FireVaney

He was peddling books.  No, he did not carry the books with him.  You picked the books you wanted to buy from his fancy little pamphlet.  These books would then be “donated” to an elementary school.  The cheapest book was fifty bucks.  “I accept cash or check,” he said, “and I have to give you a receipt.”  He showed me a booklet of rectangular chits that looked receipt-ish.  He seemed eager to write up a receipt for me.  What kind of person is eager to write up a receipt?  One who is desperate to make a sale, I suppose.  Or, one who is eager to steal another's identity.  Religious books were listed in his fancy little pamphlet, but, he said, he was not allowed to sell them.  I did not notice these religious books-- he pointed them out.  Perhaps he meant to elicit an emotional response the likes of:  “That’s really too bad,” or “Stupid public socialist school system,” or “Why not?”  And then perhaps he would la...

The following incident occurred on Friday, October 8, 2010 at approximately 11:50 ante meridiem: He said he lived around the corner and down the block.  He said he took care of his grandparents.  As fate would have it, I take care of my grandfather.  He said he was raising money to arrange a trip to London.  There, he would intern for the BBC .  No, not as a presenter, or a reporter, or as a newsreader; no, this Punk-Kid standing on my stoop would be learning behind-the-camera, technical stuff.  “Oh, the BBC,” I said.  I was impressed, I was envious, and it showed.  I rather enjoy that Mike Embley chap on the BBC World News.  True, this Punk-Kid looked more like a run-of-the-mill junkie than a news junkie, but I am often too quick to judge.  ON-THE-SPOT HYPOTHESIS:  Perhaps this Punk-Kid was endeavoring to turn his life around--somehow, he caught a break--and if only he could raise enough money for the trip, he would see his dream ...

Rilke was right.  (Or:  Rilke was correct.)  (Or:  Rilke was a banana.)  (No, he wasn’t a banana, he was a poet.)  (Okay, maybe he was a banana and a poet, but I’ve never heard of a banana named Rilke.)  (Perhaps, I will name the banana I peel tomorrow morning, “Rilke.”)  (And, perhaps, the following day, I will name the banana I peel then, “Rilke, Jr.”)  (Or:  perhaps not.)  (Initially, I addressed this post to Rilke himself--as a dead poet, not as a peeled banana--but as the tone of the post grew more hostile, I shelved that idea.)  My “daily life seems poor” and I am “not poet enough to call forth its riches.”  But I do not blame it, I blame myself.  And so, as I have always done, I exaggerate my poor (or seemingly poor) daily life.  I make a mockery of it.  Nobody would find amusement in reading an unadulterated record of all the mundane rituals I partake in day in and day out.  (Perhaps I should ...

When I opened the so-called “storm” door, this punk-kid stepped up onto the front stoop and reached out to shake my hand.  I shook it.  Yes, my hand was sanitized; his was likely not.  Recapitulating:  I was sleepy.  I was caught unawares.  I was eager to get rid of him.  So I shook his hand.  Germs and all.  Initial observation:  Weak grip.  His, not mine.  (Wasn’t clammy, though.  As a lad, I suffered greatly from chronic clammy palms.  Now, middle-aged, or thereabouts, I am clammy no more.)  Should you ever shake my hand, I will take great pains to match the firmness or intensity of your grip.  Some people will take great pains to exceed the amount of pressure you apply during a handshake.  I am more considerate.  That makes me a better man.  Back to the punk.  I cannot recall if he spoke before offering his hand, or while we engaged in the handshake, or after the shaking ritual ha...

After I opened the front door, I opened the screen door--which, I suppose, is really a “storm” door because it does not have a screen.  The screen is somewhere in the basement and I am too lazy to dust it off and return it to service.  Instead of a screen, this door that exists a step, or less, beyond the front door’s exterior has a clear plastic panel, which, as mentioned above, qualifies it as a “storm” door.  I do not, however, feel comfortable calling it a “storm” door.  So, I have conducted some research.  I consulted Home Depot’s website, Lowe’s website, and Wikipedia’s entries on screen and storm doors.  These sites did not provide me with the comfort I sought.  (And what, exactly, do I seek?  I seek, as do most in these parts, a convincing echo chamber.  Alas!  All of the echoes returned to me are incongruous distortions!)  True:  This door-before-my-front-door has survived the four seasons for decades, but I still fee...

FIREVANEY Do you maintain a garden?  It seems to be the thing to do in England. PLAGUERIDER [My wife] maintains a bit of a garden.  Mainly some flowers and plants surrounding a bit of concrete where [my child] can ride in her little vehicles in clement weather. FIREVANEY Would you agree that gardens are to the British what guns are to the Americans? PLAGUERIDER Gardens don't kill people; Americans do.  Although the toxic level of political discourse in Britain at the moment could very well end up with a garden assassinating someone.

I looked through the peephole and it wasn’t Lou.  It was some kid--an older kid, if he qualified as a kid, and if he didn’t, then he qualified as a young man.  You might say that’s a given, but when I think “young man” I think of some Harvard freshmen from the 1940s.  Some preppy type.  Pressed suit, polished shoes.  But this “kid” on the other side of my peephole looked more like a hell-raiser, a tobacco abuser, an underage drinker.  He looked like a high school dropout.  Possibly illiterate.  (There is a sign on my door.  It reads:  NO SOLICITORS).  And he had rung my doorbell.  This punk did.  Twice.   I opened my eyes anyway.  I mean, I opened the door anyway.  And, yes, when I opened the door, my eyes were open--not that having them open helped the least bit.  Had I kept them closed I would’ve likely stumbled down the stairs and snapped my neck.  It would’ve ended my life, or left me a quadri...

If you don’t know who it is, and whoever it is doesn’t know who you are, then you get one ring; they give one ring.  That’s one ring, only .  They ring once.  That’s what the run-of-the-mill stranger does.  Okay, maybe two quick rings.  When they’re making a delivery, that’s when they’ll do that.  Two quickies, and they’ll leave the package at the door.  As the proud owner of a front door, that’s been my experience.  (I own a back door, too, along with fifteen sets of windows and something like seven interior/exterior walls.  They come in handy.  After all, a front door isn’t much use without all the add-ons.  They sell you on the front door; then, you know, it’s, “How about a wall for that?”  And then it’s, “Boy, that one wall’s gonna be real lonely all by itself.”  And, naturally, after that, they’ll tell ya, “Well you don’t wanna just stare at the walls all day, do you?”  You’ll save on bricks and drywall, the...

We were expectin’ Lou.  But Lou’s got a thing against doorbells.  So he knocks.  Maybe it’s the germs.  Most folks ring the bell; so stands to reason the knocker’s cleaner.  But maybe he doesn’t even use the knocker.  I’d bet he doesn’t.  I’d bet he bangs with his knuckles.  I don’t pay close enough attention to know the difference between knuckles and a knocker.  What does that say about me?  Does that make me inattentive?  Perhaps it does.  Am I gonna do anythin' about it?  Probably not.  Should I do somethin’ about it?  Don’t think I need to.  But it’s somethin’ to think about.  I’ll think about it.  Would that make you happy?  Why would it?  You don’t know me.  Who are you to tell me that I’m not attentive.  Or, not attentive enough .  And what does that mean?  How do you know when you’ve given just the riiight amount of attention?  When somebody else is s...

Nah, whoever it was, he rang the doorbell twice.  It  was  twice.  Of that, I am absolutely certain.  “Ding-dong, ding-dong.”  It wasn’t that quickly, though, the succession of sounds, the succession of “dings” and “dongs.” It was more…  “Ding-dong.”  And then… “Ding-dong.” Nah.  The lag between the first “dong” and the second “ding” stretched on longer than even that.  In the time between the first “dong” and the second “ding” you could’ve, I don’t know, you could’ve flushed the toilet and there’d be enough time for it to fully flush and fill and go quiet.  And I’m talkin’ the time it would take for an old toilet to do that--an old,  reliable  toilet.  Which is what I happen to have.  The plumber wanted to put in a new toilet, but I said, “N. O.”  Just like that.   “N. O.”   I didn’t even say, “No.”   Just, “N. O.”  Nah, ...