Table of Contents
I am Sailing…
By Mitya Indursky
Part I
Preface
A decade or so ago I was a fearless passenger on any plane (cargo included) flying to any destination, where either my job or a playful mind would point to. One day my life has changed, when a mighty fear of flying forced me seek an alternative way of crossing the Pond.
You guessed right! I discovered ships, since walking on water was the only other option, and… I can’t walk on water.( If you need further explanation, stop reading this story, and call a physics teacher or a priest, or an ambulance.) The ships that sail across the Atlantic slower than it takes a country boy in Georgia to finish his daily story with a helpful input from his grandfather.
The winning side of the coin is that (except for my love for cigars), aerophobia was the only bad habit acquired. I could have ended developing something really weird. A taste for fried skunk cheeks combined with joyful tree hugging, for example. I wonder if they serve fried skunk cheeks in Sedona, AZ, or should I bring my own?
The flip side of the coin was the length of the Transatlantic Crossings, that produced the stories below. But before I share some of them, it is imperative to introduce you to the birth date and the consequences of my aerophobia.
The birth date of aerophobia
It was forty minutes into a (life-long) red eye flight from LA to NYC, when I started feeling a bit more than uncomfortable. Merciless winds were warming up the plane for an endless set of violent jumps and drops that lasted for over five hours, almost till our exhausted landing in JFK.
It was somewhat tolerable at first, but by the time we reached Chicago the seatbelt sign turned into a flashing nuisance. The buckle’s safeguarding abilities became more than questionable if not obsolete. The belt seemed to keep me from flying only in an ensemble with my fingers, submerged into the depth of the chair’s metal armrests.
The horror had fully unleashed itself, when the lightning started repeatedly striking the plane, inviting thunder into a thoroughly prepared feast. Hell didn’t break loose, it simply opened his gates in an expectation of our speedy arrival, and the driveway was bumpy.
The overhead luggage compartments were free from segregating modest from fancy carry-on bags, spitting them in equal numbers, thus giving us a chance to bid a last farewell to them. Or, maybe it was their way of joining the screaming chorus of pregnant women, who were in bad need for absent midwifes.
It was not mayhem, rather a terrible sweaty nightmare most of us have experienced in early childhood. Mine was about falling from the fifth floor of the building where my grandparents lived, thus somewhat relevant. Especially when the plane and I were free falling into an abyss, eager to re-unite with the dots-like lights below.
The only person who missed it all, was a short guy in the mid row. He peacefully snored through the whole ordeal under an accompaniment of Danny DeVito’s and Judd Hirsch’s immortal Taxi series. I had a full spectrum of emotions when looking at him. From murder to admiration, and everything in between. The only thing I couldn’t do, was to join him.
Normal people, like you and your numerous friends, would forget about the aforementioned experience the moment they leave the terminal, to continue on with their exciting daily life. This is what normal people would do, and what I rightfully expected of myself.
Well, how about Not In My Case, thus for many years I’ve been reliving (the literal) ups and downs of the flight, dissecting each and every moment of it.
The consequences of aerophobia
First, regarding my plane-inflicted physical abilities. I turned into a world class gymnast, skipping long years of training. The moment when even an expectation of disturbance kicks in, I become as flexible as Aly Raisman, unveiling incredibly complicated motions of intertwined arms and legs to my fellow passengers. Add a facial expression of a guy looking at a Big Foot (in violation of the social distancing rules), and you will get a full picture of my stunning physical condition.
Now, to the mental part of the aerophobia. I am proud to report that the plane and I did stay as one inseparable body for the duration of the flight. With the exception of the engines. They proudly carried a different name, to let the whole world know that they are not part of our immediate family. Thus, I need to be seated at the window next to the engines, carefully monitoring their well-being.
The gift of our (the plane and mine) synchronized movements gives me a unique ability to consult the best minds in aviation business! Sadly enough, they are not interested. I presume that the pilots are questioning my expertise, since their knowledge is based on training, technology and experience, and mine, on ignorance, fear and flexibility.
Yes, I do understand that! Moreover, I comprehend that the pilots are as selfish as I am, when it comes to reaching our destination in one piece. Following this simple logic, my urge to knock on a cockpit door (every ten minutes) with yet another stupid question, should disappear. But it doesn’t go anywhere.
My restless mind keeps asking more questions, while sending warning signals to my central nervous system, that in turn, makes me do the gymnastics routine over and over again. Thus, I choose sailing!
The Queen Mary 2 die for
What a truly majestic and grandiose this ship is! I was stunned to see her first time from a cab, closing to the port in Brooklyn where she was docked. I still find it hard to figure out how many city blocks she covers, but am positive that three or four football fields would easily fit in there.
Inside, it is almost as Royal as Buckingham Palace, but I’ll trade the boat’s luxury any day for the most important piece of equipment, which are the stabilizers. The smooth assassins of the waves and the very much welcomed killers of my incredible gymnastics routine…
…The dining experience on the QM2 is almost on par with her interior design, and it should be this way, since the ship doesn’t stop anywhere for almost a week. Except for one thing though, that may give you a bit of an aftertaste.
Surprisingly enough, there are quite a few old folks out there who dream of dying at sea, thus are not shy to call it quits in public. More often than not, they would choose a formal dinner, when you are just about to fork a long craved piece of steak, pushing it further down with a healthy sip of a full bodied Ribera Del Duero or a Burgundy.
I don’t blame the death-at-sea dreamers, though. It’s rather dull to pull a plug in your pjs while asleep. Witnesses are a must, and preferably, nicely dressed!
But how are they allowed on board, will you ask? Please, follow me.
Since the noble intentions of the “dying at sea club members” do not exactly match the aspirations of the QM2 management, the former do everything to hide their life’s long urge. And most of the time, the victory’s their best friend, since the last wish should be always granted.
It is not difficult to succeed though. Can you imagine a “Preferred activities on board” part of the QM2 questionnaire, with the following statement/question full of life and care for the elderly?
Dear senior citizens, I am happy to inform you that our magnificent ship is equipped with the most Up-To-Date, but LIMITED CAPACITY morgue facility. We would like to know in advance, whether you are planning to book a space during this crossing. Please, take your time to respond to the following question. Cheers.
Will your health condition allow you to die on board? Yes. No.
If you answer “yes”, please specify the day and an approximate time and place of your well expected departure, and leave the rest to our skillful hands!
If you answer “no”, have a pleasant crossing and see you soon.
Sincerely Yours,Chief Mortician
To be continued…
I am sailing
By Mitya Indursky
Part II (Part I is in Stories)
The Queen Mary2 buffet 2 fight for
I hope you’ve gotten a little taste, when it comes to the vitally and mortally important subjects of food and death on a ship, that will skip docking anywhere between Brooklyn and Southampton. Actually, there are no other ports to drop anchor at at all, and if you find one, the polar bears would find you before you would find them!
Since the great majority of us fancy eating something, rather than be eaten by something, the QM 2 offers three choices to turn us into the picky stomach’s slaves:
- The main and free restaurant open for breakfast and dinner only;
- A good number of small restaurants ready to give you the world’s culinary experience you should pay for;
- A free buffet is open almost all day long (except for the late night hours), in case Gargantua and Pantagruel are your close relatives.
Some of the following chapters will be dedicated to the buffet, since it was, by far the most telling part of the crossing.
Space wise the buffet takes one whole deck of the QM2, and can easily allow two professional football teams to beat the COVID out of each other, and the air out of the ball, no matter how deflated the latter is.
The size outlines the magnitude of our indulgence together with the wisdom of the original QM2 owners. They were thinking about feeding Americans way more than we were thinking about pleasing ourselves in 2003, when the ship was launched. So it happened, that they were only partially correct.
The Germans
The Germans I’ve met in and outside of their country were not aggressive or rude. They were rather well-mannered, and clearly carrying the burden of the past generations. Like a woman struggling to explain a miscarriage to herself for as long as she lives.
Although, when it comes to free food in the middle of the ocean, the very hungry and anxious Gargantua and Pantagruel found themselves perfectly comfortable in their new German bodies. Be it breakfast or dinner, I couldn’t beat them to the food counter, even if wanted to, and I did, but always found a mighty German back and shoulders ahead of me and everybody else in the food line.
I tried to wake up earlier and earlier, but was out of luck no matter what the time was. I attempted to sneak into the buffet way prior to dinner start, but the Germans were already there, enjoying the smell and the visual of the meals they would be the first ones to try.
I truly think that they had an advance team on board, with the orders to camp next to the buffet doors each and every night, to make a room for the breakfast troops. Later on, the very same scouts would take and hold their positions to assure the proper dinner arrangements for their brothers-in-silverware.
Be it true or not, but the Guten Morgen (Good morning) and the Guten Abend (Good evening) belonged to the Germans, leaving the rest of us way behind.
The Brits
The only time of the busy buffet day that didn’t belong to the Germans was the afternoon. The solemn property of the Brits – – lock, stock and barrel. The Island Dwellers were eager to fight anybody and anything for their beloved cupper, finger sandwiches and scones with clotted cream. There was no need to bother SAS, since the number of Brits on the ship was significant enough to overpower any force including their own.
Their call to stomachs was sometime close to 3:30pm. If the QM2 was the first place to introduce myself to the world famous tea time, I would stay away from it till the rest of my life. The queue for food matched the queue for tea, and we are talking about two very sloooowly moving lines.
First, it takes time to check if the entire British afternoon food assortment is available. Trust me, it may take days! Then, it takes time to put all of it on a plate in a multiples of three or five, or four or six, or eight, and that may take months! After this stage is completed, the tea line would be the next must go, where the routine would repeat itself, and that may take years!
And, that was an exact place, where I’d faced a very much real British character, as far from the Keep Calm motivational poster, as my love for tea.
A rush hour stranger in a London Tube (known for a free use of elbows and knees) should be considered a doll, in comparison with the pink-cheeked, semi-teethless misfortune, who grabbed my shoulder turning my face close to his. Mighty nightie, an Alabama non-refrigerated fish delivery truck in summer smells better than this tea aficionado’s exhaust…
…You need to be born in the outskirts of the Island to fully appreciate the richness of Her Majesty’s tongue. It wasn’t meant for me, thus I was left clueless, when it comes to the substance of his message, though well sprayed with the waterfall of his grievances.
We parted with the help of his sane compatriots. They’ve explained to me that the “waterfall” didn’t hear my question “if anyone’s here for coffee?”, thus thought that I’m cutting the line to get to the precious tea ahead of him.
The next European war
If peaceful and thoughtful Europeans are looking for yet another “serious” reason to start a new war, an unfortunate day at the free buffet on QM2 could serve as sufficient enough cause for loading firearms.
Just think about it. The assassination of one Archduke Ferdinand served as reason enough for the Europeans, the Russians and the Brits to wipe out a couple of generations of their own citizens during the WWI…
…So, a single tragic death of one Duke or Lord, or a Secretary, as a result of the buffet brawl, combined with an eternal German quest for food – – could easily trigger a new bloodbath.
Devonshire rules!
When we casually say “strokes for folks” or “horses for courses,” we are pretty far away from understanding the true meaning of the above and similar expressions. It only hits us when the freedom of being different is bordering insanity, thus testing our basic values, if available.
So, nothing pointed to any signs of madness, when I engaged myself into a non-obligatory conversation with a very pleasant English couple in the Churchills Cigar room, located on one of the top decks of the QM2. An amazing bronze bust of Winston Churchill (resting in one of the room’s corners) seemed to be quite indifferent to another leisurely chat he had heard of plenty.
The story started as a trivial one. The middle-aged residents of Devonshire decided to give themselves a very much necessary fortnight break buying a round trip crossing.
Understandable and honorable indeed, until they told me that they are not planning to come ashore in NYC for a few hours, despite the fact that they’ve never been there! We are not interested, the wife firmly said, while her husband was steadily nodding in concurrence with his better half’s statement..
…I turned to Churchill for help, but he kept calm and mute, except for his dark bronze face. The latter seemed to turn as pale as during the 1909 incident in Bristol, when a suffragist cut it with a dog whip…
…Sure the Devonshires were right! What is there in NYC to see or hear, to buy or eat? It’s rather boring, compared to their cheerful little house and a small garden somewhere in that festive county!
Lets start with the language. No matter how poor and vulgar it may sound to an affluent Devonshire ear, it is still English. Nothing truly of interest there, but different accents and vocabulary, they should stay away from, not to overload their native tongue.
The stores are largely the same, as is the food, give or take a questionable quality of NYC fish and chips (made by a very foreign hands!), potential deficit of good English beer (bullocks!), and an absence of beloved rusty beans with a sheet rock-like tasting sausage. The latter should be made from an unknown wild specie, killed by a lorry a few weeks prior to serving.
And who is talking about NYC museums if you were fortunate enough to have a sneak peak of the National and Tate Galleries in London, or the Times Square after experiencing gloriousPiccadilly Circus!
I think that the logic behind the facts presented above, would lead any reasonable English couple towards rejecting even a slim possibility of leaving the ship in order to avoid stepping into such… an unpleasant and uncertain unknown!
End of Life on the Ocean Waves
Aerophobia can make you as miserable and helpless as a soaking wet, hopeless brotherhood (of a dog and a horse) from a wonderful “Rainy Days And Mondays” painting by Thomas Lorimer.
I remember fearing my flight right after purchasing a ticket, and by the time I took my seat on a plane, there was not that much of a man left in me, but a piece of fearfull jello.
If that is not enough, aerohobia made me cancel the London-NYC plane ticket a couple of days prior to flying, after simply looking at the skies. Who knows what I saw in there? Probably the shape of the clouds that I didn’t like! So, I found myself on the QM2 yet again, and I would lie to you if say that I wasn’t happy…
…I think the pilot mentioned flying over the QM2, my buddy Guy informed me while I was still crossing the Pond.
We landed a couple of days ago, and already went clay shooting and fishing, the text went on.
The weather will be still decent here, when you arrive in a year or two from now, his message mockingly stated!
The dry British humor was enforced by a video of the Royal British Marines rendition of the “Life On The Ocean Wave.” It didn’t touch my heart, but…
…I helplessly looked around, only to find myself in the very same Churchill’s Cigar room, I can replicate with my eyes closed. As a matter of fact, I can produce a pretty close set of renderings of almost all public places on the ship (except for the morgue and the brig), in case their design will be lost. Need be, the QM2 owners know how to find me…
… Guy’s message was the last drop in the bucket full of fear, pushing me into a fight with aerophobia that I finally won. At least when it comes to traveling abroad…
The gymnast has retired
I am back flying now, thanks to a magic pill that makes my head imponderable and purées my central nervous system. No matter what happens, I will stay as happy as a Catholic priest in a kindergarten, but way more subdued.
Saying this, I started valuing time a bit more, thus am closely following the latest tech news related to travel. Forget about boats. Without a doubt you can call me a big fan of the bullet trains, the Hyperloop, and the supersonic jets. I very much envy the Japanese, the Chinese and the Europeans who made travel across their lands swift, comfortable, relatively inexpensive and striptease free.
Forgive me for consistently scratching different parts of my body when I think of the Chinese being capable of building Eighteen Thousand Miles of high speed rail. Here, at home, it still takes “years and multiple unexpected grandfatherhoods” to arrive in downtown Miami if you started in NYC.
We have a telegram for your, Sir, a conductor would say, you became a grandfather yet again. A bottle of fine champaign and a horse carriage at the station of your arrival are on us! Congrats!
A warning to Chicagoans: don’t take a train to Miami, you will never get there!
Seriously (and outside of my past fear of flying), how can we claim leadership in innovations, if unable and/or unwilling to see the benefits of fast travel, when the world has been enjoying it for a long time.
I root for Elon Mask or Richard Branson, or even Boeing, or whoever will be able to make it swift, more comfortable and less intrusive. It will be a truly crazy experience to take the Loop to LA or Miami or to fly to London or Tel Aviv in no time prior to my days expiration!
I hope to live till 120, so patience is a virtue! Mind you though, the timeline is not guaranteed. My last meal may happen faster due to an “overwhelming happiness” caused by choosing an existing AMTRAK “turtle” or a “mule” of a commercial flight. So, speed it up a little bit, won’t U!
By Mitya Indursky
The Mighty Cookie Affair
I neither remember what date it was nor what kind of a weather had blanketed the area of my habitat that evening. And, to be honest with you-who cares but a group of nudniks who traded the last drops of their social skills and an acne cleansing remedies for three minutes of drooling excitement on pornhub.com.
Unlike the latter, my will to socialize was perfectly intact that evening. Thus, I was on my way to the Tree Of Knowledge a.k.a cigar lounge to meet my pals who were eager to solve all the world’s problems in one seating yet again. Indeed, the Washington underworld stood still that evening, anxiously waiting for a moment of truth-being utterly scared of the politically incorrect verdicts thrown at it. The beds of Adam Schiff, Ilhan Omar, Rashida Tlaib, Maxine Waters, Mitch McConnell and other “honorable” samples of the delusional people’s choice were just about to be soiled. Pardon the wishful thinking.
Consumed by these tabloid-like exciting thoughts, and itching to apply my immodest abilities to referee the life changing arguments between lobotomy deprived donkeys and trump(et) disabled elephants, I’d entered the place of my desires.
The cigar lounge was divided into two parts. Not by artificial design, but rather by the presence of two very different groups of people celebrating two different birthdays. One party was excited to a point of no return, trying to take everything and all out of the totally legal opportunity to get drunk.
The quiet of the other, where my friends had been concentrated, reminded me of the prolonged momenraisedt of silence only NY Giants or NY Knicks fans can relate to.
The NJ born and heavy birthday boy was sleeping sitted on the couch wrapped in his belly and surrounded by the dozing followers of his talent. The latter were situated on the chairs facing the couch, and seemed to be honored by mimicking the cheerful example of the unshaved sleeping beauty.
The brightly colored birthday cake, relaxing on the coffee table – was the only matter alive in the gloomy world of silence. Clearly, it was celebrating the absence of will and power of the beholders of the knife. The whole scene was worth being televised. Particularly, to cater to the twisted minds of the zombie loving crowd. The lack of adrenalin and/or protruded lifelong boredom-made them seek a place among those with the questionable physical condition that matched their mental state.
So, something indicated to me that the dirty laundry of the Washington underworld would stay relatively clean that night. My appearance was not verbally acknowledged, as it usually happened. Rather, the half closed eyes of my very exhausted friends did slightly open up. It was enough for me to understand that they are aware of my presence.
I picked the chair close enough to the joyful comrades of mine, and was just about to order a drink, when another buddy popped up out of nowhere, and offered me a cookie. I was so hungry and lonely in the vocal cemetery of thoughts, that like Adam in the Garden of Eden, I sent my presumably good inner guy to hell and embraced the hell guy’s guidance for the problematic sake of Eve or my own health.
Should I say that it was a big mistake? Bigger than Adam’s for sure. His immediate experience with the girl was rather pleasant I suppose, and I’ll trade for it anytime, but it was not on the plate for me that night. I ate the whole damn cookie. And.. for the first thirty minutes it kept me as innocent as Adam looking at Eve prior to the snake’s arrival.
The situation changed around minute 37 or 38. Hard to remember. The mental blow was so heavy that I felt like a poor teenage boy who took a plunge, and boldly landed with his legs open. For the next forty minutes I was watching the horror movie based on the semi-fictitious story of my life. I think that it was made in collaboration with Hitchcock and Spielberg, and intended to supersede their honorable achievements when it comes to “The Birds” and “Schindler’s List.”
The only good thing about the movie was its format. It lasted only for half an hour, or so I think, thus won’t be nominated for anything. If it was a regular Hollywood production -I would have died of a heart attack or succumbed to a permanent brain damage. Or both. But I survived.
Exhausted and sweating, I’d tried to take a nap, but the chair was not soft or wide enough to let me forget my real and imaginary misfortunes. In and out, half conscious, I started watching people sitting in the chairs or on the couches of my dreams, aspiring to take a hold of either one as soon as it became vacant. But the people, the friends of mine as I thought about them prior to allowing the cookie into my inner world – were not cooperating either.
Finally, I spotted a seat on the couch not more than ten yards away from me. Glory, glory halleluia, my mind started singing loud enough to alert me to the occasion. I will be candid, sincere, honest with you as I was with myself when tried to get up and move. I couldn’t. I’d lost my legs completely. There was absolutely nothing there to stand on. I felt like a car without tires. Who cares if they were old with little grip left. They’d made me move. Someone or something had stolen it from me.
Damn thief, if I had legs I would run after him or it, trying to reacquire my property, my mind told me. Hmm. Not a very productive thought, the mind had corrected itself trying to find a solution to the problem. After a short break It came up with the exoskeleton idea-being convinced that it’s a must have for any proper establishment nowadays. The exoskeleton, I yelled back at my mind? Are you nuts, it’s not a goddamn fire extinguisher! Ask the owner, it should be in the storage room, my mind insisted.
OK. I’d turned to the owner who happened to sit next to me, but was unable to produce a sound. Moreover, I couldn’t open my mouth. That was a huge blow to what was left off my ego. As the loss of my legs wasn’t enough, I found myself on the lowest level of the Darwin’s theory of evolution. Who’s talking about monkeys, these highly advanced creatures humans had left behind long ago, or so we are told. I am not even on the same level with a fish capable of opening its mouth. Am not even ready to get out of the water in order to wait for a few million years to meet Eve and the snake in the damn garden. Significantly delayed and horrified.
On the other hand, thank G-d for my loss of speech. I can’t imagine my own response to the exoskeleton request, should I try to predict the owner’s reaction? Something like “sorry, we don’t have your size! Would you like me to order one for you?”
The legs somewhat came back later on, but the speech-not that much. Not that I needed it at that time. Finally,I started moving towards the desired couch. It was an exhausting and long ten yard trip. I think that my fellow Jews made it faster with Moses when searching for the promised land. I finally found mine called “Couch.”
The victory was celebrated by a short lived sitting-fetus-position-like nap. Suddenly, my eyes opened up to see what had irritated my mind so much.
The Washington Nationals were swinging bats on TV. They were moving while the crowd was yelling. The baseball game looked to me like a medieval fight between folks subconsciously longing automatic weapons to finish it ASAP. G-d Almighty, turn it off, I tried to yell but my verbal ability was still at the amoeba’s level.
Two hours after, and three and a half in total, I started slowly getting back to the self I’ve used to know. Unlike in many other cases, it was a very welcoming comeback. I’d managed to move outside faster than the speed of a mortally wounded turtle to enjoy the welcoming night summer breeze.
It was late, and I was slightly surprised to see one of my friends sitting across the table separating us. Moreover, he was convinced that he was talking to me for a good fifteen minutes. How many cookies did you eat, I’ve asked. Five, was the answer. Time to drive home, he said. I looked at him and asked for the car keys. He was just about to see the Hitchcock-Spielberg production of his life story, and I very much wanted him to “enjoy” it.
OK. I’d turned to the owner who happened to sit next to me, but was unable to produce a sound. Moreover, I couldn’t open my mouth. That was a huge blow to what was left off my ego. As the loss of my legs wasn’t enough, I found myself on the lowest level of the Darwin’s theory of evolution.
It was late, and I was slightly surprised to see one of my friends sitting across the table separating us. Moreover, he was convinced that he was talking to me for a good fifteen minutes.
“Murderous” Arkansas
By Mitya Indursky
When a number of ducks covering the rice fields of Arkansas exceeds the number of goose bumps popped up, it means happiness. The excitement of the scene was on par with the feeling I’ve experienced many times before, when arriving at parties where skirts had outnumbered pants.
A-well-a ev’rybody’s heard about the birdB-b-b-bird, b-birdd’s a word…The Trashmen Surfing Bird tune was ripping my head apart. It took me a town rather than a village not to introduce my rendition to the world, thus saving wings in the air and on the fields from mass suicide. The Metropolitan Opera and Ducks Unlimited should commend me for the effort.
It will be a glorious weekend, I kept whispering to myself, counting single digit miles to outfitter’s place. My two friends were due to arrive at a hunting lodge next morning…
…As fresh from the five hour red eye flight as the Cirque Du Soleil tightrope acrobats after a premiere performance, they decided to greet me at a big hunting store nearby. We forgot to bring a couple of things from home, was my friends excuse. I didn’t believe it for a second, and neither did they, but boys will be boys, no matter what toys are.
My uneventful drive to the meeting point ended abruptly, thanks to a lonely white truck parked in the middle of a field alongside a local road. Its wide body carried a breathtaking message from one jewelry store, promising a FREE SHOTGUN IF YOU BUY A DIAMOND RING! I stopped and pinched myself multiple times until hurt.
Clearly, the pitch was a trap with a murder in mind! Let me guide you through a concerned-citizen-like thought process. A deceitful and bored gentleman will purchase an aforementioned engagement, wedding or anniversary ring to calm down his anxious beloved, prior to assasinating her with a free shotgun either a few days or a few weeks later!
The timeline largely depends on the jewelry store return policy, given that it guarantees money back and not store credit. In case of the latter, an out-of-state pawn shop comes into play, making the whole scenario a bit more complicated…
…By the way, this white truck’s “murderous” ad message wasn’t the first one that caused me to mutilate myself a little bit. The Palm D’Or goes to an unknown Church in Ohio. The latter, presumably decided to use parishioners’ funds to unveil a discovery the scientific world has been itching to crack for a long time. HELL DOES EXIST – – proclaimed a huge highway blackboard with the Ten Commandments followed below in a small font.
Mathematicians, astronomers and physicists, together with the rest of the curious crowd should be grateful to the mighty Church for finally pinning down the elusive behavior of Black Holes! Now we finally know what they are for! Too bad Father forgot to further elaborate on the details of discovery, or produce a couple of formulas and a website to authenticate it by…
I guess, absence of the aforementioned tools will disqualify his religious establishment from the Nobel Prize Committee considerations. Well, “it’s always something,” as George Carlin used to say…
…when I reached the hunting store, my two partners-in-crime were as much at home there, as Mowgli in the jungle, proudly explaining to me what and where I should look for, and (more surprisingly) who I should talk to. I was not in the mood to make new friends, but noticed that the store had totally washed away my friends travelers fatigue. The speed of words streaming out of their mouths superseded the amount of Adrenalin pumped by their bodies.
About an hour passed by till we were ready to go. I was longing fresh air, but was stopped cold by a bleak voice belonging to one of my companions. I forgot to buy caking stuff, he said. Same here, replied the second one, and they vanished in the hunting universe, before I had a chance to ask what this damn “caking stuff” is.
If not for a hint from Rabbi Google, my natural curiosity would consume me alive by the time they were back. Google’s search pointed me to a very distant planet of ladies’ makeup. I lost myself there, trying to figure out why a happily married banker and a relatively successful businessman need to put translucent powder on their faces followed by base and concealer?
The picture painted in my head became a little bit crowded with questions or blanks since I have no idea, what base and concealer are. The whole thing became amazingly annoying, until I finally called on my inner Holmes, who angrily spat an answer at my slow inner Watson. It’s a face paint, bright spark!
Sherlock was correct. Soon enough, my friends re-emerged from the depth of the hunting universe, happy to introduce me to the precious face paint containers. Since I already knew the true meaning of “caking,” instead of checking canisters, I started looking at the peaceful faces of my future “brothers in arms,” wondering what face paint could do to them.
Sunrise proved my caking images wrong. My mind failed to put enough layers of face paint on my friends’ faces, making them look 180 degrees away from Michael Jackson. If they are happy, I am happy, I thought, still trying to understand how it will help them shoot more ducks, since we wouldn’t be dropped into a jungle or a desert to fight a vicious enemy!
A two level blind, where my heavily caked and camouflaged friends, and (a combat outfit self-deprived) me found ourselves in – – was definitely a piece of duck craver’s art. Spacious enough to fit three of us plus two duck callers, with a long and wide cover for hunters, and the ATV that brought us there, it was placed in the middle of a relatively large pond surrounded by trees on all sides.
Everything looked proper there, except for the ducks. They took their business elsewhere, which happened to be not that far away, since we kept hearing multiple shots. This “minor” issue gave us plenty of time for verbal interactions, including a short, but memorable Q&A session to follow.
-I was told that you are Jewish, is that right? A three hundred pound, 22 old year son of the outfitter and a duck caller asked me after finishing his second honey bun in less than two hours. I tensely nodded.
-May I ask you a question? he politely followed.
Go ahead, I said, desperately waiting for a punch line, that has indeed arrived.
-WHY DON’T YOU JEWS PRAY LIKE OTHER NORMAL PEOPLE?
His exquisite verbal ability combined with sincere curiosity was so evident and benign that it made no sense to get mad. Quite the opposite. The virginity of mind that asked the question produced a smile on my uncaked face, but left me speechless for a moment. I looked at my “combat” buddies, but they were very busy trying to exhale hard in order not to laugh themselves into the water.
We are working hard to close the gap, I responded looking somewhere into the trees in front of me. I have a question for you, though, I said, barely keeping my lips from jumping. Did you go to college?
-Yes, he replied.
Than you should know that Christianity appeared a long time after Judaism, right?
– I am not sure, was his response.
Google it, I said. So, why don’t you start praying the way we do?
The answer didn’t come. Either he didn’t know how to respond, or wasn’t ready to convert to Judaism so fast.
The next two days caused almost no trouble to the ducks, and delivered absolutely no questions for me to respond to. Either the recent college graduate was bringing himself up to speed reading the History of Religion, or he stepped back in time switching to paganism, thus praying to the God of Ducks to send us a few hundred of his subordinates. His prayers went unheard.
The Hanukkah Bush Moment
I have nothing against Christmas Trees at all. I have only one question, though. Why eleven months out of a year do we call it either a Pine tree or a Spruce or a Fir? Is it some sort of a twisted annual Cinderella story? Never mind…
By Mitya Indursky
-I know, but you should respect my feelings too, the Vatican authorized verbal strike had successfully hit the target that happened to be my head.
Abort stubbornness, now, now, now. Pick up the white napkin and SURRRRRENDER. Here is the napkin,-my brain screamed in panic.I can’t surrender without preconditions, I’d screamed back at my brain. Never. Here I go, nicely but firmly.
Sweetie, how about I put the Hanukkah bear on the Tree, and top it up with the Star of David?
I am pretty positive that the seller was happy as well, but a little bit tired, based on the noticeable weakness in his voice. The should be joyful “Merry Christmas!” greeting he’d produced, had reminded me of a sound coming out of a barely alive TV series hospital patient when questioned by the cops.
Howdy or Shalom?
By Mitya Indursky
Unless you are a farmer visiting your beloved relatives or a highly prized live stock (sometimes the difference is negligible), or an avid fan of the farmersonly.com dating site, I should strongly recommend that you beam yourself fast and reasonably far away from Kansas. Emphasis is on urgency, not on direction, but since I come from the North East, I am more than ready to find myself less mentally lost and way sooner found in Dover, NY or Hoboken, NJ. Or even in the Newark Airport (aka The Labyrinth), where a good number of anxious drivers do disappear for months trying to either enter or exit the damn facility.
I failed to beam myself out of Kansas a few years ago, and am still holding our advanced science responsible for the consequences. I started driving through Kansas on a warm spring day that turned into a light year. Centuries seemed to pass until I started feeling my right foot again, got four bars on my cell instead of none, and saw clouds in the sky over a hilly and cow-free terrain. All of the above, was a true, unequivocal confirmation that serotonin does exist, and sometimes, in overwhelming quantities!
People who invented such adjectives as “endless” and “vast” should be rightfully considered well advanced for their times, as were the Neanderthals with their cave paintings (the true “founding fathers” of primitivism). Saying this, the former were definitely not up to the present challenge. The proof is in the pudding when you hear a New Yorker talking about his automotive conquest of the “endless” state, also known as New Jersey. I will cross it in sleepers, but Kansas… It’s a totally different conversation have, especially when an innocent inquiry about location of the nearest habitable star can be met with prolonged hostile silence…
….How far is it from here to Gliese 667Cc?
-….This is a truly beautiful handgun, Sir. What a handle! By the way, I forgot to mention that I came in peace, and will go in peace…now, if you don’t mind, OK. Thank you.
…it doesn’t make sense to check the time when driving through Kansas. Moreover, it is a waste of time to check time. The main objective is to constantly erase any thoughts that will take your mind off the road. That’s easier said than done. Loneliness, combined with festivity of the landscape can fully match joyfulness of crossing a desert, thus inviting the inner part of your head to start soul searching to save itself from sheer madness. I did not succeed in emptying my mental trash bin. The full magnitude of my failure unveiled itself when I finally paid attention to a highway patrol car driving alongside me with an unforgettable beauty of sounds and lights.
The deputy reached my window faster than I managed to pull it down. He was laughing so hard that it took him about half a minute to stop. His face, however, was as far away from being serious as I was from the habitable Gliese 667Cc.
-Do you have any idea how long I was following you with the lights and signals on? he asked;
No idea, officer;
-For ten miles! What were you thinking about driving eighty seven miles per hour?
I don’t remember, officer. The scenery is a little bit monotonous, I tried to produce an excuse.
-Mind boggling it is, he said.It was difficult to figure out whether his words were aimed at my driving or at the terrain that he, presumably has been enjoying daily, and I, HOPEFULLY will be seeing for the last time in my life.
While he was looking at my papers, I was looking at him. The badge told me that his last name is Rabinowitz. No way! Rabinowitz in BFN Kansas. Why and how? Chances of him not being Jewish are slim to none! It can be my get-out-of jail-free card! Or maybe not. I once met Mr. Shapiro on a train from New York to D.C. He was absolutely convinced that he is a 100 percent Ukrainian-American! Nevertheless, I decided to ask.
Are you a landsman, officer?
-Yes, he replied after carefully studying me. And you?
Same here, I said trying to hide my excitement as much as he was trying to cover his initial laughter.
-Really, can you give me a brief history of the tribe?
I am sorry, what?
-If you are Jewish, you should know the history of the people. And if you deliver it the right way, it may save you a few dollars!
…May I skip the Moses part?…When I reached the beginning of the 20th century ten or twelve minutes later, he stopped me. -The rest we all know. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back, he said.
Where can I go, I replied, helplessly looking around. He laughed again. In five minutes I was back on the road, and the Kansas produced warning was resting somewhere deep inside the glove compartment.
The initial excitement of meeting and conversing with a human had quickly subsided. How quickly, I can’t tell, because I learned only one lesson out of two. I was not checking the time, but my mind yet again took me for a very long ride. Reality came back at me at full speed when the sun had just left a thin sliver of itself prior to calling it quits for a night.
The sun was not at fault for stopping my inner self from producing a combination of strange stories and images. The lack of oxygen in the car was the reason behind it. Speaking in Kansas terms, I felt like a farmer who fell asleep in a giant chicken coup filled with thousands of rotten eggs. The damn question of chicken and egg was resolved momentarily in favor of the latter, but it didn’t make the smell vanish.
I rolled down all windows, but instead of a pleasant evening breeze, the odor did multiply itself, bloodying my eyes, thus presenting a real and clear danger to my relative well-being. Since I was all alone on the road, there was no reason to hide selfishness under the fake veil of concern for humanity, or worry about the state of world peace.
The suffocating abundance of hydrogen sulfide, combined with the great unknown when it comes to its source, made me a bit uncertain of my immediate future. To hell with humanity and the world peace, I thought, and stopped the car without a whiff of hesitation. Looking back, it was the smartest thing I’ve done in a pretty long and inconsistent history of my behavior.
Of course, I stepped into deep mud, that prompted me to think why it was there, since rain had not covered this land for a few days at least. And then I saw the fence. And behind that wonderful fence, myriads of cows were starring at me like Australian aborigines had been looking at Captain Cook. In fact, there were as many cows as eyes could see.
I jumped on the hood of my SUV, only to see miles and miles of cow covered land to my right and to my left. We will never run out of steaks and… hydrogen sulfide!
Knowledge and information are truly everything you need in a moment of uncertainty, especially when hydrogen sulfide is trying to take over your air. I jumped back into the car, stepped on gas, and in fifteen minutes the cows disappeared, and in another twenty, the wonderful smell followed their steps. I crossed to Missouri when the sun just started to come up, and it looked like a promised land to me.
When I came back to NYC, I found that Kansas holds only 15th place in the country when it comes to landmass. I know the other 14 now, and will never attempt to cross them. There might be a shortage of Messrs. Rabinovitz to save me from myself, and plentiful of cows attempting to steal my air.