Month: November 2017

By Jim Hagarty
1988

I sat by a wall at the dance Saturday night and watched the proceedings. Few things are more entertaining to observe than good dancers in action and bad dancers in action as well as all the small dramas being played out everywhere in a dance hall – on the bandstand, on the dance floor and at the tables. Especially as the end of the evening draws near.

This night, there was a little unexpected attraction. At the foot of the long bench on which I was sitting, there was a slight step, the same color as the floor surrounding it and hard to see in the dim light. Its only purpose seemed to be to trip people as they walked by on their way from the bar back to their tables. I noticed it was doing its job well.

By the time this undistinguished step had sent its third or fourth man flying, arms extended in front of him with drinks shaking precariously in his hands, I’d given up trying to warn those who were about to take the plunge. I never seemed to be able to get the words out in time.

Instead, I watched potential victims as they turned at the bar and walked my way, eager to see if they’d take a fall. Some, like cats that won’t walk where it’s wet, veered out at the last second and missed the step every time. Others were drawn to it like leaves to an eavestrough.

One fellow tripped gracefully, with all the dignity of an English duke. In suit and tie and carrying a drink in each hand, the upper half of his body lurched forward and his head bobbed down between his arms but the drinks remained upright and level in his hands and not a drop was spilled.

Another man tried to make his trip less noticeable by immediately working it into a dance and waltzing himself off across the room.
And another took the trip as a personal offence. Once he’d regained his balance, he turned, stared at the step and cursed it up and down.

But my favourite guy to watch was a short, dishevelled man in shirt and tie and sagging pants who seemed to accept tripping over the step as a sort of rite of passage for the journey between his table and the bar, a voyage he made with great regularity all night long. A slight trip over a step and the ensuing struggle to stay on his feet didn’t seem to bother him in the least, possibly because, whenever he walked anywhere, he always looked as if he was tripping over something. I saw him go bumbling over the step three times in the short time I was watching.

No women were sent sailing, a fact I found odd since just as many of them strolled by the step as men. Perhaps they have an instinct about such things.

I knew I shouldn’t find mirth in the misfortune of people falling over things but comics from Charlie Chaplin to Chevy Chase have been making people laugh for years using little more than that. So, I excused myself and kept watching. And whenever I returned to my seat, I carefully walked around the step by my bench.

Near the end of the night, I saw a woman I know at the bar and wandered over to talk to her. We discussed the warm weather, mutual relatives, the dance, the music and how busy we’ve both been. Buying a last drink for the night, I bid her farewell, set out for my bench and thought about what she’d said.

When my left foot struck the step, my arms, head and chest lunged forward as if they were going to leave my body behind. I teetered on the edge of collapse, but spun majestically around on my toes and plopped down decisively on my bench. From all areas of the room, men who had suffered their falls before me, seemed to be staring in amusement.

The widest grin was on the man with the baggy pants. He appeared to be welcoming me into some sort of trippers’ fraternity.

They ought to do something about that step before some poor soul gets hurt.

By Jim Hagarty
2017

Here is the proper way to carry out a road rage incident.

Pull over to the side of the road when you see the driver you suddenly hate pull over. Get out of your car and go up to him. Start yelling and screaming. Call him every name in the book because he deserves it. He is, in your estimation and rightly so, a complete asshole.

After you have made him well aware of this fact, go back to your car, get in and drive off, fuming. Drive away in a huff. Give him the finger if you think it will help.

But there are some things to avoid. Here is one of them.

A Florida man started out doing all the right things in a recent incident at an intersection in Orlando. But then he sort of went off the rails when he pulled a gun on the other guy.

Now, if you are going to pull a gun on your fellow road rager, point it at him and shoot the idiot, for Pete’s sake. You have my sympathy.

Instead, the guy with the gun shot himself. In the leg.

Not to sound condescending, but I am at a loss to see how shooting yourself during a road rage incident will help you resolve the matter in your favour.

But I have never been to Florida, so I know I shouldn’t judge. If your life has arrived at a point where you have to stand on an Orlando street corner and yell at a fellow traveller who has fried your bacon, maybe it does make some sort of sense to shoot yourself.

Come to think of it, I might be inclined to do the same thing.

Oh, one last thing. No charges, of course. The shooter was legally carrying his weapon.

So it’s all good.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

Please forward all future mail to my new home in the Welsh village of Llanfair­pwllgwyn­gyllgo­gery­chwyrn­drobwll­llanty­silio­gogo­goch. In English, that translates St. Mary’s Church in the Hollow of the White Hazel Near a Rapid Whirlpool and the Church of Saint Tysilio of the Red Cave. I checked out two other villages before deciding on the one in Wales but I found that the people who live in A in Norway and Y in France keep things just way too simple for me.

By Jim Hagarty
2011

Our cat Mario can escape the house by opening the screen door at the back of our home and dashing out onto the patio. It’s quite a sight to see. He pushes the door as hard as he can with his right paw, then streaks like hell through the opening before the door comes banging back to cut him in half.

For the first few years of his life, he couldn’t do this, but being so desperate to get into the back yard and start murdering things, he apparently took it on himself to break his dependence on us to let him out.

What I want to know is what happened the first time he tried this. I am guessing that the first couple of attempts might have been a bit painful for him until he learned how hard he had to throw the door open and how fast he had to run to avoid the backlash. He is a study in courage and the amazing things that can be achieved when enough desire and determination are applied to a problem. My hero!

Mario and Luigi are six-year-old brothers. We got them at the Humane Society as kittens. They are so close, it took them about a year until they realized they were two cats, and not one. Often, we would see them sleeping together – legs, paws, ears, tails all sticking out, they looked like one big pile of cat to us too.

Whenever they see each other after not being together for an hour or so, they touch noses. If one can’t find the other, he’ll go on a big search to find the lost brother, looking everywhere, and coming to one of us for help.

But they have different skill sets. Mario can let himself out the back screen door but can’t get back in. Luigi can’t get out but he can let himself in.

They haven’t learned how to work together very well yet.

They also have completely different personalities and habits. Mario licks plastic non-stop; Luigi does not. Mario is a killer, Luigi is a lover. Mario is afraid of the dog. The dog is afraid of Luigi. Mario flips on his back five times a day for a belly rub. Luigi wouldn’t thank you for one. Luigi sleeps in the computer chair for hours. Mario is unaware we have such a thing as a computer chair. Mario sits by the hour staring at the composters, waiting for mice to make an appearance. A mouse could sleep for an hour on Luigi’s head without repercussions.

As different as toffee and tofu.

Photos by Al Bossence (thebayfieldbunch.com)

By Jim Hagarty
2017

You know, this is just me. I have my own way of doing things.

For example, whenever I try to break into a car and steal it, or at least steal whatever I can find of value inside it, the first thing I do is check to make sure there is no one in the vehicle. I do this because I am a Class A chickenshit. Somebody might punch me in the nose and that would probably hurt. I do not like being hurt.

So, I exercise caution during every one of my attempted car heists.

It surprises me to learn, however, that not everyone in the same business as I am, is quite so careful. Take Stephen Titland of Florida, for example. The other day, he was busy going down the street pulling on car latches, hoping to find one open. So far, so good, although he was caught on a surveillance camera trying to get into seven cars.

But Stephen is nothing if not persistent. The next day he went out again in search of an open car. And, EUREKA! He found one. The door opened.

But life is funny. And we all know the old saying that we might not always be happy if we end up getting what we wish for. This was the case with Stephen. The car he managed to open, for example, was occupied. There were several people inside it. Oh oh.

To make matters worse, those people were all police officers. Several members of a Tampa sheriff’s Strategic Targeted Area Response Team.

This was the equivalent of a large bass jumping into a fisherman’s boat. Good ole Stephen saved the law enforcement people the trouble of baiting their hooks and casting their lines.

I can sympathize with Mr. Titland. That is just the sort of thing that would happen to me and probably will someday.

It’s hard for a 49-year-old would-be burglar like Stephen to catch a break these days.

Damn hard.