Many of us geezers were taught in Sunday school that kindness is our only strength. It sounded quite noble and true at the time. However, as we traveled the long, perilous, and bumpy road to Geezerville, we became cynical because our kindness was often exploited, usually by our “friends.”
My buddy Jimbo called me one August day to ask if I would go to the Oakland Airport to pick up a visiting theater lighting engineer and his assistant who were flying in from Houston, Texas. He told me to deliver them to their hotel, and said he would take over from there. He noted that he had been trying to get this particular engineer’s assistance for a couple of years, and begged me to treat him well.
The engineer’s name was Jerry, so I held up a sign with “JERRY” scrawled on it as I awaited his arrival at the airport terminal. Watching the incoming passengers, I saw a likely suspect—a tall, thin, disheveled older man with a scruffy, long gray beard. He was wearing a faded Houston Oilers tee shirt, well-worn blue jeans, a purple watch cap, and scuffed brown cowboy boots.
Beside him was a rotund young woman with pink, jowly, beady-eyed porcine features. Her oily, matted blonde hair was woven into three long ponytails dyed green, purple, and red. She wore a pink baby-doll dress and dirty white cowgirl boots. She seemed to be having respiratory distress, as she leaned on a pillar, coughing and hacking violently.
Despite my sign, the suspected Jerry looked at me and turned away. He scanned the crowd, turned to the girl and yelled “Goddammit, I don’t see him, Fay-Fay.”
Fay-Fay looked at me then answered Jerry. “Well hell, Paw-Paw, there’s a guy standing there with a Jerry sign. See if he’s lookin’ for you.”
Paw-Paw angrily answered, “Dammit Fay-Fay, does he look like a sun bronzed- beachcomber? Jimbo said this Gil guy was a sun-bronzed beachcomber.”
After overhearing their argument, I cautiously approached Jerry and said, “Jerry, I’m Jimbo’s friend Gil.”
Almost simultaneously, Jerry and Fay-Fay turned to me and bellowed, “You ain’t no sun-bronzed beachcomber!”
“Yeah, I once was a sun-bronzed beach boy, but now I’m just an average corn-fed Caucasian,” I answered.
Jerry shook his head then said, “So that damned Jimbo tricked me and Fay-Fay. He baited his hook and reeled us in, all the way to California. I’ll be havin’ tea and cupcakes with that lyin’ old hound dog tomorrow!”
I really didn’t want to know anything about the bait situation, so I immediately changed the subject.
“Let’s go get your baggage, and I’ll take you to your hotel, then out for dinner,” I said.
“What hotel?” snapped Jerry. “Jimbo was supposed to take care of our room and board.”
My cynical mind began doing cartwheels, as I realized why the notoriously penurious Jimbo had unloaded his guests on me.
“Not to worry,” I lied. I’ll set you up at a really nice place in Alameda, right on the water.”
Fay piped up. “Make sure it’s got a kitchen, so I can fix Paw Paw’s eats. He don’t like no foreign food. Gives him gas.”
Taking care not to use the endearing name Fay-Fay, I quickly answered, “You won’t need to cook, Fay. After I get you settled at the Marina Village Inn, I’ll take you and Jerry to the Whale’s Tale (now Pier 29) on Ballena Bay. They’ve got a juicy double-cut stuffed pork chop that is falling-off-the bone tender, sitting on top of creamy polenta!”
“Hell, Gil, now you got my stomach rumbling!” Jerry griped. “I ain’t had a juicy tender pork chop in years. Fay-Fay chicken-fries ‘em, and they’re so tough that I could use ’em for horseshoes! And what the hell is polenta?”
I thought for a second, then replied, “It’s Italian grits.”
Now Fay was excited. “Hot damn! Pork chops and grits! Now that’s some real fine eatin’!”
As we walked to the baggage claim, Jerry grew pensive and asked, “Gil, is this a dry county? I’m dyin’ for a nice cold brew.”
Fay roared with laughter, then immediately began coughing. After she recovered, she croaked, “Paw-Paw, there ain’t no dry counties in California. They even sell booze on Sundays!”
Jerry looked relieved, and after collecting the luggage, we were soon speeding down Doolittle Drive/Highway 61 to Alameda and the Marina Village Inn. Jerry glanced out the car window and saw the twilight-illumined San Leandro Bay.
“That’s a pretty little lake. You ever do any fishin’ in her, Gil?” he asked.
Before I could answer, Fay bellowed, “Look at that big mound, rising right over the lake! Is that volcanic, Gil? I sure would like to climb it!” She then went into another hacking, ear-splitting bronchial spasm.
I didn’t want to tell her that Mount Trashmore’s “volcanic” activity was limited to garbage induced methane emissions, so I spun a harmless yarn.
“Yeah, Fay, Alameda is so proud of that mound that a street is named for it!”
Fay nodded appreciatively as we crossed the Bay Farm Island Bridge.
Jerry looked amazed as he said, “So that little river we just crossed feeds that lake? This sure is purty country, full of lakes and rivers, right smack dab in the middle of everythang!”
I nodded yes, and let Jerry and Fay silently observe the wonders of Otis Drive, Grand Street, and the Pacific Marina.
As I checked them in at the cozy Marina Village Inn, Jerry and Fay walked outside the lobby and inspected the marina and the boat slips. Jerry returned, stood next to me at the reception counter, then asked the counter person, “Scuse’ me, ma’am, is there any cats in that river?”
She and I glared at each other, and after a long silence and a lightning-quick mental review of Jerry’s Texas culture, I said, “ No catfish, Jerry, but plenty of perch and striped bass.”
To my horror, Jerry happily turned to Fay and barked, “Hell, Fay-Fay, we should turn this into a real vacation, do us some sightseein’ and fishin’ right on the river, all on Jimbo’s dime, seein’ as how he tricked us into comin’ out here. I’m sure Gil will treat us and feed us real good!”
I blanched at the shock, then croaked, “Folks, not to be unkind, but there’s been a massive misunderstanding.”
Gil Michaels is still waiting for repayment at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels.
