Smelling Like a Rose by David Molina

 

Smelling Like a Rose

My dad was a man of character and optimism. He also had an uncanny ability: he could make gallons of lemonade when given a single lemon. In times of trouble, he could always find a soft landing. Somehow, he managed to “come out smelling like a rose,” an expression of his that I heard many, many times.

As a young boy, he always dreamed of being a pilot. When the Second World War erupted, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps on the day of his 18th birthday. His eyesight exam abruptly ended his dream of piloting. Instead, he became a flight navigator. His bomber squadron was ready to deploy, but before he could be a hero, Japan surrendered.

He missed the war, but he gained a G.I. Bill college scholarship. That was a pretty nice landing. In 1946, Art Molina was one of hundreds of GI veterans flooding the University of Southern California campus. The percentage of females to older males was at an all-time low, but somehow a young co-ed caught him out of the corner of her eye. Anne-Marie Picard stood in front of the Bovard Auditorium talking with a girlfriend. Her friend pointed out Art to Anne- Marie.

“Ugh! That guy is getting way too serious! I’m going to dump him!”
Anne-Marie looked Art up and down. He was tall, handsome, and in an instant, available. It

didn’t take a split second for her to decide. Yes, she would be very happy to be introduced to that guy. Art and Anne-Marie were happily married in 1950. Mom forever after reminded Dad that she caught him on the rebound. Amidst hundreds of possible suitors, my dad came out smelling like a rose.

Now married and with a business degree, he was able to pursue his lifelong love of airplanes, working in the booming aerospace industry. And like so many of the Greatest Generation, he helped contribute many children to the booming Boomer Generation... all six of us.

He would tell us that during his decades of employment, every single company he ever worked for shut down and folded. When his first job at Slick Airways closed, he jumped to Fluor, then to Autonetics, to North American, to North American/Rockwell, and finally to Rockwell International. When every job ended, he somehow found a bigger, better one. His joke, of course, was that Art Molina must have caused every company to close, one after the other. But every single time he jumped ship, he got aboard another one and ended up smelling like a rose.

I knew all along I was very lucky to have him as a dad. One of the best examples was when I was 8 years old. I loved baseball. I particularly loved the L.A. Dodgers. At age 8, I knew I was destined to be in the Major Leagues. I raced down the street after supper and gathered a handful of friends to play baseball every evening. I wore my Dodger hat. We played in the street, using the metal street cover as a home base. I listened to Vin Scully call every Dodger game, even on school days. I had to keep my transistor radio very quiet on school nights, as I lay under the covers so Mom couldn’t hear.

Day after workday, my dad came home exhausted by his hour plus commute from El Segundo to Whittier. By his count, there were 99 stoplights on the trip. Nevertheless, the first thing he did when he got home was to grab a mitt and play catch with me in the backyard. We both enjoyed it. On my birthday, my dad got us tickets for a Dodgers game at Chavez Ravine.

There was no Little League at that time in Whittier. My dad knew how much baseball meant to me. He and a few other fathers formed the first Little League in our neighborhood. I remember going out with him on work parties, building a brand new little league ball field on a donated vacant lot. Since my dad was on the Little League board, he was able to ask me what team name I would like to choose. Imagine the wide-open eyes of an eight-year-old being asked that question! “Dodgers?” I asked, astonished, trying to believe this could be happening.

On opening day. I was decked out in my spanking new Dodgers jersey. I spent the next four years playing as a Dodger. In the final year, I hit my only home run. It was a grand slam. My dad was in the stands that we both helped build.

His six kids flourished. Despite company after company going out of business, he was able to pay for 8 years of private Catholic grade schools, and plus 4 years of high schools for all six children. Doing the math, Art paid for 72 years of private school tuition!

While juggling tuition obligations and switching from one company to the next, there came a critical moment.

My brother Tony and I were at Servite High School; his other four children were at St. Bruno’s School. North American/Rockwell decided to move their headquarters to Pittsburgh. My dad had to make a difficult decision: whether to stay or to go. If he stayed, he would have to find another job.

I remember I was very scared during that time. I couldn’t face the prospect of leaving my many friends, activities, my whole teenage life. I envisioned Pittsburgh to be a dreary, frozen industrial town belching clouds of stinking pollution. My brothers and sisters were on edge. It was a difficult time and a difficult choice.

He chose not to go to Pittsburgh. Instead, he found another job in Los Angeles. I don’t know if he took a pay cut by staying, but we were very, very grateful and relieved. Our busy lives continued as usual.

I know his main concern was for us, his family. And as usual, Art managed another happy ending. After two years in Pittsburgh, Rockwell had enough and decided to return to Los Angeles. Dad got a phone call from the Big Boss, an offer to him with a promotion and a raise, which he accepted. Another happy ending, smelling like a rose.

Despite all the 72 years of tuition he spent, he was not done yet. Eventually, he reached into his wallet to pay for a portion of 6 times 4 college undergraduate tuitions, as well as 5 postgraduate degrees. Once 29 more years of tuitions were done, Dad hunkered down, saving for retirement.

One morning, he stepped aboard the elevator at Rockwell. Once the doors closed, a co- employee dropped dead with a heart attack. Dad was 63 years old at that time, and he decided he’d go up to personnel the same day and start his retirement papers. It was a sudden career shift to full-time dad, husband, and grandpa. Years later, he told me this was the best career move he ever made. Once again, smelling like a rose.

During the years left, he met his sixteen grandchildren. Art and Anne-Marie spent their new career hosting holiday meals, helping kids move to new homes, attending graduations, baptisms, marriages; playing with the kids and then their kids’ kids.

Dad earned a special moment in his lifetime love of flying, when his two grandsons showed him around the hangars of their airport business, and then took him flying across the Arizona

skies It was a wonderful thrill for him to be able handle the pilot’s throttle, a life-long goal. It was a long road to fly, but as always, he managed to land, smelling like a rose.

On his 84th birthday, I called him on a Sunday to wish him a happy birthday. All through his retirement, Mom and Dad called us every weekend. Back when long-distance phone calls were expensive by the minute, my parents were able to get a long-distance phone package, allowing them to call all their children every weekend at a better rate.

Two days later, I got another phone call. My dad had passed away.

Dad had been in excellent health his entire life. He did not smoke. He never spent a night in a hospital. Apparently, he died of a sudden heart attack. Mom told me it happened in the morning while praying the rosary, which was his daily habit.

One would imagine I would be overwhelmed with grief and sorrow. But I wasn’t. The love and faith that he had blessed me with his whole life made me believe, to know that we would always be together. And smelling like a rose.

Thanks, Dad.

1972 by Bruce Emard

                                                                    1972

The year was 1972.  The Vietnam War was raging.  Support for the War had turned to resistance and protest, especially among young people whose friends and peers were seen on national TV returning home in flag-draped coffins.  I had entered the University of California at Irvine after a college preparatory education in the sheltered environment of an all-boys Catholic high school.  Uncle Sam had stopped college draft deferments, and by some twist of fate and government policy making, I was carrying a draft lottery number of four.  The preceding summer, before taking the draft physical at the induction center in Los Angeles, I had torn cartilage and the meniscus in my left knee in a wild water-skiing accident, giving me a temporary draft deferment.  My future was uncertain, and I didn’t know what to do.  “What is my end game?” I asked myself.  “Will I end up in Vietnam, Canada, prison, or a coffin?” Confused and naïve, I entered the University, majoring in the humanities. 

One afternoon after class, I was talking with Daniel McEwen between the stacks at the UCI library where I worked shelving books, not necessarily for the money, but for some social interaction with people outside the classroom. A commuter student is a lonely existence.  We chatted about the War and current events.  Suddenly, he stepped into the middle of the aisle and performed a perfect pirouette. Baffled, I asked, “What the hell?”  “I’ve changed my major,” he said.  “I’ve changed it from engineering to dance.”  His demeanor was ebullient as he gushed about his new major.  I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Great, but what about the draft?”  He said, “I’m not worried.  My draft number is three hundred and ten.”  “Lucky you,” I said. “Mine is four.”  I asked him, “Why did you change your major?”  He said, “I’ve found my passion.”  I said, “I haven’t found mine, but I do know I don’t want to die in a Vietnam jungle.”  I said, “I don’t know what to do.”  He said, “Why don’t you just wait it out.  You can always move to Canada or shoot yourself in the foot.”  “Thanks for the advice,” I said. “I’ll consider it.”  We drifted off to our shelving duties in different dewey-decimal sections of the library.

I dawdled in the music stacks, occasionally shelving a book of notes, clefs, and rests.  A young woman sat on the floor, reading a book.  Could she really understand and appreciate what she was reading in a music book?  I certainly couldn’t.  In fact, I couldn’t understand what I was doing at the university.  I was feeling inadequate in the university environment.  I had expected a course, a professor, a book, or who knows what to inspire me to take my studies seriously and into my future career and life, but it wasn’t happening.  My high school education certainly had not prepared me for this.  “Maybe I should just enlist and let the War take me wherever,” I thought. I wandered over to the archives section of the library where Georges Roulin and Sylvester Stone, two middle-aged single men, worked.  They were always fun and interesting in conversation, and they always had free time.  Georges spotted me and asked, “What are you up to, mon ami?”  He knew I was taking French courses.  “Je ne sais pas, Georges,” I responded. “Of course you don’t,” he said.  “You’re a college student.”  “Well, George.  Some students seem to know exactly what they are doing here.”  Sylvester saw me at the archives window and walked over.  “Well hello, Bruce,” he said effeminately.  “What are you doing in our refuge?”  “Just trying to figure out my life,” I responded.  “What courses are you taking next quarter?” he asked.  “Oh, probably another French course and a couple of history courses,” I said.  “Maybe a statistics course, unless Uncle Sam nabs me first.”  “Sounds stimulating,” he said with a note of sarcasm.  “Have you considered branching out and taking an art class?” he asked.  “No,” I said, “but I have thought about taking a science class.”  That’s progress,” he said.  Georges said, “Ah, the French.  We can blame the imperialism of my homeland for the War.”  Changing the subject, he asked, “Have you heard about the toenail bandit?” “What!,” I said. “We’re on the lookout,” Sylvester said.  “For who, or what?” I asked.  We don’t know,” Sylvester said.  “But young ladies have been stopping at the front desk complaining that when they entered the library to study at an open carrel, their toenails were bare; but when they finished studying, their nails had been painted in vibrant colors, some with a perfect gold rose.”  “That’s really weird and creepy,” I said with a note of disbelief.  Georges said, “We are living in a crazy, mixed-up world.”  “That’s the truth.  I’ll stay on the qui vivre,” I said, laughing.  “Je t’aime bien,” Georges said. “Au revoir,” I said, walking away.  Georges smiled.  Sylvester shook his head.  

Leaving an empty cart behind the returns section of the library, I punched my timecard. I walked over to an empty carrel, preoccupied with thoughts of what courses to take in the upcoming quarter.  On a course card, I marked American history with Professor Spencer Olin. He was offering a course on the military-industrial complex in the United States.  I’d heard Olin was an American patriot who came from a wealthy family.  On his reading list was Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy In America.  I marked French III with Professor Alice LaBorde.  I marked world history with Professor John Diggins. He was offering a course on the rise of communism in Russia.  I’d heard Diggins was a radical who organized worker strikes at the University.  Karl Marx’s Das Kapital was on his reading list.  I needed two more courses to complete a full course load.  My mind began to wander.  I remembered I was wearing flip flops.  I looked under the carrel desk and down at my feet to be sure my toenails hadn’t been painted.  “Whew,” I laughed to myself.  I refocused on the course form.  I browsed the course offerings in the Physics Department.  “Astronomy sounds fun,” I thought naively.  “It has labs on the science building roof.”  I marked it.  “One more course for a full load,” I thought.  Sylvester’s advice came to mind.  I browsed the Art Department curriculum and came across Drawing with Professor John Paul Jones.  “That should be an easy three units, and it’s pass/no pass,” I thought.  “I like Led Zeppelin. I wonder if he has a side gig as the bassist for the band.”  I limped over to the Registrar’s Office across the mall and turned in my course form, then I walked to the Cashier’s Office, where I submitted a check in the amount of one hundred dollars for Spring quarter tuition.

Spring quarter 1972 arrived at the UCI campus, and I was apprehensive.  How would I like my classes?  How did I feel about the Gay Students Union demonstrations on campus?  I’d seen Sylvester and Georges at one of their rallies.  My good friend Victor had come down from Berkeley for it.  He talked about demonstrations against the War on the Cal campus and confrontations with the blue meanies, when he wasn’t talking about dropping acid at a Grateful Dead concert. Would my deferment end and would I receive a notice to report to the induction center?  Should I continue a major in the humanities? How would it provide me with a livelihood?  With these and other questions ruminating in my mind, I attended my first classes of the Spring quarter.  Professor Olin was passionate in his idealism for the American capitalist system. Professor Diggins was equally passionate in his idealism for socialism and the plight of the workers.  Professor LaBorde was light and funny and had us speaking in conversational French.  The astronomy class opened my mind to the universe, then blew it away with formulas and equations.  And then there was drawing.

The drawing class was in a studio in the fine arts area of the UCI campus.  I’d never been there.  I walked over after world history class. Searching for the drawing studio, I passed by music studios, performing arts studios, and a large theater.  The architecture was different, and so were the people, it seemed.  Some were milling about, speaking in affected voices with exaggerated gestures.  Others were sitting alone, seemingly lost in their thoughts.  Others moved about lithely. I found the drawing studio and walked through the open door.  I looked around.  I counted twelve easels set around a raised circular platform.  Next to each was a small table on which were set brushes, paints, chalks, charcoals, and a neatly folded smock.  Some students already stood at an easel wearing a smock.  Professor Jones greeted me as I entered the studio.  “Please find an easel and put on a smock,” he said.  I walked past a young woman in tight jeans and a tie-died crop top, her red hair flowing over her smock.  I noticed she already had drawn and painted in gold on her drawing paper, a perfect rose.  She glanced over her shoulder, seeming to recognize me. I found an easel and put on a smock.  Class began.  Professor Jones stepped up and onto the platform, then said, “Welcome.  This is a free-form art class.  There are no rules.  Use your imaginations.  Now, let’s begin and have some fun.  He pointed to the open door and stepped down.

A young woman wearing a robe stood at the door.  She walked into the studio.  Professor Jones motioned her to the steps leading up to the platform.  He pushed a button.  Stairway to Heaven began playing on speakers hanging from the ceiling.  She stepped up and onto the platform.  She removed her robe, then tossed it to Professor Jones.  I could feel the muscles in my jaw slacken.  I tightened them so my jaw wouldn’t drop.  After a few seconds of wide-eyed gaping, I thought to myself, “How do I begin a nude?”

There is a funny thing about end games.  They never end the way you plan or expect.  1973, 1974, and 1975 followed the Spring of 1972.  Nixon won re-election in a massive landslide victory in November 1972, then resigned the presidency in August 1974.  After nineteen years, five months, and twenty-nine days, the Vietnam War ended in April 1975 with the Fall of Saigon to the Viet Cong.  Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and eighty-one American boys and men were killed in action; another one hundred and fifty thousand three hundred and thirty-two were wounded in action.  The last draft call occurred on December 7, 1972, for those born in the year 1952.  I was born in 1953. I never reported the toenail bandit; there was never another toenail incident at the UCI library; and I finished my undergraduate education at UCI with a Bachelor of Arts degree in history.  

The End Game by Brian Brown

       The End Game

     His shift at the gift shop ended at 6:00 that evening, still plenty of time for a walk in one of the most beautiful National Parks in North America. His arthritis and his bad disc made it mildly painful, but he still relished this time of the evening. This was his life now, the small pleasures of living in or on the spectacular landscapes of the nation. Walks in the evening or early mornings, hikes and little adventures on his days off as much as he was still capable of. Solitary and profound moments of silence at a sand dune or a red rock canyon or a seashore. He was nearing the decision.

     He had a reliable vehicle and a comfortable little travel trailer that he pulled behind it, following the pleasant weather around the U.S. with the seasons. The desert southwest in the winters, the Northwest coast or up and down the Rockies during the summers. Occasionally he even traveled to the  parks in the east, the cannonball parks, but he preferred the west. He had become part of a little vagabond subculture of good-natured gypsies, people who had decided to forego, or cash out of the suburban dream. They had sold houses or never acquired them, used the proceeds to purchase some variant of a motor home or travel trailer and sturdy truck and hit the road. They followed the tourist seasons of the national parks, taking jobs as campground hosts, cashiers, motel clerks, maintenance workers. The pay was modest, but the rent was even less, a couple of hundred bucks a month for full hook-ups for their traveling apartments. The payoff was spending their lives in the glorious outdoors during the prime seasons. No mortgage, no traffic, little crime, zero parking hassles, an endless stream of relationship possibilities for the young, a predictable and safe routine for the older gypsies. 

     He had not aspired to this life, but he had ended up here. In his youth in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s he had plunged head long into the hippie phenomenon. Like many, he had believed it was a new order, that this was the way to live your life. It had not occurred to him then that it was simply one more of an endless stream of societal trends, that by the mid 70’s it would be replaced by the incredibly cheesy disco culture, and that mischievous drug usage would turn mean and dangerous. He had lived the life long after many others had moved on, keeping his long hair and becoming a Dead Head, following the band around in the requisite VW van for a couple of years, attending several dozen of their concerts. He had once actually shaken Jerry Garcia's hand. 

    He held onto the dream until he realized that it was no longer a dream, that it had turned into work. By his mid-thirties he was aware that he was an anachronism, his old friends were gone; married, joining corporations, buying houses, laughing about the good old days. But for him it was not a dream, it was life, and he was silently contemptuous of those who had given up; who had cut their hair, settled down and had kids, and become exactly what they had all laughed at when they were younger. In his forties he was still at it, smoking weed and carrying on, though he could not help but notice that he was by far the oldest person in most situations. The younger girls seemed grossed out by the possibility of coupling with him, though occasionally one still did. No matter, he had had enough sexual encounters and partners by then that he could go with or without someone else. He was fine on his own, at least most of the time. 

      The counter-culture finally withered away completely and was replaced by.. what? He held a series of jobs earning decent money, traveled the world when he wanted to, and could feel himself changing, finally. His graying hair no longer mattered. Any clothes that were practical would do. Old friends now had children in college. He had never really been poor, but had not acquired much wealth, and  he began to think about that. He also began to think about religion, and the possibility of God. 

     He read the Bible, at least the New Testament. The Old Testament had proven to be tedious and mostly meaningless to him, so he dismissed it after a few dozen pages. The New Testament was better, and he liked the message of hope and the promise of a secure and happy afterlife. He took a look at Buddhism and the Hindus and the Muslims, but eventually decided that they were not of his culture, and so did not seem applicable. Maybe God gave each culture a religion that was relevant to them? Or, did each culture create a religion that was culturally relevant? This was one of many troubling questions he had about God and religion, especially His Christian variety. Such as, If there is a God, why does it need to be worshipped and praised 24/7? It’s God, after all, was it also an infinite ego? And why didn’t it make just one, undeniable, verifiable appearance, and settle the debate? Why this hide-and-seek game called faith? If it wanted better behavior from the human race all it had to do was just show up once, I mean really show up, and most sin would probably be greatly diminished. 

     The nonsense about a scheming devil that fundamentalist types were always flailing about was the most annoying. Were we supposed to believe that every stupid action or biological impulse was the result of an evil spirit lurking around, and that it and God were involved in a daily battle over the fate and behavior of each of the billions of humans on the planet? Ridiculous, he had decided. Why didn’t God just whack this clown and be done with it? It’s God, after all. And the myriad theologians over the centuries tying themselves in philosophical knots trying to reinterpret every nuance of scripture. Millions had perished in the name of the loving Christian God, to say nothing of the Romans and the Muslims or Mongol animists or others. It simply made no sense. 

     He explored the sciences, and their take on God and the universe. Astronomers told provable stories of fantastic galaxies, millions of light-years away, and billions of cosmic furnaces, stars that were being born and imploding and being reborn and vanishing into black holes. He learned that we are all literally made of stardust, from elements and particles that are created in the stellar furnaces before being flung into the cosmos to meet their fate. The Biblical verse had almost gotten it right:  Remember man that you are stardust and unto stardust you shall return. Every molecule of everything that has ever existed is simply in a giant recycling program, just not on a time scale that humans can grasp. The calcium in our bones or the tissue of our muscles may have had many previous lives as a volcanic boulder or a slime mold or a dinosaur or the content of a maggots gut, or all of them. Our bodies on the atomic level do indeed go on, just not as us. Recently he had taken some odd comfort in that. There really was no endgame, we just go on and on in different forms. So then what will it be like after we die? The best explanation he had heard was that it will be just like it was before we were born, a state of non-existence. He decided he could live with that. 

      He reconsidered these things again as he walked along, It was a lovely evening in this splendidly preserved piece of the American Southwest. He also thought about the highlights of his younger life, and the things he had done. He had climbed Kilimanjaro. He had seen Everest, from a distance. He had hiked and boated and trekked to many other of the most astounding places on earth. He had had many loves and many friends and very few real enemies. He had surfed and skied and motorcycled until he wasn’t interested anymore. He had told his stories over the years to anyone who wanted to listen, and many did, until recently. He supposed that to the young people around him now he was just another old windbag snowbird, their eyes drifting off when he began a tale about how it was in the 1960’s. 

     Now, in his mid 70’s with thinning white hair and a limp and  almost constant back pain, he realized that his journey was nearing the end. He was generally content, but he had no children and no siblings left and no family to speak of. His friends from the old days were either dead or had lost contact and  interest in him, he suspected because he continued to be  “Unconventional” long after they had settled in. He had his gypsy friends, they frequently crossed paths in their migrations from park to park throughout the season. He would leave someone a note about what to do with his stuff. His life had been a long and wonderful journey, he figured he had done about everything he had wanted to. What else was there? Old age and decline and some unknown, unpleasant agency in charge of him had no appeal. His body wasn’t used up yet, but it was headed that way. 

     The next morning he rose early and treated himself to a big, overpriced and delicious breakfast at the tourist facility near the park entrance. He drove his sturdy truck out of the park and onto a nearby dirt road that led to a spectacular overlook on Public land. The road ended without warning or markers at a sheer cliff. Locals had named it Thelma and Louise Point, as it was quite possible for the uninformed to simply follow the road right off a 200-foot cliff. It cried out for cautionary signage or a barricade, but as was often the case the Federal Bureau of Land Management could not get around to it, at least not until someone was killed or a lawsuit was filed. It was a magnificent place, the straight walls framing a sweet little trickling stream and some greenery down below amongst the gravel and boulders. He parked his truck and walked to the edge. It was a fine day, swifts or swallows sailed by below him, busy with their affairs. The sky was cloudless, and he could already feel a little warmth from the morning sun, 93 million miles away. As good as it gets, he thought. He would miss this place, he thought, then realized that was impossible. Then he tilted  forward and stepped off the edge. He experienced two or three tor three seconds of exhilaration, a brief moment of terror, an even briefer flash of pain, then it was done. Non-existence. Stardust again.

The Mask by Mike Freeman

 The Mask

By Mike Freeman

My college water polo teammate, Dirk, is very creative. After practice one day, he tells me about his plan to build a full-head mask for Halloween. Intrigued, I ask to join him. He invites me over to his house to develop our creative monstrosities.

He shows me how to build a monster mask that covers my entire head using papier-mâché. I decorate mine with lizard eyes that I can see through. Green scales are a nice flourish. Lumps for ears and a round mouth with a long section of surgical tubing hanging out finish my masterpiece of horror. I paint the papier-mâché head with ghoulish colors. I am going to scare the bajebbers out of small kids!

My amphibious creation is a hit at the team Halloween party. Wearing a full-body wetsuit for extended periods is hot. And my mask muffles my speech. I begin using pantomime to communicate. The long surgical tubing becomes dual-purpose. I can breathe through it if needed. I can place the tube in someone's drink and silently sip whatever is in their glass as they converse with others. I slither from conversation to conversation. Free drinks everywhere! No one notices my dastardly deed. Now, I wish every party a Halloween party!

The following weekend, I gather with my high school friends who are famous for high-adventure, low-judgment activities. They distinguish themselves. Teenstupid is pulsating through their veins and brains.

We determine it is a good idea to roll several bowling balls down a long, steep hill to destroy a fence at the bottom. We plot our scheme.

Where can we get some bowling balls? No one owns one. We can't afford to buy them at a bowling store. We decide to "liberate" them from a bowling alley.

We find a bowling alley near Irvine. How do we "extract" the balls from the bowling alley? We can't just carry them out. We need a significant diversion.

Inspiration hits! I can wear my Halloween mask at the bowling alley for the diversion. It is in the backseat of my station wagon. Driving two cars, we proceed to the bowling alley. We establish a backup rendezvous place to meet if things go askew.

I put on my mask and enter the bowling alley. Immediately, a buzz ripples through the bowling venue.

Children run to me, shouting, "Monster Man, Monster Man!"

I use the pantomime routines I learned at my water polo party to amuse the children. They start screaming for candy. I do not have any.

I look away from the swarm of children surrounding me. My classmates are walking out of the bowling alley with bowling balls. One of them, Tom, takes two at a time.

"Our beautiful plan is working," I think to myself.

Then the trouble starts. Children are getting angry about my lack of candy. Adults are noticing teenagers stealing bowling balls. I am surrounded by children, unable to move or run. My friend, Joe, gets caught before he makes it out the exit door. A herd of adults drags him over to me.

One of the adults turns to a man and says, "Gus, you hold these guys here. We will be back with the others."

The complaining children dissipate. Joe and I stand with Gus. Gus is very elderly and heavily built. I am sure he has not run a quarter mile in three or four decades. Joe is a high school track star in the 100-yard sprint. I am in great water polo shape.

I look at Joe. Joe looks at me. No words necessary. We will sprint away from Gus and the tantruming children to freedom in three seconds.

Gus looks at us. He knows what we are thinking. He can't stop us.

Gus says, "You guys get out of here!"

No further encouragement is required. Joe and I are gone. Sprinting and wearing a full-headed Halloween mask through a bowling alley is a lifelong memory. We make it out to the parking lot.

It is utter chaos. Adults are screaming instructions to each other. None of them is fast enough to catch teenagers carrying bowling balls. Our car drivers calmly exit the parking lot. They have some out-of-breath teenagers holding bowling balls in the backseat. Those of us on foot are on our own.

Several minutes later, we all meet at our backup rendezvous point. We get in our cars and drive to a nearby hill.

The hill is perfect. It features a paved downhill road ending at a four-lane cross street. The road is straight and isolated, with a chain-link fence at the end. Everything is perfect for our scientific experiment.

Scientists Greg and Rick go downhill to the four-lane cross street to ensure there is no cross traffic present when the bowling balls smash into the fence. Joe, Tom, twin brothers Mike and Mark, and I fetch our bowling balls and get ready to roll.

The "no cars coming" signal flashes, sent by Greg and Rick at the bottom of the hill. Many bowling balls are released and rolling downhill. They gather speed. They continue to roll. More speed. More rolling.

Seconds seem to turn into minutes, then hours. The bowling balls continue to roll. I am beginning to feel as if I could time these bowling balls with the calendar. They continue to roll.

All of us are getting nervous. Even our less fully developed teenage brains know this is taking too long.

We hear an engine in the distance. The car travels the four-lane road to the intersection point with the bowling balls. The car gets closer and louder. The bowling balls continue on their downhill path.

"This is going to be close!" we all think.

The car and the bowling balls continue to close.

No one is breathing except the car's driver. He is the only one unaware of the imminent danger.

The car headlights illuminate the road where the bowling balls will hit the fence. We see all of the bowling balls rolling directly in front of the speeding car. They all miss the swift automobile.

There is a huge, palpable sigh of relief from everyone.

Then it happens. The bowling balls bounce back off a sidewalk curb into the street again. The curb protecting the chain-link fence was not seen or integrated into our planning.

There are several thuds as the bowling balls strike the car. The engine growls and dies as the vehicle goes over a ricocheted ball.

Time to panic! The guys at the bottom of the hill start to sprint up to us. The top of the hill gang runs around getting into cars like chickens with their heads cut off. Ready to go, we realize all of the car drivers with their keys are the ones running up the hill towards us. We panic, exit the vehicles, and shout encouragement to our uphill running comrades. Their sprint uphill is long, tedious, and takes too much time.

We get in and out of the cars a few more times before our friends with the ignition keys arrive. We pile in and hit the road.

After driving for a few minutes, we stop to talk. Our actions have damaged a car and possibly injured someone. We decide to drive to the crime scene. Everyone is quiet. As we drive by, we see a man carrying two bowling balls back to his BMW. I can't imagine the insurance report.

Relieved that we only caused property damage, we continue onwards. We still have a few bowling balls left. We drive into a neighborhood and talk again. We decide we have had enough with the bowling balls. We throw them out of our cars in case the police stop us. We drive down the neighborhood street. A few of us look back.

God must be punishing us for our deeds. Lord knows we deserve it. The bowling balls we dumped out of our cars are now rolling downhill behind us. We accelerate to get ahead of them. They are gaining speed as the sidewalk gutters guide them towards us.

I cannot help but appreciate the irony of our dilemma. We get to the end of our road and take a sharp right. A car passes us to turn into the street we just left. Brake lights go on.

We leave the neighborhood not knowing what happened.

Twenty years go by. My high school class is celebrating our reunion. One of my bowling ball schemers, Tom, announces to the crowd that our high school had an unknown bowling team. He asks all of his conspirators to join him on stage. As we gather around him, he tells our bowling story. Then the coup de grâce occurs. He pulls out an article from his local paper in Northern California. The article conveys that some high school kids tried to roll some bowling balls down a hill through a fence. In the article, police say, "It's been 20 years since we've seen anything like this in California."

Hopefully, Teenstupid ideas like this are a once-in-a-generation occurrence and not contagious.

I never wore my amphibious monster mask again.

Well, Men! by Don Taco

                                                    Well, Men!                                                

by Don Taco

  There are three events that qualify as Holiday Turkey Dinners. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I know that some folks bake a ham, or do uncivilized things like getting a pizza or going out for Asian cuisine, but I have to assume that they just don't know better, and try to forgive them. I come from quite a large family, and, while someone might bring a ham, as 'extra' food, similar to green beans or pie, the heart of the discussion is about how many people are coming and, therefore, how many turkeys will have to be baked. After the carcasses (carcassi?) are stripped clean by the ravenous hordes, soup is made, and when it's about time to stop drinking, the coffee and the soup are ready, and you drive home. Unless it was your turn to host the gathering of the clan, in which case you can just collapse and try not to consider all the things that will have to be cleaned and put away again later. 

  As the big holiday dinner was winding down, my mother would stand up, and declare, (and I choose that word very carefully,) declare, "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so let's get into the kitchen and get all these dishes washed!" It does represent, in actual fact, a lot of dishes. And my mother was perfectly willing to admit that her father saw himself as the breadwinner, and these occasions were the only time he ever washed any dishes. Times change. 

  And that was the signal for all the men to head for the kitchen, and, willing or not, get busy with the prodigious task of getting all the dishes done. Even as times got more modern, and electric dishwashers became part of the plan, there was a lot to do. 

  And the day came when, as a young 'responsible' adult, I beat my mother to the punch.

  I stood up after the big holiday dinner, before she did, and I declared, "Well, Men!"

  My mother was absolutely beside herself! This was the day she'd always dreamed of. The passing of the torch! The acceptance of responsibility. The new generation honoring the old, and walking in their footsteps.

  Only it didn't go exactly as she hoped or expected.

  I stood up at the end of the big holiday dinner, and declared, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, but, since we have to re-wash all the good dishes when we get them out of the cupboard again, let's just scrape them clean and put them away dirty. It'll save a lot of time."

  Gales of laughter. Especially from the men.

  Expostulations and protest from all the female heads of households.

  My mother is chagrined. (Isn't that a great word? How often do you get to use it?) She's been taken, hook, line, and sinker. 

  When the hilarity dies down, the men head for the kitchen, and life goes back to normal. Soup is made, coffee is poured.

  It's just the beginning.

  At the next big holiday dinner, I again stand, and declare, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so let's get in there and break a few of the smaller plates and bowls, so that we're never allowed to touch the good china again."

  Hilarity again ensues.

  This continues, through several other variations on the theme that I just can't recall, to the point where the clan is anticipating me, rather than my mother, towards the end of the meal.

  That's when it really gets good. After one of the big holiday dinners, one of my cousins stands up, and declares, "Well, Men!"

  Everything stops. All eyes on him. Even I am surprised. And, of course, delighted. Tradition is being born.

  "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, my cousin stands up and declares, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so..." 

  I wish I could remember all the variations. "Let's just get drunk and watch football instead." "Let's toss them all in the pool and let the chlorine and the filter do the work. We'll dive for then in time for the next dinner." And so on. 

  Now, numerous members of my generation get involved, each putting their own twist on the game. Always funny. Always irreverent. You remember that there are three of these dinners per year. Years have been passing by. And we still always wash the dishes.

  And then one day, one of the youngest clan members stands up from the kid's table (Kid's Table,) and declares, "Well, men!"

  A hush falls over the room. This ought to be good.

  "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, one of my uncles stands up and declares, "Well, men! It's a tradition in my family that after the big holiday dinner, my cousin stands up and declares, "Well, Men! It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my mother would stand up and declare, "Well, Men!  It's a tradition in my family that, after the big holiday dinner, my father would stand up and say, "Well, Men! The women cooked us this wonderful dinner, so..."

  A virtually unbeatable level of reflexivity has been achieved. And he was funny, too.

  My mother imagined a tradition being carried on. Instead, one was born.