was really hard of hearing and had not heard a word we’d said. 

It made for great fun each afternoon.  One could catch up on gossip with one’s neighbor or for that matter shout an insult to someone across the room and never fear of Senora Whitten catching on.  One had to be damn stupid to fail any test or quiz in this class too.  If you didn’t know the answer to any question, all y’all had to do was ask out loud and someone was bound to shout it out to y’all, if they felt so inclined to help.  Mrs. Whitten never heard a word.

She may have been both old and nearly deaf, but she had tenure, damn it and that meant a teaching job for life at old Anaheim High School.  Consequently, I loved this class and recommended first year Spanish to all my friends.

“Hey, Laflin - you looking for some part-time work?” asked William, the guy seated directly behind me on this particularly fine autumn day.  Such a random request from boy wonder, Bill, came as no surprise. 

Mrs. Whitten was sound asleep, snoring at her desk. The late afternoon warmth had gotten to her, I guess. We were supposed to be working on our own, which, in this last class period of the day, translated into open conversation, spitballs flying, flirtatious innuendos bantered about and pencils being thrown into the air to see if they would catch and stick into the soft acoustic ceiling tiles above.

“Well,” I replied to William, ducking a falling pencil, “I could always use some extra cash.  Mowing lawns doesn’t quite cut it anymore. Get it? Cut it?”

Dumb silence on his part.  William wasn’t the sharpest pencil in the ceiling.

“Never mind,” I sighed.  “What’s your proposal?”

“Dishwashing!” he answered, all too enthusiastically.  “The Dragon’s Den Restaurant, over by your house. I work there four nights a week. They’re in need of a new guy on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I work the other nights.  You interested?”

“Well, sure. I guess,” I stumbled.  I really had not been looking for gainful employment, but thought to myself and finally said aloud, “What the hell?”

“Cool,” he said.  Meet me there tonight, about five, and I’ll introduce you to Sal.  She’s the owner.  She likes me. Dragon Sal will take anyone I recommend,” he bragged, “even a dumb-ass like you, Laflin.” He hooted insanely to himself over the verbal jab.

About then I leaned slightly to the left and let a wayward spit wad hit my slow-witted friend smack dab in the forehead.  His hooting quickly changed to cursing.

The final bell then rang and we all gathered up books and prepared to leave.  William was wiping his brow with a shirt sleeve and muttering to himself.  Senora Whitten suddenly gave a great snort and woke herself up. 

“Ah, como estas y’all?” she stammered sheepishly, confused by all the commotion.  She had no idea as to whether we were coming or going, so stuck to the familiar greeting which roughly translated into, “How y’all doin’?”

We didn’t stick around to give the standard reply.  School was done for the day.  And I had an interview to prepare for.

The proprietress of the Dragon’s Den, Sal, was titanic. A large Caucasian woman, Sal, dwarfed the petite Asian waitress flitting about the establishment, delivering hot plates to waiting tables of customers.  I could hear her broken English as she spoke to a couple at a table closest to where I stood in the waiting area.  She soon scampered back through the restaurant, some hot plates still in hand, before disappearing beyond the swinging door which, I presumed, led into the kitchen.  I could hear a barrage of banging cutlery and high-pitched Cantonese shouted about - aimed toward unseen cooks before the door fully swung shut.

Sal finally looked up from the paperwork she’d been shuffling atop the hostess’ lectern, sensing trouble.  Heavily made up, Sal wore enough rouge and eyeliner to outfit three smaller Asian faces.  I believe she must have applied her color with the help of a cement trowel. She had the look of a bad, B-Western Madam, or perhaps a nasty looking, gaudy drag queen; take your pick. She finally gave a quick glance my way, having now just noticed my arrival, judged me unimportant and waded off, like a ponderous supertanker lying low in the water, to the table, which had just sent back the food with the little waitress.

“Hello,” I heard her croon to the young couple now moving nervously in their seats at the table in question.  “I am both the owner and manager here at the Dragon’s Den.  Was there anything wrong with your order?” she inquired sweetly.

“Ah, well,” the young man stammered, “there appeared to be what looked like a ‘bite’ taken from our egg foo young.  I could swear there were teeth imprints under that watery brown sauce.”

“And the fried rice looked awful,” chirped the woman.  “It seemed like it was either cooked too long or reheated or something.  There appeared to be some shrimp tails - minus the shrimp - as well.  It wasn’t appetizing,” she finished, wiping her mouth, distastefully with a napkin.

“Well, I am so sorry for any misrepresentation or appearance of our food,” Sal purred.  “We take great pride in our authentic Cantonese cuisine.  Our cooks choose the freshest of ingredients for each dish, carefully and individually prepared for every party.  If you would excuse me a moment, I shall consult with our chefs. I am certain that there is a silly, if not plausible explanation for all of this. I’ll be right back,” she whispered.  And with that, the great ship turned and set sail for the swinging kitchen door. 

Sal was no sooner out of sight than the young couple looked at one another and in unison quickly rose from the table, shaking their heads and muttering as they quietly left the restaurant. 

I could hear a commotion coming from the kitchen, in both Chinese and English. Pots and pans were being slammed about. A metal trash can lid clanged into place. I inched closer, in order to hear better.

I was beginning to take to the place already. It had a certain chaos, to which I could relate. It was reminding me of school somewhat.  No wonder William liked working here.

A moment later Sal appeared, patting her hair back in place and mopping beads of perspiration from her forehead.  She eyed the recently vacated table and sighed.  It was about then that she finally took notice of me.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, kid,” she panted.  “Are you here for that take out order?”  Sal ruffled through some papers on the rostrum.

“No, ma'am. I am here about a dishwasher's job.  William said that you had an opening.”

She looked momentarily distracted, if not down right confused, as she was still glancing at the empty table where the young couple had been sitting until just minutes ago.  Sal finally looked back my way and shook her great head slightly, clearing the cobwebs, as if trying to comprehend what I had just said.

“Oh, right! Dishwasher,” she finally acknowledged. “William, the dumb one in the back.  OK, OK, I’m with you now, kid.  I do need someone a few nights a week to fill in for some other no good slacker that quit on me last week, the son of a bitch!  It’s four hours a shift and pays minimum wage.”

“Ah, how much is minimum wage?” I inquired.  Lawn mowing had neither a minimum nor a maximum.  Mostly no maximum, as I look back on it.

“The US Government, in its infinite wisdom, tells me that I have to pay you a minimum of a buck fifteen an hour,” she said.  “Seems like a hell-of-a-lot for scraping crap off of plates and what have ya, but that’s the law.  When can you start, kid?”

 “Is tomorrow all right?” I ventured.

 “Fine, fine, that’ll work.  Get here early and I’ll show you around.  Business is a little brisk at the moment; don’t really have time to chat, much less show ya the ropes,” she said, glancing around at the scant crowd.  “And I have some business to attend to with the boys in the kitchen. See ya tomorrow, kid.”  With that she turned tail and headed off toward the swinging door. 

The Dragon’s Den was all of a three-minute walk back to my house. On that brief stroll it dawned on me that I had not gotten to see William or be instructed on the workings of a commercial dishwasher.  All in good time, I thought, all in good time.  I guess anybody could learn to operate one.

I arrived the next day, as instructed, a little before five and found Sal just where I’d left her the night before.  A few customers were already seated and the little Asian waitress was scurrying about in her usual manner.

Upon seeing me, Sal reached under the hostess’ stand and threw an apron my way. 

“Put it on, kid,” she hollered, “and I’ll give you the lowdown around here.  Chop, chop.  Let’s go!  Time is money, ya know.” 

I struggled with the strings behind my back, trying to get the thing tied as Sal slowly navigated us toward the kitchen.  Before we got to the swinging door, however, she made a slow right turn.  I followed, at a safe distance.

“OK, kid, aside from the scraping, rinsing, washing and drying in the back, as well as the dumping of the trash, you’ll also be responsible for keeping this area well stocked with clean plates, platters, tea cups, glasses, etc.   You won’t be busing any of the tables, that’s Lilly’s job.  Lilly’s the waitress,” Sal said.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open and Lilly reappeared, hands and arms full of hot plates and a steaming teapot, heading for the family of five waiting in a corner booth. 

“That’s Lilly,” Sal nodded to the petite waitress.  “She’s also my interpreter for the boys in the back.  They don’t speak a whole lot of English.  Neither does Lilly, for that matter, but she gets by, and she knows the menu, so we’re set.”

Lilly’s quick and skillful arranging of the steaming platters on the table was a fine example of efficiency in motion, I thought.

“Since we’re back here,” Sal paused, “I just wanted to warn you about the cookies.”

 “Cookies?” I asked, a tad confused.

“Yeah, cookies.  These things right here.”  She was pointing to a large pink box filled with fragrant almond cookies sitting next to the beer cooler. She grabbed one and shoved it whole, into her garishly made up mouth.

 “Now,” the muffled mouthful mumbled,  “I know it will be tempting to swipe one or two of these when you’re back here stocking things,” she croaked, spitting almond dust my way,  “but don’t even think about it,” Sal threatened.  “They’re too expensive to be wasted on the help.”  She palmed  one more as she did an about face, forcing me to back out of the tight area.

“You can have any broken ones we find. Or, you can have any left overs from the bussed tables, whole or otherwise, before you scrape the plates in the garbage. Touch these good ones though, and I’ll break your arm.”  She tossed the second almond cookie into her wide mouth and pulverized it with a smile.

“Excuse me, Sal,” I ventured, still struggling with the damn apron strings behind me.  “Did you say I could have the ones not eaten by the customers?” 

“Right,” she swallowed.  “But you may have to fight the clowns in the kitchen for them. Now, that we got that clear,” as she dusted her hands, “come on back and meet my Hong Kong Boys.

On the other side of the swinging door awaited my new tormentors.

Sal’s ‘boys’ were hardly boys.

I called the old guy Pa.  He was ancient. When business was slow, which was frequent, he would lay his head on one of the wooden chopping blocks and take a nap.  At any given time he might awaken with a snow pea pod or two stuck to the side of his face. 

Over the course of the month that I worked in the Dragon’s Den, scraping and rinsing crud off of dirty plates, I would sometime fantasize about grabbing the heavy, sharp cleaver lying next to the old man’s dosing head and just doing him in. It would be justified payback, I reasoned, for all the times he had tapped me on the shoulder, with dirty chopsticks, which, he had just fetched from the trash, and tell me for the hundredth time: “No throw way, No! No, no throw way! Washeee, washee!”  He would then toss the dirty pair of wooden eating utensils into the large metal sink, turn his back on me, muttering some Cantonese curse, no doubt, and slink back to the chopping block for another nap.  When safely asleep once more, I would throw the disposable chopsticks away, again.  Pa just never got it, however.  

When forced to be awake and actually be of some help, he moved with all the speed of Chinese molasses. This drove the other cook crazy.  I referred to him as Hop Sing, in honor of the Chinese cook on the TV show, Bonanza.

Whereas the character on television was likable, in a stereotypically nineteen sixties way,  my Hop Sing was not.

He was a mean little cuss who loved to tell me: “Takee out trash,” six times a night, whether the trash needed dumping or not. 

His reason, as I soon discovered, for sending me outside to the big dumpster so often, was to get me out of the way while he searched through the dirty dishes Lilly had just bussed, for food that he deemed worthy of saving, eating or instantly reheating in the huge wok. 

“Teeth imprints,” were the words I had overheard the young man say to Sal on my initial interview night.  And something about a ‘bite.’ 

Whereas Pa only had two teeth in his entire head, Hop Sing had more than enough to leave tell tale impressions behind.  I guess he had forgotten to shave off that portion of egg foo young on the night in question, before throwing the piece back on the fire and covering it with brown oyster sauce.  Sal probably chewed on him, no doubt, for being so dumb as to not better cover his tracks.  Well, that was my deduction anyway, once I stumbled on the Dragon’s Den recycling plan.  ‘Waste not, want not,’ must have been the mantra there.  It worked something like this:

Hop Sing would yell, “Hey, No,” (I found “No” to be as close as they could come to pronouncing my name) “you boy, Takee trash. Takee trash now, No.  Go, go, go!”  And off I would be shooed.

Out I would go with the near-empty container through the back door.  There I would turn the corner, wait and peer back in, unseen by Hop Sing or the sleeping Pa.  Sure enough, as soon as I was gone, or so the younger cook thought, a-scavenging he would go.  Platters of half eaten steamed rice went back into the cooker and any decent amount of fried rice found its way back into the wok.  Good portions of sweet and sour pork were pulled aside as were egg rolls, won tons, untouched portions of hot and sour sauce as well as the aforementioned, leftover almond cookies  Sal was right on about that one.  I would have to fight those guys, if I was so inclined to have those cookies.  Whole ones too, damn it!

Well, it gave me pause for thought.  How many times had my family, friends or I  eaten here over the years?  I did not want to think about that, suddenly.

Maybe an anonymous call to the health department might be the prudent thing to do.  I would have to think about that one.  After all, I was an employee here myself and an investigation might somehow reveal how I had failed to add any detergent to the huge dish washing machine during the first two weeks of my working there. 

Not that this was my fault, really.  I mean, it was only by accident that I discovered the slight oversight when I came in to relieve William early one night.

I had come in the back door, off the alley and was about to announce myself to my classmate when I saw that he was adding two cups of some kind of white powder to the machine, before turning on the wash cycle. 

“Wow,” I thought to myself, “Soap.  And I always thought it had some kind of automatic soap dispenser built into the dang thing.  Hum.   Well, what do you know?”

So, after that, I too started to add detergent to each batch. 

I wondered if a health department investigation would somehow uncover that small detail. 

Best to keep these infractions to myself, I thought.  I would just try to be more vigilant about what Hop Sing threw into the wok.  That, and I had better warn family and friends to never step foot within or call for delivery, ever again from this establishment.  Thank God, my mother fed me at home each night before I reported for work.

Well, all of this was cluttering up my brain something fierce one Friday night.  For once the place was hopping and the dirty dishes were coming in fast and furious.  Lilly would go out with hot food (new or used) and come back with more dirty plates and cups.  What I was in need of was a distraction of some sort. 

I took a stack of clean plates out front to stock next to the beer cooler.  As usual, I grabbed three or four almond cookies and stuffed them in both my apron and pants pockets.  I had probably eaten over a hundred since the start of my employment.  My arm was still intact.  Dragon Sal just hadn’t caught me as yet.  And I don’t think she kept accurate counts herself, as she was the biggest cookie monster of all. 

It was after I had gone back into the kitchen and ducked into the linen room alcove to munch down some of my stolen goods that sudden inspiration for my much-needed distraction took hold. For, as I gobbled the cookies, I could hear the faintest of music coming from this little room.  Now, I don’t know why I had never heard or paid attention to it before, but sure enough, there it was.  The source of the music was coming from a small radio sitting atop the highest shelf.  It was playing some sort of easy going stuff, what parents listened to, I thought.  It was really tinny in sound and playing very low, too.  Why hadn’t I ever noticed this before?  The constant noise of the dish washing machine masked it, I deduced.

Well, a little rock and roll was in order I thought, as I reached up and turned the dial.  Got to turn the volume up too, so I could hear the darn music over all the noise in the kitchen, as well.  So up the volume went, to an enjoyable level for me.  Oh, that was so much better, I thought, as the rollicking voice of Mick Jagger came flowing out of my small sanctuary.

Within seconds, the kitchen’s swinging door came crashing open.  Dragon Sal nearly broke the damn thing down.  She had a look of absolute terror on her face as she pushed me aside and crammed her large frame  into the small alcove.  She reached up and yanked the radio off the shelf, pulling its cord out of the electrical socket - all in one swift movement.

Lilly was right behind her, hands clasped over both ears, tears streaming down her face, shouting something incomprehensible in Chinese.  Her voice was rather high pitched and strained.

Through the open swinging kitchen door I could spot movement afloat within the crowded restaurant.  Everyone was running for the front entrance, hands over their ears too. 

What the hell was going on I wondered?

“You idiot!” Sal bellowed.  “Just what in God’s name were you thinking by playing with this radio?” Boy, was she worked up, I thought.

“I . . . I wanted to hear some music, Sal,” I stammered.  “Just changed the station and turned it up a bit was all,” I said weakly. 

“This is the transmitter you dumb-ass!  We control the volume out THERE, not in HERE.  You just blasted out every last customer,” she shouted.  Flaring nostrils were about to flame.  I expected smoke, shortly.

“Oh, sorry.  Didn’t know,” I said.  “So, they didn’t care for the Stones, huh?”

“Not at eighty decibels!  Do you realize just how much business you drove away with this stupid blunder of yours, you moron?” Sal raged. Her green eyes were becoming mere slits.

By now Lilly was translating the entire ugly episode to Pa and Hop Sing.  They both started to hoot hysterically and point at both my general direction and that of the small radio which Sal still clutched in her shaking, meaty hands.  They pantomimed patrons running out the front door, hands over ears, grimacing wildly, while alternately slapping each other on the back with howls of laughter.

All things considered, I thought it best to now submit a verbal resignation. Pondering this, I removed my apron. A lone almond cookie fell from the pocket and broke in half, at Sal’s feet. 

The dragon lady's expression took on an even more murderous look than before, if you could believe that. 

“And you’ve been thieving the good cookies, too!” she blasted.

“Sal, Lilly, Pa and Hop Sing,” I said, backing slowly for the rear door, “I believe it’s time we part company.  I quit.”

“You can’t quit, you numb skull!   YOU ARE  FIRED!” she screamed.  Smoke billowed.

“Either way is OK by me,” I said, having reached the door.

“And I’m docking, from what little pay check you had coming, the cost of all the good cookies I suspect you have stolen, kid,” Sal said, a bitter grin creeping across her reptilian face.

“Then I guess the health department won’t mind checking up on any anonymous calls they get concerning some of the strange culinary practices of this establishment, either,” I challenged.

 This seemed to have the desired effect - it was like pouring cold dishwater on the flames, I thought. 

“OK, kid.” Sal surrendered. “The full check will be in the mail.”  Her fire was spent.

“Dragon Lady, she all washee up!” Pa cried.  Sal stared at the old cook, dumbfounded.

“Truce, everyone.  Fair’s fair,” I offered.  “Sal, you got to tell Hop Sing here to cool it on the food scavenging. And get the old man a decent pillow.  That chopping block cannot be comfortable.”  Pa grinned with both good teeth.

With that, I pulled one last, unbroken cookie out of my pants pocket, took a bite and waved good-bye.  I was going to miss Pa.

The next day in Spanish class, I told William about the cool radio in the small alcove, off the kitchen. 

“Just find a good station and crank that sucker up,” I told him.

“Thanks, Laflin. Some good rock and roll would help,” he replied.  “Now, aren’t you glad I helped you land this great job?”

“Yes, William,” I said.  “And this radio tip is just my small way of paying you back.  By the way ... care for a cookie?”



Tears And Inspiration: Memories of Jack Schlatter

                                                                  Tears and Inspiration:

                                   Memories of Jack Schlatter
                                               Noel Laflin

                                            November 2000                                            

Sycamore Junior High - 1966

How do you properly thank someone for being one of the greatest influences in your life?

Furthermore, how do you express gratitude for their providing just the inspiration you seek decades later?  I'd like to try. So, let me tell you a story.

I was a scared, lanky, twelve-year-old when I chose my desk in seventh-grade American History class.  I looked about the classroom - signs of all sizes adorned the four walls: "When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going!” "The Difficult We Do Immediately.  The Impossible Takes A Little Longer.”  Quotes from Anne Frank spoke of past fears and future hope.  "This is American History?" I mused.  I checked my class schedule again.

The final bell rang and latecomers raced for unoccupied desks as we awaited adult tutelage.

Suddenly the door burst open and a man, slightly disheveled in appearance, bound into our midst.  His thinning hair was askew, as was his narrow black tie.  Black suit and white dress shirt were each in need of a press & tuck, respectively.  His boyish face radiated warmth and confidence.  Mischief flickered in his eyes.  "Welcome to Sycamore Junior High School.  My name is Jack Schlatter.  Is this history or drama?"  He checked his own desk schedule, then winked.

Not that it really mattered - Jack Schlatter taught any class as if it were drama.  We took our cues from him, launched our best argument front and center, flinched as any audience would when one of our numbers perished on stage under his cross-examination.   Soon we were able to implore the words "Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death!" with great fever.   At any given moment Mr. Schlatter might break ranks and slip into the complete recitation of "Gunga Din."  Or perhaps he would rummage through the vinyl jackets and play "The Impossible Dream", some cut from the best of a Jonathan Winters comedy album or ballads by Glenn Yarlbourgh.  If any of this was scripted, I failed to see it.  Momentary inspiration seemed to be the daily cue.

When we did get back to history, the man loved to challenge our political beliefs, make us research our stands and fight for our convictions.  I, for example, came from the ranks of JFK; Jack Schlatter still thought Barry Goldwater made more sense.  Simply put, he made me think, question, defend or surrender.  As I was ready to wave the white flag he would change sides and play devil's advocate.  Re-think it through, he'd demand. "Think the impossible.  Dream the impossible.  Do the impossible!"

Jack Schlatter drew people of all ages to him - like moths to a flame.  I soon took every class he taught; speech, drama, summer school theater workshops.  I sought membership into one of the school clubs when I learned that he was the faculty advisor.  I was not alone.  On any given night one could walk down our school halls and find students, parents or faculty lingering outside his classroom spying on drama rehearsal for "Our Town," "The Miracle Worker" or "Anne Frank."  If we couldn't be part of the cast, we'd volunteer for any related job just to be around this man's energy.  He was tough but giving.  He was the most positive individual I had ever met.  When reverse mysteriously gave out on the transmission of his car, he merely said it was a reminder for him to always go forward, think ahead, never retreat, never be in a position of having to back up.  I don't think he ever fixed the car.  This eternal optimist never saw it as a problem.

Two years under his direction in plays, speech tournaments and classroom debates went by all too quickly.  At the end of my eighth-grade year he announced that he was leaving the junior high domain to move on to high school teaching.  Being in a three-year junior high system, I felt devastated, as did many others.  This wasn't fair; there was so much more to learn.  He would teach one last drama summer class. I signed up immediately. 

Those last summer weeks of 1967 flew by and our final individual dramatic piece was suddenly due.  We had to incorporate original writing accompanied to music of our choice.  So I went for the heartstrings.  My narration, in tandem with the music "Somewhere" from "West Side Story," shadow-cased a boy  (me) at the bedside of his dying mother.  As he pleads for her to hang on, declaring his undying devotion to her - she dies.  It was juvenile, I'll admit, (I was fourteen) but emotional to the hilt.  

It paid off.  As the music faded, the room lights came up and there was not a dry eye in the house.  Classmates were sniffing back tears.  I waited pensively as Mr. Schlatter  dabbed at his eyes and blew his nose.  

“You really know how to turn on the waterworks, Noel.”  With that said, he left the room.   

Class was over.  Summer was over.   My time with Jack Schlatter was also over.   I had my final "A" in drama.  I never told my mother about the assignment as I was too embarrassed to explain the lengths to which I had gone to get the grade. But, secretly, I was one proud boy.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  

Thirty years went by.  Life happened.  We lost touch with one another.  

In June of 1997 I found myself in a funky mood.   A friend of mine lent me a copy of "A Second Helping of Chicken Soup For The Soul.”  Knowing my blue state he suggested I open the book and start anywhere.  It was filled with inspirational stories.   Bouncing here and there through the book I stumbled on the story "See You In The Morning" by John Wayne Schlatter.  My eyes popped.  No way, I thought, and read on.  It was indeed Mr. Schlatter's touching story of the death of his mother, a woman we had all come to know, as she had attended the opening night of every school dramatic performance.  She was fiercely proud of her kids.  At the end of his short story, I wept.  A flood of memories came back.

Through directory assistance the next day, I tracked down John Wayne Schlatter's phone number. I called, he answered and I simply said, "Hi, this is Noel Laflin."  Without pause he responded,"Noel Laflin, Sycamore Jr. High, 1965.  How the heck are ya, buddy?' 

Thunderstruck, I asked how he remembered me, not to mention the correct year and school.  He had taught thousands of kids over the years.  "You always stood out, Noel.   No mountain was too high for you. Your political views were a bit left-of-center, but hey, no one's perfect.  You were always a gentleman in your arguments.   How could I forget you?"  The hidden adolescent shined in me once more.  We spoke for another twenty minutes.  I told him the circumstances for my call and passed on my condolences.  It was a very positive and uplifting conversation.  Nothing had changed with this man.  His voice and upbeat attitude were still infectious.

I called my mom next and relayed the conversation to her.  She too had always loved and admired the man for what he had inspired in me.  She also had been a teacher of high school English, history and drama.  She directed school plays during the 1930's and 40's.  "Our Town" was always her favorite.  She and Jack Schlatter were kindred spirits linked by nostalgia and Thornton Wilder.   She loved his productions.  She, like his mother, attended every opening night, applauding our antics on-stage and off. 

Two months later my mother died.  She was eighty-two years old.

I was to speak at her funeral in our old church.  I grasped for inspiration.  I researched Emily Dickinson, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Robert Frost and the Bible.  Nothing was quite right.  I then remembered Jack's story, "See You In The Morning.”  By the time I finished reading the beautiful and touching piece, many of us were in tears.  No music faded this time.  No lighting came up.  This was no stage.  There was no grade at stake.  This was the real thing.  I could think of no better way to honor my mother, than by using Mr. Schlatter's words about his mom and her passing.    Some way we had come full circle; life imitating art and all that.  The irony and perfection of circumstance was beyond my explanation.  I was and continue to be grateful as well as mystified.

You weren't aware of this production, till now, dear teacher.  But here's my belated report.  Your words and teachings still resound.  The fourteen-year-old boy and middle-aged man have finally met.  Drama is reality after all.  Thanks for the unexpected gift.

               

                               

               Sonora High School - May 29, 2013 - A student and teacher reunion - Jack Schlatter and Noel Laflin.