Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (21 page)

“You can have it, blind man,” the old lady said, happy to be done with it.

“How in the world do you think you're going to get that thing to your place?” I asked, thinking I had stumped the fool, and that I'd finally get my ten bucks for helping the old lady dispose of the junk in her yard.

“I'll carry it on my back.”

The old lady opened the door wider. She was about dead but she still had enough curiosity left in her to want to see what a seventy-five year-old blind man looked like who thought he could carry a stove on his back and not see where he was going.

“Take it,” she said. “Just take it and I hope you can sell it for a hundred dollars.”

“Okay,” I said. “It's yours. And I hope you don't walk off a cliff with it.” I paused, for meanness' sake, and because I could hardly think of what to say. “I hope you don't step on a skate or something.” I'd never spoken to a blind man before, as well as I could remember. “I hope a rabid dog doesn't chase you down the street.” I had exhausted my point.

I said good-bye and good luck to both of them, and as I made my way to go, I heard the old lady say to the blind man, “Blind man, I can't offer you a cup of coffee because I don't have a stove
anymore, but if you'd care to step in for a minute I can fix you some lemonade.”

I went by two days later to tell her I'd remove the thing for a dollar, but it was gone.

Later, I told my brother-in-law about this. I asked him, “Have you ever heard of a seventy-five year old blind man walking around with a stove on his back?” I was still troubled by this. And my brother-in-law is a pretty smart man because he spent twenty years in prison just thinking.

“It seems obvious to me what happened.”

“There's not one thing obvious to me,” I said.

“Well, sure it's obvious, you dope. They drank their lemonade. Maybe she had some cookies left over from the last batch she baked before the stove went out on her. Then the blind man offered to fix the stove for her. She guided him as he brought it back in the house. And she thought he was just the greatest guy she'd ever met and told him that he could stay with her, that it would be easier for both of them that way.”

“Jesus,” I said, “I would have never thought of that. But now that you've pointed this out to me, it makes perfect sense.” My brother-in-law truly is a genius of the human heart.

W
e had just moved into our rented island beach cottage. Its best feature was the screened-in porch. Boats and yachts of all descriptions sailed right past us. On our part of the island the summer houses are stacked pretty close. It didn't matter; in fact, it was fun to watch the habits of the other vacationers. I've always tried to not judge people, but this guy to our left was making me crazy, fussing all day with his new propane barbecue oven.

It was a real beauty, and he just couldn't take his mind or his hands off it. In the morning, he moved to the back of his cottage. In the afternoon he called to his wife and she helped him lift it up onto their porch. A little later he struggled to pull it down the front steps and set it up on the side of the house. Toward evening he hauled it around in front. Shortly thereafter he pushed it around to the side again. Then he was down on his back playing with the fuel line. I had made up my mind: that big beautiful barbecue oven had my name written all over it.

Toward evening, when he and his wife were enjoying a glass of wine on their porch, I was crawling around under my porch in search of the rusted little hibachi that came with our hut.

I was exhausted by the time he finally fired up his big Cadillac of a barbecue oven. He was far too dainty about the whole process,
probably just singeing a little veal. He could have been removing a little girl's appendix when he reached inside to turn over their little morsels. A proper evening of barbecuing, I always thought, should involve large swills of gin or beer, sauce lathered liberally—and therefore messily, a certain amount of cursing and shouting across the yard. But this guy was as clean and quiet as a surgeon, and as smug.

We were renters and they were long-time owners, and therein lies the source of our conflict. They had it all down to a science and we were just groping our way in the dark.

We eventually managed to cook our steaks on our filthy, rusted hibachi. After a beautiful sunset and a couple more glasses of gin, and after the neighbors had turned in for the night—no doubt, with visions of squeaky clean little calves dancing in their heads, I simply strolled over to their yard and lugged their oven over to mine and called Maureen to come help lift the bastard up onto our porch. It was a bold move—and I am no thief—but I simply thought we deserved it as much as anyone. We were paying a fortune for this dingy little cottage.

All Maureen had to say on the subject was, “You're crazy.”

“No I'm not,” I retorted with absolute confidence.

I think the reason I married Maureen is that she likes crazy. As I said and I repeat, I am not crazy, but if I were, she would not just stick around; I firmly believe that she would love me more.

Let's call this neighbor Morgan. I think that's his name. On the day following the night of the relocation of Morgan's Cadillac barbecue, he has his Cadillac riding mower out, with equal vigor and ineptitude he is tinkering with every little mechanism. It starts and dies, starts and dies, all morning, all afternoon. His grass doesn't even need mowing, and indeed he never mows a single blade. It's just his habitual holiday routine, perhaps designed—without a thought in his head—to stay out of Mrs. Morgan's hair. Morgan is once again on his back looking up at some faulty mechanism entirely beyond his comprehension, and indeed, this seems to be what he lives for.

All day I'm thinking about what I would really like to have for dinner. After all, we're on vacation. Finally, after many consultations with Maureen, I trot up to the store in town and buy a big slab of pork ribs. Cholesterol be damned, this is a special occasion.

Maureen is making up a load of macaroni salad. Around 7 o'clock the sunset is just kicking-in, and I pour my first tumbler of gin. Morgan, I notice, is about to give up on his riding mower, gazing in wonder into its innards one last time. Another perfect vacation day.

“Hey, Maureen,” I yell into the kitchen. “Come help me move the barbecue into the yard.”

“But Morgan's still out there, you idiot.”

“Never you mind. I've thought this thing through. No problem.”

We set it up in front of the porch steps. Right away I fire it up.
I bring the ribs out. I've put on one of those macho men's aprons that say DAD'S ALWAYS RIGHT or some crap. I've got the barbecue sauce, the brush, the poker, everything a genuine barbecue artist must have to create his masterpiece. I even go back in to refill the gin. I'm feeling no pain when I first notice Morgan staring at me from his porch. I even let out a little involuntary “Yippee!”

Then I notice he has gone inside and is standing at his side window looking at me and my beautiful grill through binoculars. His wife is standing beside him and he hands the glasses over to her. The smell of the smoking ribs is ambrosia to my head and I'm swimming in there very happily.

I turn the ribs and slap some more sauce on. I can see Morgan pacing back and forth behind his window, running his hand through his hair, shaking his head.

Finally he comes out and opens the door to his shed beneath his porch. He's in there for three or four minutes. I'm mainly thinking about how long to cook the ribs and how great they're going to taste. This is the first vacation we've been on in several years. Morgan locks the shed and circles his cottage several times. Then he goes back into the house and I can hear his voice nearly breaking.

Maureen comes out with her drink in her hand. “How much longer?” she asks.

“Twenty-five minutes,” I tell her.

And that's when Morgan came flying down his steps. He was trying not to run, not to trip and fall, not to make a fool of himself. He was really a decent looking guy, probably sells insurance
or something. Maybe a banker.

“Excuse me,” he stammers, visibly straining to control his emotions. “Excuse me, but . . . but isn't that . . . If I'm not mistaken, sir, but . . .”

“Take it easy, Jack,” I say to him, in my most comforting tone. “Slow down or you'll bust your precious mechanism.”

“Now wait a minute,” he says, gaining strength. “I believe you are . . . I am certain that this is my grill that you are now employing to roast your meat.”

His ability to speak the King's English was temporarily out-of-order.

Maureen was cool, serene. She gazed at me with pride and the utmost confidence.

“Chill out, pal,” I replied. “This is my barbecue grill as sure as the stars are in heaven. I bought it in East Longmeadow at a True-Value store exactly two months and, let's see, three days ago. Paid $129.95 for it, on sale.” I paused to let the incontestable verity of my claim sink in. “However,” I went on, “you are welcome to admire its craftsmanship and sculpturesque design.”

Maureen was smiling proudly. I looked out toward the sea and added, “That's some view we've got. Come here often?”

“You can't get away with this! You won't get away with this.” Morgan was actually shaking his finger at me and quaking.

“A drink would calm you down,” Maureen said in her best nurse's voice. “Can I fix you something? A gin and tonic always soothes my nerves when I'm upset over some little nothing.”

“This is an outrage,” cried Morgan. “What kind of people are you!”

“Well,” Maureen began, “I'm mostly Irish, but mother claims I have one-sixteenth Cree Indian in me as well. And Jeff is mostly British with some German blood in there somewhere.” I love this woman, especially the one-sixteenth Cree part of her. “And what about yourself, Mr., eh, is it Morgan?”

“You'll hear from me. That's a promise. Common thieves, that's what you are.”

“Now there's no reason to be rude,” Maureen replied. “Grilling a good slab of pork ribs and watching the sunset isn't a crime, Mr. Morgan. I'm sorry if some misfortune has come your way. Perhaps you need some medical attention, something's out of kilter. I'm sure there's a doctor on the island. I could call . . .”

“Now if you'll pardon us, Mr. Morgan, I have some ribs to finish. Honey, would you mind freshening up my drink?”

Morgan now looks like an insane man, one of those derelicts one finds increasingly walking the streets of big cities talking to themselves. Of course, some of those once held respectable jobs and had families. I don't know what happens to them, something snaps, and they no longer share our experience of the daily world. I can have pity for them but they also frighten me. They're a reminder that it could happen to anyone, including yourself.

“Jeff,” Maureen says to me, “I think those babies are about done.”

T
he President of the United States was on the television flapping his wings. He looked like a rooster about to mount a hen who can't stand him. I was looking through my neighbor's window, checking to see if he was still alive. His son had once dropped by my house and asked if I would do this about once a month. Apparently he wasn't on speaking terms with his father, but was more than a little interested in his television set. The old man kept a parakeet, but from what I could see it lacked most of the traditional feathers. I had been looking in on him for about three years and had never seen more than his feet stretched out in front of the stuffed chair from which he watched the soaps and the game shows and whatever else. I was given a number to call if I suspected the end had come.