GONE & LONG FORGOTTEN - THE END?

continued from The Beginning

Feeling squeamish, I quickly drop the pendant and step back from the shelf.  Steeling myself, I move down a few shelves and check the contents of some of the other boxes and find pretty much the same stuff for each forgotten loved one.  I hear muffled noises in the distance and I crane my neck to its fullest extent to see over the forest of shelves.  Is Joe back already?  Nope, no one there.  Why, then had I heard what sounded like footsteps?  A goose walks over my grave and I shiver.

* * *

Intent on organizing these abandoned souls so that they can be packed up quickly when Joe gets back with the boxes (funny, a thought pops into my head – boxes within boxes), I quickly develop a rhythm.  First I take out the photo, find the slip of paper with the name and address, smooth it out and prop it against the picture.  Then I take a picture of the picture, with my agonizingly-slow cell phone.  I give my head a shake in frustration and make a mental note to myself – Self, buy a new cell phone.

I whiz along, despite the tedious, time-consuming process and breathe in mightily when I hear the nearby garage-style door go up with a big bang.  Joe’s really back this time.

As he strides toward me, his lop-sided grin shines through the gloom and I feel my heart give a twinge.  My tummy starts doing a little flip-flop and I can’t help but smile big, right back at him.

Joe gives me a wonderful hug and brushes his lips across my cheek, then murmurs into my shell-shaped ear, “So, where do you want all the boxes, darlin’?”

It takes me a few seconds to process this sweet nothing, blinking in realization that Joe’s all business, with a touch of honey.  “Right here, beside me, please.  It’s a good place to start.  Oh, and look what I found.  Every box should have one.”  I hold up the narrow piece of paper with the deceased’s info on it and dangle it in front of face.  His smoky, dark-blue eyes track the back and forth movement of the paper for a few seconds and then slide into cross-eyed-ness.  Funny!  He’s doing it on purpose. 

I put my fish-face on - purse my lips out like a kissing gourami and cross my eyes as far as they would go.  I lightly brush my rucked-up lips across the top his nose.  Can’t waste a pucker, don’t you know!  Joe laughs and heads back to his pickup for more supplies.  Sighing mightily and unscrunching my face, I turn back to my shooting of the dead.  Hmm, sounds like a good title for a TV show.

There’s so much to do and so little time left to do it. 

Looking at the amount of boxes I had managed to set-up and photograph, I realize that at this pace, by the time I finish, I could be very, very old or even reduced to gray dust, in a flat box with my picture and a pendant in it.

I put out a call to all my friends in a group e-mail and beg for help – anyone, everyone and bring your friends too.  All the beer and pizza you can swallow but only after the job is done.

Oh boy!  I do a fast check on my credit 
card balance and sigh with relief, when I see that I could swing about $400.00 at the new Three-for-One Pizza joint and, of course, the beverage of choice to wash it down - beer.  I’m sure that 3-for-one will consider me their best customer after I place my order.  The beer store already does. 

I give but a fleeting thought about the possible myocardial infarction that Bruce’s executor might experience after getting my boxful (I thought I’d use one of the flat empties), of receipts to be reimbursed. Then I shrug and pucker up the ole lips and blow a very loud raspberry! 

Amazingly, about forty-five of my nearest and dearest friends and their nearest and dearest friends show up, cell phones in hand and at the ready.  I explain what needs to be done and pass my cell around so that people will know how to frame the shot.  I feel like a stewardess explaining the life vest and emergency exit procedures, as I demonstrate the placement of the slip of paper against the photograph.  Then we divvy up the sections and everyone gets down to the job.  We all work at a fever pitch, swilling water and chomping apples from the big red box of Royal Gala I had sent Joe out to buy.  Good thing his credit card had some room to spare.

We work in almost total silence but not really, as people bounce, jounce and kind of sway to inaudible music in their ear-buds.  Some hum to the music, some bee-bop and some just twitch.  The power of the rhythm is amazing.

Joe and I meet by accident in one of the furthest corners of the warehouse and manage to grab a quick hug.  Then, with a wicked grin, his teeth startling white in the gloom, he saunters off to his assigned section once more. 

I move deeper into the murkiness and pause to listen.  Is that the small door beside the big roll-up loading dock door, creaking open?  I think my ears will permanently freeze in the forward-leaning position, I’m listening so hard.

Another creak has me sprinting for the small entrance door and I get there just in time to see it close all the way shut.  There’s no one inside.  I head straight for the door and bang it open so hard, it hits the battered siding with a hollow thump.  My head and eyes on swivel, I scan the surrounding area of forest and marshland directly behind the dilapidated warehouse.

Cattails rustle about twenty yards away and I flat-out sprint mindlessly in their direction.  My white sneakers are soon blackened and wet with swamp water and a dark, musky odour reaches my nose, which makes me sneeze.  I flounder on, foolishly.  I will catch whoever has been spying on me!

I see a flash of a white and navy-blue checkered shirt and run faster, which I didn’t think possible.  Just as I was giving up hope of catching the fleet-footed runner, I hear a thud, then a splash and a yelp of pain, as Checkered Shirt goes down hard, face first in the stinky bog.

Checkered Shirt rises from the swamp with a disgusted shout and lets out a string of expletives, which would make a longshoreman proud. 

Holy shit!  My green eyes bug out of my brunette head and I start hyperventilating. 

From what I was told later, after I came to, my now very un-dead and still ex-husband, Walter, helped pick me up and carry me into his warehouse of long forgotten souls.  There I lay on one of the few empty shelves, until I manage to sit up.  

Where in the hell has the bastard been for fifteen years?

GONE & LONG FORGOTTEN - The Beginning

I am moving but much more than that, I am also trying to pack up an entire warehouse, populated by the ghosts of long-dead clients.  Rows and rows of five-high shelving units, stretch at least fifty feet into the distance.  In the dusty gloom, I barely see the end. 

Every single shelf contains the flat remains of ten souls.  I give up trying to do the arithmetic in my head and just count the rows.  I can do the math later - when I have a calculator in my hand.

There’s a guy with me, a new romantic interest, who goes by the name of Joe, and he’s helping me pack.  I had forgotten about the warehouse, a business operated by my ex-husband, Walter, dead for years and who may even occupy some of the real estate spread out before my dismayed eyes. 

             

His accountant, Bruce Charters, the executor of his estate, and recently expired himself, is the reason I am standing here, trying not to hyperventilate.  Bruce had also been Walter’s business manager and continued in that role after my ex-husband died in a mysterious boating accident fifteen years ago. 

          

Walter’s body had been discovered weeks after wreckage from his boat was found by a passing fishing vessel.  The boat, an old 25’ cabin cruiser, was discovered in a remote area on the eastern shore of Georgian Bay, in an isolated area known as Thirty Thousand Islands.  The Thirty Thousand Islands covers an enormous 860,000 acres, stretching over one hundred and twenty miles from Port Severn to the French River.  A huge rescue effort failed to turn up anybody stranded on a secluded beach or drifting in a life boat, anywhere in the vicinity of the debris. 

Rumours had spread like wild-fire in our tiny town, known as The Beach. The mystery created by the discovery of Walter’s bruised, battered and unrecognizable body, was distressing but at the same time, to many in the hamlet, intriguing. 

Concealed in a mound of detritus, he was in an advanced state of decomposition when he finally washed up on the more populated south shore, after an early and violent spring storm.  I understand that a woman walking her dog found him while strolling along the golden sand beach.  Her dog, a Chocolate Lab, had started digging furiously, flinging debris every which way but loose, and finally exposing Walter’s corpse.  She still talks about her shocking, albeit fascinating experience all these years later.

Apparently, Bruce thought I should take up where he and Walter left off, since Walter had left me his seventy-five year-old wooden frame cottage on the beach.  The warehouse however, is three towns over, in the middle of nowhere, which is why I hadn’t thought about it in years.

Walter’s business, Eternally Yours Storage, was the place for funeral homes across the province to store the remains and memories of those not claimed by family members within twelve months. Too bad Bruce hadn’t thought to ask me if I wanted the honour and now I was stuck.

With dismay, I look at the thousands of containers.  Each flatish, 9" x 12” box, is a couple of inches high.  Inside is a four-colour photograph of the long-dead person, upon which is printed a memory or two, obviously written by someone who had, at one time, loved, or at least known the person now in the box.

What in the hell was I going to do with the cremains of thousands of people?

I have until tomorrow at 11:59 p.m. to pack everyone up and get out.  The property has been sold and closing day is now.  The hundreds of racks have been included in the purchase price of the property, so at least I don’t need to think about getting rid of those.  Too bad Bruce hadn’t thought to mention this village of forgotten souls and a really important part of his estate to his own executor.

My stalwart helper and new(ish) boyfriend, Joe is a lot more optimistic than me.  He thinks that if we work through the night, we should be able to pack everyone up.  No boxes, no labels, no packing tape and no idea of who reposes on the rickety, gray metal shelves.  How would we be able to inventory our village of lost souls, so that if someone does come looking for their loved one, I could find them?

Sighing mightily, I make a list of the supplies we’re gonna need and send Joe off to the nearest big box store to buy it all.  Boy, Bruce’s executor is not going to be happy when she gets that bill.

Taking down the nearest box, I look through it more carefully, lifting out the photograph.  A small slip of paper flutters to the floor and I stoop to pick it up.  Oh lordy!  Be still my heart!  It contains the name and address of the dearly departed, plus the date they left this mortal coil.  Yay!  Propping the picture up, I lay the paper against it, along the bottom.  I finally find my ancient smart phone at the bottom of my well-worn, butter-coloured messenger bag and take a snap.  Not too bad.  When I enlarge it on my small screen, I can at least make out the text.  On a larger screen I would even be able to see the person in the picture. 

Gingerly, I lift out the cremains, tightly sealed in a flat, medium-size plastic baggie-like packet.  Underneath is a previously unnoticed blown glass container, sealed with a silver screw-top – reminds me of a wine bottle for some reason.  It’s a beautiful pendant, about a half-inch thick and the size of an old fifty-cent piece.  It’s brilliant blue with white swirls, and attached to it, a heavy, silver chain about 18” long.  Wondering, I give it a gentle shake, and yep, can feel something (someone?), shifting around inside.

Feeling squeamish, I quickly drop the pendant and step back from the shelf.  Steeling myself, I move down a few shelves and check the contents of some of the other boxes and find pretty much the same stuff for each forgotten loved one.  I hear muffled noises in the distance and I crane my neck to its fullest extent to see over the forest of shelves.  Is Joe back already?  Nope, no one there.  Why then, had I heard what sounded like footsteps?  A goose walks over my grave and I shiver.

To be  continued

© 2019 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION

HOT … BUTTERED

    

   

Crunchy and crusty

Such a sweet softy inside

    My favourite bread

A DOG IN A BOG

A dog eating a log

In a bog

Whatta hog

Saw a frog

And a polliwog

Went for a jog

There was no smog

Only fog

And a hedgehog

Wrote my blog

SMASHED POTATOES & POTHOLES

Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

con’t from Joie De Vivre!

Putting the car in neutral and pulling up the hand brake (I drive a ‘stick’ as the Americans like to call it), I lean over to grab the two or three bags from the floor and find a treasure trove of food, both for people and dog.  Wow!  How did I forget all about this great stuff and more importantly, where are The Thin Man and his dog?

* * *

Rummaging through the bags, I find decadent double-chocolate cookies, a little soft from the hot day, more fruit, the thermal bag with three small containers of Sofie’s home-made dog food and a medium-size container of kibble.  Oh, and a very soft chocolate bar.  I find a plastic shopping bag in the trunk and start putting pretty much everything into it, including more water.  I check my wallet and find a $20.00 bill, which I keep in my hand.  Getting back into the car, I say, “Hold on, Sofie, I’m pulling a u-ie”, and I do.

I high-tail it back east on Highway #2, hoping that The Thin Man hasn’t turned off.  He hasn’t.  A few miles down the road, I see him peddling his bike, Titus sitting regally in the child trailer, looking straight ahead, staring at his master’s skinny behind.  I start honking my horn and gesturing out the window for the man to pull over, onto the side road that he’s approaching.  He seems startled, then realizes it’s me and pulls off the highway.  I follow suit, make another U-turn and park behind him. 

“I’m glad I saw you again.” 

 “How come you came back?” asks the Thin Man.

“I found some more food and stuff in the car and thought you’d like to have it.”  I open the grocery bag and pull out the chocolate cookies.  His eyes light up like a kid at Christmas and I hand the plastic bag to him and say, “This can be dessert.  And I have some of Sofie’s food for Titus.  Oh, and bring me that half-full pop bottle again.  I found some more water that you can have.”  He brings the bottle over and when I finish pouring, it’s almost full.  

“Here,” I say and transfer the $20.00 bill from my hand to his, “Maybe you can buy some smashed potatoes to go with that turkey.”  With that, I see tears come  into the Thin Man’s eyes and he closes his hand over the money. As I start walking away, The Thin Man calls out, “Wait, what’s your name?”

“Phyllis,” I reply, “What’s yours?” 

“Greg”, he says, as he walks towards me.  “Thank you so much for all you’ve given me.  Your generosity has made a huge difference for me and Titus. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.  I hope the rest of your journey is a bit cooler or shadier.   Bike safe and take care.”  With that, I get back into the car and as I check my rear view mirror for oncoming traffic, I see the glint of tears on Greg’s face.  Pulling back out onto Highway #2, I try to swallow the lump in my throat − give my head a shake and turn westward once again.  What other adventures will there be for me on my way home? 

Driving gives you a lot of time to think, sometimes not such a good thing.  Becoming introspective thinking about Greg and his simple life, the tumultuous events which have shaped the past four or five years of my life, rise to the surface − being forced out of a job which I loved, after 25 years, and was really very good at − the resultant two year life limbo dealing with a lawsuit; unemployment; new employment working for a delusional moron − a nice guy but really out of touch with reality; family tensions and stresses; a treasured friendship flushed; losing my 4-legged soul mate, Sheba, the love of my life for 15 years – oh, so many things when I stop to think about them all − too many.  Sadness, for what might have been.  Tears are very near and I blink hard to keep them at bay. 

Hitting a series of huge pot holes, I’m jolted out of my reverie.  It’s like the universe is sending me a message – stop dwelling on what was.  Remember to live in the present − be in the moment and be thankful.

This moment is golden. I will always remember Greg and Titus and being able to make a difference in their lives.  I feel the impact they made on mine − the epiphany of understanding a simple life − creating our own joy.  Those nebulous feelings I haven’t been able to put into words suddenly crystallize and now I know what I want.  A shadow has lifted, and smiling, I drive into the setting sun, my joie de vivre restored.  Home beckons and I can’t wait to get there.  

© 2019 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

JOIE DE VIVRE! Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

con’t from The Thin Man

The Thin Man and I say goodbye and I settle back in the car, ready to make tracks for home.  As I drive away, I look in my rearview mirror to see The Thin man give me a salute, by tipping the pop bottle to his temple.  As he turns back to Titus, the bottle is at his lips and he takes a long drink of water.  I wonder if we’ll ever see the Thin Man and his dog again?

* * *

Back on the sunlit road once more, Sofie looks at me quizzically, as if to ask where I’ve been.  She stayed very quiet in the car while I was talking with the Thin Man.  Now that I’m back, she gets up and puts her paws on my shoulder and gives me a really good sniff around.  I’m don’t know why she does that but I think it’s because she wants to make sure it’s me.  After she’s satisfied I haven’t been replaced by aliens, she settles back on her seat and curls up, reminding me of a big, white powder puff.  I’m glad I keep wet wipes in the car and get one out, washing the greasiness from Titus’ coat off my hands and give the steering wheel a good swipe while I’m at it. 

Figure 1Benson Lossing -                                                                    The Pictorial Field Book of the Way of 1812 Fort Wellington I

I see a sign indicating a historical plaque for Fort Wellington and decide to stop and check it out.   

One of the fort’s walls faces the St. Lawrence Seaway and you can see it from Highway #2 but it’s so nondescript, if you didn’t know it formed part of a fort, you wouldn’t think anything of it.  I turn onto the side street, and then the parking lot, I see a sign, ‘Closed for the season’.

“It figures, Sofie.  Everything closes for the season the day after Thanksgiving. Maybe I’ll take a vacation in late spring and we’ll come and stay in the area, when things are open again.”  Sofie twitches a solitary eyebrow but doesn’t bother opening her eyes.

As I pull back out onto Highway #2, I start thinking about The Thin Man and Titus.  Tears come into my eyes, as I think about the two of them together, against the world, just them.  What adversity must they face on their long journey?  My imagination takes off and I see law enforcement looking for a reason to hassle them − farmers chasing them off their land, shotgun at the ready.  Surprised skunks giving them a spray or two as they continue their odyssey after sundown, taking advantage of the cooler temperature. Who knows what else?  A lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow. 

Then another image springs to mind − he’s living the simple life.  Everything he owns is with him.  I wonder what it would be like, to live like that.  No clutter, no muss, no crushing responsibility paying a mortgage and other bills.  No going to a job every day that you don’t get paid enough to do.  Not caring that the cost of electricity is increasing every time you turn around but your salary isn’t and you wonder how you’ll find the money to pay for it.  Not giving a damn that the price of oil is driving the price of gasoline beyond the reach of some people’s incomes.  Every day is an adventure, something new, good, bad or indifferent. 

 He’s probably in better shape than most people, with all the biking he does.  I betcha he doesn’t have to worry about high blood pressure, high cholesterol, high triglycerides, and high sugar.  The only high he probably has is a natural high from the endorphins, which flood his system from all the healthy exercise, fresh air and sunshine he gets.  I’m betting he probably sleeps like a log every night too.  Maybe there is something to be said for his simple life? 

But then my mind switches gears and I start thinking about all the blessings I have in my life and I feel so thankful, even with all the crap I’ve had to live through.  Far from having just a summer of discontent, I’ve had a good couple of years of it and I’m ready for a change.  I silently give thanks for all the blessings in my life and the beautiful safe haven I call home.  The realization trickles into my head − The Thin Man makes his joy and I make mine.  Ah, joie de vivre!

All of a sudden, I just want to be there - home.  My foot presses harder on the gas pedal, and the car seems to leap forward, as if it’s just as anxious as I am, to be home. 

I reach down into one of the fabric shopping bags I’ve packed my snacks and other essentials in when abruptly it hits me.  When I was looking for food to give The Thin Man, I hadn’t looked in the car, just the trunk. What else do I have packed in here?  I keep driving and looking for a good place to pull off the road, so I can check out the various bags on the passenger-side floor.  I see parking signs for a retirement home and make a quick left.  Following the yellow directional arrows painted on the asphalt, I find a place to stop where the sun is shining in at the back.  Putting the car in neutral and pulling up the hand brake (I drive a ‘stick’ as the Americans like to call it), I lean over to grab the two or three bags from the floor and find a treasure trove of food, both for people and dog.  Wow!  How did I forget all about this great stuff and more importantly, where are The Thin Man and his dog?


© 2019 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.

THE THIN MAN - Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

* * *

Of Potholes & Smashed Potatoes

con’t from Ghosties

The thin man and I stop talking and watch the cop watching us.  His head swivels ever sideways as he moves on.  I hold my breath and will him to continue.   I see his bushy moustache twitching, as he slows even more and I’m surprised he hasn’t come to a complete stop.  Will he or won’t he?

* * *

THE THIN MAN

The cop creeps past.  I’m glad.  A confrontation with the fuzz is not on today’s agenda.   

“Hello,” says the sweaty man again and I reply in kind. 

“Hot today, eh?”  I say.

“Oh man,” says he, “I hope we get to a place soon which has some shade.  My dog is really feeling the heat today.” 

“I can imagine he would with that fur coat he has on”.  I’m glad I caught up with you.  I want to offer you some fresh, cold water.” 

His eyes light up and he exclaims, “Oh, I’ll take a couple of bottles off your hands, if you have ‘em...”

I explain, “I don’t have bottles, but if you have something to put the water in, you’re welcome to what I have.”

He says, with barely suppressed excitement, “Oh yes, I have a bunch of ‘um.” and sprints to the child trailer (up close, I can see it’ll fit 2 kids).  He rummages around for a minute and comes up with three empty pop bottles, the two litre size.  He comes back to the car and I open the trunk to pull out the insulated water containers.  They’re pretty full but since I always freeze the water before I hit the road, only so much of it is actually pourable.  I manage to fill up two of the bottles and a bit, spilling a little over the thin man’s hands. 

“Oh,” he says, “it’s so cold.”  His face wears an anticipatory look and I know he’ll be taking a swig as soon as I leave.

“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask as the 4-legged finally notices me and ambles over, done with grazing, at least for the moment.

“Titus.”  Hearing his name, Titus looks up at his master and I see the adoration in his dark chocolate brown eyes.  A strong bond these two have, like me and Sofie.

“A noble name, for a noble dog.”  I say.  “How old is he?” 

“Ten,” replies the thin man and rests his hand affectionately on the dog’s head.                            

“What kind is he?”  I ask, inquisitively.

“An Akita, you know like the O.J. dog.” 

Oh, I think, he means the dog that was on the scene when O.J. Simpson’s wife was killed.  I shiver as a goose walks over my grave and my joie de vivre drops a notch.  Not the most pleasant thought on this beautiful day.  I shake off the image and start to close the trunk lid. 

The thin man’s eye light on the small cooler and he says, hopefully, “Titus is almost all out of food…”

“Let me see what I have.”  I open the cooler and see the foil-wrapped package.  “Here”, I say impulsively, “take these and a happy Thanksgiving to you.  It’s the leftover turkey legs from last night’s dinner.” 

“Oh,” he exclaims, “I get Thanksgiving turkey after all?”  And with that comment, I feel tears start into my eyes, and blink them back quickly.  Keeping my face averted, I fumble around to find other things I could give him.    There’s some fruit in the cooler and I give that to him too.  “Where are you biking from?”

“Halifax”, is the laconic reply.

“Wow, that’s a ways away.  Where are you heading?”

“Toronto.”  

“Wow again.”  I seem to be at a loss for words – unusual for me. 

“Any particular reason?” I imagine an odyssey of some kind, you know, like Terry Fox or Rick Hansen. 

The man screws his face up.  I think he’s trying to find an answer he wants me to believe is ‘normal’, and finally comes back with,

“Oh, vacation.” but his faded blue eyes slip away from mine.

“Why Toronto?”

“That’s where I live”, says the thin man.  “My family used to own a horse farm in the Highway 7 and Leslie area.” 

“Oh, I know that area well.  It’s pretty close to where I work.  Have you been up that way recently?”

“No,” he replies, “I don’t go up there at all anymore.”

Sensing he doesn’t want to talk about his background, I ask, “Toronto to Halifax and then back to Toronto.  That’s quite the round trip.  How far do you bike in one day?” 

“Around 70 to 80 miles.”

“How far is it to Halifax?”  The thin man doesn’t answer my question, so I ask another, “I’m guessing Titus rides in the trailer most of the time?”

“Yes, he gets out and walks when we go up hills and then whenever else he wants.  Most of the time, though, he rides, especially when it’s this hot.” 

By now, I have a sneaking suspicion that the thin man and his dog are homeless.  The bedding, which covers the bottom of the child trailer is far from clean and he seems to have a lot of stuff stored in there.  His appearance is also somewhat of a giveaway, with what’s left of his greasy, light brown hair, scraped back into a thin ponytail.  The overall yellowness of his teeth and the missing two front lower teeth speak to a lack of a toothbrush and dental care.  The grayish stubble on his leathery-looking cheeks is probably about a week or two old.  And, by the wrinkles fanning out from the corner of his eyes, I guesstimate his age to be, perhaps, in his late thirties, early forties.

I think that this man’s home is wherever he happens to be.  I can picture his sleeping arrangements –  a farmer’s field somewhere down the road – the Thin Man curled up in the child trailer and Titus curled up beside it, keeping guard.  My diminished joie de vivre slides a titch more.

 

I’ve scavenged everything there is in the trunk and wish I had more to give to the Thin Man. He thanks me profusely and even Titus comes up to give me a sniff and consents to letting me pat him.  His coat, like his master’s hair, is on the greasy side and he’s odiferously doggy but I keep patting him and scratching under his chin, which he really seems to enjoy.  I give him a few dog treats I have in my pocket and he wolfs them down enthusiastically.  Handing the man the small plastic bag I’ve put Sofie’s treats in, I say, “Here, take these for Titus.  He’ll have a Thanksgiving treat too.” 

The Thin Man and I say goodbye and I settle back in the car, ready to make tracks for home.  As I drive away, I look in my rearview mirror to see The Thin man give me a salute, by tipping the pop bottle to his temple.  As he turns back to Titus, the bottle is at his lips and he takes a long drink of water.  I wonder if we’ll ever see the Thin Man and his dog again?


© 2019 UNDERCOVER CONFIDENTIAL aka PHYLLIS MAHON … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH CONTENT FROM THIS WEBSITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION.