Cleaning Out the Closet

According to Benjamin Disraeli, change is constant and inevitable. This certainly holds true in the Sack.  There's almost always something new to talk about. Sometimes, one has to look hard to find it, but a practiced eye will almost always yield success.

But it's also true that changes in the Sack possess a certain consistency.  There are, for example, the recurring absurdities of suburban life.  Then there are events that simply reinforce aspects of our own unique personalities and individual characteristics.

In other words, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

A steady stream of shenanigans occurred in the Sack during your agent's recent hiatus.  There is a great deal of catching up to do. However, your agent's time is still somewhat limited by a little film project.  It's going to take some time to clean out a closet filled with Sack news.

One can only do one's best.

***

There's a sportswriter in Toronto who occasionally begins his work with the phrase, "Items that might grow up to be columns."  Then he provides an assortment of tidbits from the world of sports.  In today's offering, we're going to borrow this little convention.

At the very least, we can make a small start on that messy closet of accumulated Sack news.  We can also provide an overview of what else lurks within it.

Without further ado, therefore, we present Sack news that might grow up to be stories. . . . 

***

Burning Manor was on the real estate market for some time. This is no longer the case.  Dirk and his fragrant companion, Dora have decided not to sell the Sack's most infamous residence.  They are sticking around.

With the exception of your agent (who does not look a gift horse in the mouth), Sack residents were uniformly disappointed by this turn of events.  Big Doug seemed to capture the essence of this feeling when he exclaimed, "I was looking forward to seeing the arse end of them."

No one is entirely certain why Dirk and Dora have chosen to remain in the Sack.  At the moment, there is an unfortunate news blackout on the Burning Manor front.  Norma is usually the Sack's primary source of intelligence in this area.  She has contacts at Tuesday Night Bingo.  Several of her bingo-playing companions have loose ties to the madcap world of Dirk and Dora.  These folks can always be relied upon to provide details on the couple's most recent shenanigans.

Unfortunately, Norma hasn't been attending Tuesday Night Bingo since her husband, Ben left for his deployment in Afghanistan.  She plans on returning, however, when Ben comes home in June.

Oscar says she'll have a lot of catching up to do.  He could be right about this.

*** 

Among Sack residents, Rental Doug and his blended family were most disappointed by the news about Burning Manor. They were quite determined to purchase the place and become permanent Sack residents.  A number of formal offers were made while it was on the market, but Dirk and Dora refused to bite on any of them.

Compounding this disappointment was recent news from the owner of Rental Doug's Sack abode.  Apparently, he intends to sell the property as soon as possible.  Unfortunately, the asking price is well above Rental Doug's budget. The lease on the home will expire at the end of September.  Rental Doug and his family will have to move.

The Sack, it seems, will be losing a Doug.

***

Britney Bitterman's beau, Maxwell continues to astound Sack observers with his idle ways.

Reportedly crippled by a shoulder injury, Maxwell successfully evaded gainful employment for well over three months.  Much of this time was spent smoking on the Bitterman's front porch, entertaining his cronies at the food court in the local mall and engaging in a thrice-weekly game of candlepin bowling.

Fortunately for Maxwell, his financial needs were aptly met by regular disability payments, courtesy of the old town's waste management profession. He injured his shoulder, after all, by falling off the back of a garbage truck.

When questioned by Weed on the optics involved in his candlepin bowling activities, Maxwell was quick with his reassurances. Apparently, his physiotherapist had given him the green light to "rehab" his shoulder in this peculiar fashion.

The rehabilitation program must've been a success, as Maxwell recently returned to his work as a waste management professional. Restricted to light duties, he can often be spotted around the old town sleeping comfortably in the passenger seat of the aforementioned garbage truck.

***

Cutlass Supreme Painting, Maxwell's fledgling commercial painting business continues to teeter on the brink of corporate success.  At least, that's his perspective on the matter.

Hampered by his bum shoulder, Maxwell claims to have turned down a multitude of lucrative painting gigs from some of the old town's most discriminating customers. Always the eternal optimist, he remains confident of a spectacular windfall for the company when his painting shoulder is finally healed.

Oscar says Maxwell's shoulder injury has likely been misdiagnosed.  "I think we're looking at a brain injury here," he said thoughtfully.

He could right about this, too.

***

The biggest news, however, in the Maxwell-Bitterman camp concerns the recent birth of Britney Bitterman's second child.  The recent arrival is actually Maxwell's fourth child, with Britney being one of three different mothers.

Baby Maybe, of course, was the first offspring from the Maxwell-Britney union. He is now a toddler.  The newest child is also a boy.  

It is usually the custom for your agent, Oscar and Weed to anoint newcomers with a more appropriate Sack name.  It was not necessary in this case.  That's because Maxwell and Britney have already chosen a highly unusual name for their second child.  

Apparently, the wee lad's name is Hyde.

This unique moniker, however, caused us to reconsider Baby Maybe's name.  A change was also appropriate, in Oscar's view, since the tyke really isn't a baby anymore.  So last February, during a hastily arranged conference in the Wonders' front room, a new handle was duly chosen.

Baby Maybe will now be known in these pages as Jekyll.

***

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Bitterman are putting on a brave front in the face of the growing young family within their midst.

Although his gallbladder problems seem to be behind him, Mr. Bitterman's posture suggests there is much on his mind. When he arrives at his home at the end of the work-day, he walks with his head down and his eyes to the ground. Oscar says Mr. Bitterman looks like he's scanning the ground for a shiny penny.

"Probably looking for a little good luck," says Oscar.

However, Mr. Bitterman's downcast eyes might just have another purpose.  He might be avoiding the sight of the 1993 Cutlass Supreme parked in his driveway.  This vehicle, of course, is the namesake for Cutlass Supreme Painting.  In addition to the shared name, the business and the car have something else in common.

Neither are going anywhere fast.

Maxwell says the car "needs a few parts" before it will be operational again. Oscar says this is precisely what Maxwell's brain requires before it becomes functional, too.

***

Mrs. Bitterman continues to be a doting grandmother to both Jekyll and Hyde. She also seems to have emerged victorious in her battle with a nasty case of menopause.  Thankfully, she doesn't have the damp, sweaty appearance she sported in the recent past.

Instead, she seems to have developed a case of alopecia.

Oscar thinks it's quite likely that Mrs. Bitterman is literally pulling her hair out on account of Britney and Maxwell. Once again, he could be right about this.

***

Florence, the Wonders' next-door neighbour has also experienced some life changes.

Last January, her father, Jimmy passed away.  He was eighty-seven years old. Although Jimmy had not been around the Sack for a few years, there was a time where he spent his winters at Florence's home.  Barred from smoking indoors, Jimmy held court on her front porch even during the foulest weather.

From his chair on the front porch, Jimmy would call out a friendly greeting to anyone who passed by.  It didn't matter if the person wasn't acquainted with him, either.  Visiting repairmen, canvassers, joggers and lost motorists were hailed with the same warmth as Sack residents.  He was even known to call out to passing cats and dogs.

God bless Jimmy.

***

Florence is a successful, single woman.  She has a nice home and an active social life.  Although she goes out on the occasional date, she hasn't been involved in an ongoing relationship for some time.

Lately, however, Florence has been seeing a particular gentleman with some regularity.  He hasn't been introduced to Sack residents at this point, but his occasional presence in the neighbourhood has not gone unnoticed.  In fact, Oscar and Weed have already granted him a temporary name.

The gentleman in question is a tall, thin, lanky fellow who's prone to wearing cowboy boots on most occasions.  He drives a late-model Ford Explorer.  In keeping with a western motif, he also seems to favour large, ornate belt-buckles with his blue jeans.  Oscar says it's a crying shame that he doesn't wear a cowboy hat, as well.  Weed thinks it's only a matter of time before we'll see the man with one.

Until further details are known, Florence's suitor is known by the name Slim Ford.

***

Slim Ford appears to be a very fine fellow.  Your agent has already exchanged a few polite greetings with him when he has arrived at Florence's home.  His particular mode of greeting is a right-handed, two-fingered salute from his forehead.

If Slim Ford would finally wear a cowboy hat, Weed says he would undoubtedly greet your agent with a more cowboy-like tip of the hat. During a discussion at the local coffee cathedral, Weed tried to demonstrate such a greeting while wearing a toque.  However, a slight tug on its brim only resulted in partial coverage of his right eye.  This gave him a slightly crazed appearance. Oscar was enthralled.

For the balance of winter, Oscar and Weed used the tug-of-the-toque greeting whenever they encountered each other. Much to their consternation, I stuck with my trademarked peace sign.

***

Unlike Florence, Little Doug continues to have little success on the dating front. Ever since his first wife ran off with a man from the Internet, he has been very cautious in this regard.  Thankfully, however, he has other interests that keep him occupied.

During this past hunting season, he joined some of his comrades in a foray into the local wilderness.  Sack residents were greeted by a rather ghastly sight upon his return.  In the back of his pickup truck was the monstrously large carcass of a moose.

Since the animal was bagged by one of his compatriots, it did not remain there for long.  Little Doug, however, earned a considerable share of moose meat from the endeavour. Generous offerings of moose meat pie were extended to Sack residents throughout the winter.

Sack vegetarians, of course, remained appalled by the entire affair.

***

The subject of moose meat allows for a neat transition to the matter of beefcake.  In a sure sign of spring, the Sack was recently graced with the renewed appearance of Handsome Man. 

   

Handsome Man isn't the only jogger to regularly grace the Sack.  But he's certainly the most notable.  Several weeks ago, he made his first appearance of the outdoor running season.  Despite only moderately warm temperatures, he breezed through the neighbourhood without a shirt.  Already deeply tanned, his muscular physique sent female hearts aflutter and caused Sack men to unconsciously tighten their stomach muscles.

Oscar swore he heard a round of applause as Handsome Man loped out of the Sack and onto the main road.

***

The final item in our closet is a turnip.

Last April, your agent encountered Computer Doug on a breezy Saturday afternoon.  He was on his way to the local shopping emporium.  His wife, Marion had provided him with a grocery list.

"How's it going?" I said cheerfully.

The anticipated response in such situations is usually, "Fine." Other acceptable replies include, "Not bad," and "Good." Computer Doug, however, doesn't always conform to such social conventions.  In fact, he can be quite unconventional in this regard.

"I just found a turnip in my kids' bedroom closet," said Computer Doug, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Really," your agent replied calmly.  I've known Computer Doug long enough to be unmoved by such unusual declarations.

"Yeah, it was a pretty big one, too," he continued.

"Wow.  Any idea how it got there?" I asked. 

"Nope.  We don't even buy turnip," he replied, holding up the grocery list for my inspection.

"That's interesting," I answered.  "What did your kids have to say about it?"

"Denials all round.  They don't even like turnip.  That's why we don't buy them."

"That's amazing," I said casually.

Computer Doug shrugged and put the key in his car door.  "I should probably clean out their closet more often," he said with slight grin. "It might cut down on our grocery bills."  As he moved to enter the car, he murmured a quiet, "See ya" and then tugged on the right side of his black toque.

I replied with my trademarked peace sign.

*** 

Separation Anxiety

A few weeks ago, a neon orange, plastic ball became stuck in the highest branches of the tree in Gordon's front yard.  It was about the size of a basketball.  No one knows how it got there.

Gordon's tree is a poplar.  It stands about twenty-five feet high.  The branches are thin and sparse.  The buds on these branches still only offer a mere hint of the summer ahead. That's probably why the bright orange ball became stuck so firmly.

Sack kids, of course, were considered immediate suspects in the affair.  But none avowed any ownership of the ball.

Gordon, on the other hand, wasn't particularly interested in how the ball became lodged in his tree.  He didn't really care about its owner, either.  He just wanted to get the ball out of his tree.

***

It has been a tough year for Gordon, so far.  Among Sack residents, no one needed a bright orange ball stuck in his tree less than he did.

This past January, Gordon and his wife separated.  They had been together for over fifteen years.  The separation was sudden and unforeseen. Apparently, Gordon's wife received an offer of a new job. The salary and benefits were very attractive.  Unfortunately, the job was located in a distant, western province.

Gordon's wife wanted to accept the job.  He wanted them to remain in the old town.  In the end, they made different choices.

***

Oscar says there is likely more to the separation than meets the eye. He could be right about this.

But it really doesn't matter why Gordon and his wife separated. Additional reasons wouldn't have altered the depth of sadness it evoked among Sack residents.  It's never easy, of course, to be a witness to another's loss.

Gordon's wife informed only a handful of Sack residents about her decision. She asked that others be quietly informed of the matter. Gordon barely mentioned it to anyone.  Within a matter of days, he purchased her share of their home as part of their separation agreement.

And then she was gone.

***

It was a Thursday, when your agent first noticed the bright orange ball in Gordon's tree.  As I motored into the Sack on a rainy afternoon, the ball was like a beacon of hope on the dreary suburban landscape.

Okay, maybe that's a bit of exaggeration.  Still, the ball was rather noticeable to the eye.  

I mentioned the matter to Oscar later on that Thursday evening.  He was eating a maple sugar donut at the time. Between bites, he nodded with a confident, knowledgeable expression.

Then he said, "Ah, you're talking about Gordon's ball, aren't you?"

"It belongs to Gordon?" I asked.

Oscar shook his head and swallowed the remaining piece of his donut. "No, that's just what we're calling it.  We're calling it "Gordon's Ball." 

"Okay," I said agreeably.  "So how did it get stuck in his tree?"

Now Oscar shrugged.  "No idea," he said quickly.  "The most important thing is that Gordon can't get it down.  He has been trying all week."

Oscar brushed some crumbs from his shirt and then dabbed his face with a serviette.  Then he added, "It looks like Gordon's Ball doesn't want to come down."

***

Gordon has kept a very low profile since his separation occurred. Through the balance of winter, he had little interaction with other Sack residents.

Of course, this isn't entirely unusual.  Sack residents have surprisingly little contact with each other during the winter months. Snow shoveling is often the only activity that brings us together in any number.

But as spring emerged, Gordon was noticeable by his lack of presence.  He didn't appear for his traditional, early season yard work.  He didn't tend to his impressive array of outdoor solar lighting. He didn't wash his car once. And not a single email was sent in his role as the grand poobah of the Sack Resident's Society.

One can only imagine that Gordon was grieving the loss of his marriage.

***

According to Oscar, the ball had already been lodged in Gordon's tree for four days.  I also learned that other Sack residents were already aware of the matter of Gordon's Ball.  

Weed, for example, had observed him shaking the tree trunk on a number of occasions.  Little Doug testified that Gordon had even tried throwing a winter boot at the unwanted orb.  And Oscar had already witnessed Gordon's attempts to poke the ball loose, first with a rake and then with a hockey stick tied to a rake.

But these efforts had been to no avail.

***

Only Big Doug had any direct knowledge of how Gordon was coping with the end of his relationship.

While clearing snow after a late March storm, the two men had a brief conversation.  According to Big Doug, Gordon said he was adjusting to this new state of affairs.  Some days, he added, were better than others.  On the more difficult days, he said he just felt numb.

In the midst of this numbness, Gordon said only one thought persisted in his mind.  

"I just never expected to be single at this point in my life," he told Big Doug. 

***

Friday passed and Gordon's Ball remained secure near the top of the tree. When your agent came home from work, I saw Gordon pause under his tree for a few moments.  He gazed up at the ball with his arms folded across his chest. Then he gave the trunk a few half-hearted tugs.

Gordon's Ball, of course, paid no heed to this effort.  Gordon stared up at it intently for about thirty seconds.  He had his hands on his hips.  Then he put his head down and rubbed the back of his neck. Finally, he walked slowly into his house.

Although Gordon was clearly perturbed about the presence of the orange ball in his tree, Oscar felt there was a definite bright side to the matter.  

"At the very least," he said thoughtfully, "he's getting out of the house more often.  He has been working on that ball now for five straight days.  That's more than we've seen him for the last three months."

"That's true," I replied.

"And he has somewhere new to focus his attention," Oscar said.

"That's true, too."

Oscar paused for a moment and then added, "On the other hand, he might just be going mental, too."

***

Sack residents were quick to express their sadness to each other about Gordon's separation.  But there was little discussion about the details and circumstances of the matter.  It was like a death had occurred.  Most often, the subject was mentioned only in hushed tones.

These feelings, however, weren't communicated directly to Gordon. People regarded his low profile as a request for privacy.  Oscar called it a "respectful distance."

This made it seem more like a private death.

The death metaphor, of course, is probably appropriate. Gordon and his wife have lived in the Sack for more than ten years.  And then suddenly, his wife was gone. It's likely that Sack residents will never see her again.

***

Late on Saturday morning, your agent was puttering about on the driveway.  I had just finished checking the oil in the car.  It was a task that had been languishing on the bottom of my list of things to do for some time.

It was a pleasant day.  The sun was out and the cool air was not objectionable. As I stood on the driveway, I heard a sudden clatter from the direction of Gordon's house.  He was carrying a ladder from his garage.  I watched as he positioned it under his front tree.

Gordon then walked back into his garage.  He emerged a few seconds later with a rake in his hands.   Then he started climbing the ladder.

The ladder was propped against the side of the tree trunk. Even though it's a large tree, it is still relatively immature. It can't be more than fifteen years old. The ladder wobbled as Gordon climbed it.

That's when I ventured over to Gordon's house.

***

Your agent held the ladder as Gordon poked his rake at the branches under the ball.  But the business end of the rake was too large to fit between the network of thin branches near the top of the tree. Gordon turned the rake around and used the end of the implement in the same fashion.  But this was equally ineffective for the task.

Gordon cursed under his breath as he backed down the ladder.

When he reached the ground, he said, "I swear I'm gonna cut this tree down, if that bloody thing doesn't come down."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I replied.

***

As Gordon and your agent chatted beside the tree, Oscar suddenly appeared.  After exchanging greetings, he looked up at Gordon's Ball and shook his head.

"Back in the days of the wild west, you could've just shot the thing down," he said to Gordon with a smile.

"Yeah," replied Gordon with a humourless tone.  "I suppose so."  

He looked up at the ball with his arms folded.  His expression was grim, but determined.  Then he looked at me and said, "Can you hold the ladder again?  I'm gonna try something else."

"No sweat," I answered.  "Let's do it."

Gordon retrieved a hockey stick from his garage and, using duct tape, proceeded to attach it to the shaft of his rake. With your agent holding it place, Gordon headed up the ladder once again.  Then Oscar passed the rake/hockey stick contraption into his outstretched hand.

As Gordon poked unsuccessfully at the tree, Big Doug arrived.  He carried a telescopic golf ball retriever in his hand.

"Try this," he commanded.

***

Mrs. Wonders had a brief, tearful discussion with Gordon's wife before she left for her new life out west.

As far as Gordon was concerned, his wife expressed her hope that he would remain in the Sack for some time, despite her departure. Even though the neighbourhood often "drives him crazy," she said he "absolutely loves living in that house."  

She said Gordon probably wouldn't know what to do with himself, if he moved to an apartment or condominium.

***

Big Doug's telescopic golf ball retriever wasn't up to the task of freeing Gordon's Ball.

After numerous attempts, Gordon returned to the ground with a look of dejection on his face.  By this time, several more Sack residents had assembled under Gordon's tree. Weed and Little Doug had just returned to the Sack in Little Doug's pick-up truck.  They walked over to Gordon's house and joined the impromptu conference on the subject of Gordon's Ball.

A few minutes later, Maxwell sauntered over from the Bitterman residence, where he had been smoking on the front steps.

"Can't get the ball out of the tree, eh?" he said to Gordon with a gap-toothed smile.

Gordon, of course, is not a big fan of Maxwell.  He regards him as an illegal alien of sorts within the Sack, if not the Bitterman house, as well.  It was no surprise, therefore, to hear the sarcasm in his reply.

"No," he said dryly, "we're just trying to push it up higher in the tree."

***

The growing assembly of Sack residents under Gordon's tree had many ideas on how to release Gordon's Ball from the tree.  Some involved throwing various objects at it, while others utilized a miscellaneous array of poking instruments.

Gordon wasn't keen on throwing any large objects at his tree.  He said he would prefer not to break any branches in the process. Apparently, he broke one himself when he threw a winter boot at the ball earlier in the week.

It was at this point that Big Doug, sticking with a golfing motif, decided that we could throw golf balls at the reluctant object.  These, he explained, would be heavy enough to dislodge Gordon's Ball and small enough to penetrate the tangle of branches in the tree top. Gordon considered this for a moment and then gave his consent to Big Doug's plan.

As Big Doug left to retrieve some golf balls from his garage, Oscar looked up at Gordon's Ball again and said: 

"It's still too bad these aren't the old wild west days.  We could've shot that baby down in no time."

Gordon smirked and began to put his ladder away.  Maxwell, of course, guffawed at Oscar's statement.   While making the appropriate sound affects, he started shooting at Gordon's Ball with his finger.

That's when Weed wandered off down the street.

***

About a month ago, Weed was strolling through the local mall along with his son, Baby Doug.

As they lingered near a kiosk adjacent to the food court, Weed spied Gordon sitting alone at table.  There was a newspaper in front of him along with a cup of coffee.  But Gordon wasn't paying any attention to either item.  He was just staring straight ahead with a forlorn look on his face. 

The food court was very busy at the time.  As people passed, Weed said his view of Gordon was occasionally obstructed.  But each time Gordon reappeared, he was holding the same distant and morose posture.

Weed said he looked like a statue.

*** 

Big Doug returned to Gordon's house with a mesh bag filled with golf balls.  He extracted one, inspected it for a moment and then retrieved a different one.

"I don't want to be throwing any of my Titleists around," he said curtly.

Finally satisfied with his choice, Big Doug looked around at the gathering of Sack residents.  "Okay," he said with authority, "whose got a good arm?"

Maxwell stepped forward immediately with an outstretched hand.  "Give her here," he said with confidence.

***

Maxwell, of course, couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. His first two throws sailed harmlessly past Gordon's Ball. And his last effort lofted over Gordon's tree and almost hit a second floor window.

As others clamoured for a throw at the ball, Weed suddenly appeared.  He carried a toy missile launcher in his arms.  It looked very much like the one owned by young Doo.  The missile launcher had not been seen around the Sack since last summer.  That's when the boy scored a direct hit on Big Doug's arse.

Ignoring the throng of potential golf ball-throwers, Weed cranked the air compression lever on the toy and then took aim at Gordon's Ball. There was a lengthy silence as he adjusted his position.

Weed scored a direct hit on Gordon's Ball with his first shot.

***

The ball fell from the clutches of the upper branches and landed loosely in the bottom level of the tree.  Big Doug used his telescopic golf ball retriever and easily swept the ball to the ground.  Oscar picked it up and presented it to Gordon.

Gordon was ecstatic about the matter.  He clutched the bright orange ball against his chest like a championship trophy.

***

For the next few hours, the gathering was transformed into a celebration on Gordon's porch and front steps.   Oscar and Little Doug were dispatched to the old coffee cathedral. They returned with an array of coffee and pastries, including the requisite supply of maple sugar donuts.

Gordon's mood had lightened considerably.  He was smiling and talkative.  He seemed to relish the company of this motley crew of neighbours, including the presence of Maxwell.  At one point, Maxwell promised him that Cutlass Supreme Painting was prepared to offer a heavy discount on his interior painting needs.  Gordon listened respectfully, extended his appreciation for the offer and then politely declined.

Throughout the informal gathering, Gordon sat with the bright orange ball tucked securely between his feet.  If I'm not mistaken, he took it in the house with him when the affair ended.

***

The next day, your agent and Mrs. Wonders ventured out of the house for a short walk.  The Sack was alive with activity.

Gordon's garage door was open.  His lawn mower was on the driveway and the grass looked freshly cut.  There was a bucket of water beside his SUV and a mound of outdoor solar lights sat on the grass beside his vehicle.  Gordon was bent over the small flower garden near his front porch.  He was pruning the branches on a small bush.

As we walked past, we returned Gordon's friendly wave. That's also when we heard the sound of classical music emanating from the open windows of his home.  Although we had no idea about the identity of the piece, one thing was abundantly clear.

It was a comforting sound, indeed.

***

The Spring Harbinger

"Did you know Jesus is lying at the bottom of your front steps?"

That was Oscar's opening remark as he breezed through the Wonders' front door in early April. It was late on a sunny Saturday morning. For the first time in months, there was a trace of warmth in the air.

"No," I said dryly, "that's the first I've heard of it."

Oscar feigned a look of surprised disappointment.

"If you don't believe me, come outside and see for yourself."  Then he reopened the door and beckoned me to follow.

***

I slipped on my shoes and, without a jacket, trailed Oscar down the front steps and into the spring sunshine.

During the preceding weeks, the old town was buffeted by alternating periods of snow, rain and fog. Sunlight was only a vague memory.  It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the brightness of the day.  That's why I didn't notice Jesus right away.

Oscar and your agent stood at the foot of the Wonders' front steps. He poked his elbow gently into my side and pointed to the ground.  

Sure enough, that's exactly where Jesus was.

***

Of course, it was only a picture of Jesus.  His image was on an 8.5" by 11" sheet of paper.

The picture had endured a thorough soaking of rain.  It was probably buried under snow before that.  It was, to be sure, a decidedly soggy image of the Lord.  

Only Jesus' face was shown in the picture. But it filled the entire sheet of paper.  Oscar called it "a classic head shot."  

And it was lying at the foot of the Wonders' front stairs.  

***

Your agent is aware of conventional images of Jesus.  He's usually shown with long, luxurious brown hair, a beard of varying lengths and a strong, yet gentle face. Often, he's garbed in a flowing white robe and wears sandals on his feet. 

Inexplicably, he usually appears Caucasian in origin.

How Jesus really looked is likely a matter of academic debate.  I have no idea about the subject, myself. Nevertheless, the image at the foot of the Wonders' stairs was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

***

It wasn't just that Jesus looked angry in the image.  He was positively enraged.

A crown of thorns was partially visible around his head. Blood seeped and clotted around the barbs piercing his forehead.  He had a dark complexion and black, shoulder-length hair.  Dirt and sweat were evident on his face.

His beard was short and unkempt.  It was the beard of a man who hadn't shaved for a week or two.

***

Even more intriguing was the expression on Jesus' face.

His expression spoke of dark, smoldering and barely-restrained fury. His eyes were fierce and black.  And his mouth was set in a manner suggesting an imminent growl.

Oscar called the image, "Easter Jesus Extreme."

***

"So, what do you think?" Oscar asked.

"I think I need to clean up the winter debris around my front door," I replied.  

In addition to the agonized face of Jesus, the melting of the last snowfall had revealed a variety of items on the Wonders' property.  A plastic bag filled with store flyers was entangled in a small bush near the front steps.  A half-filled water bottle peered out from beneath the porch. 

Most unusual was an empty tin of processed lobster on the front lawn.  I have no idea where it came from.  Your agent never touches the stuff.

Oscar listened as I pointed out the miscellaneous debris. Then he harrumphed.

In this case, he actually said the word, 'harrumph." Weed had previously declared it to be the Sack's official "word of the month" for April.  He made this announcement during a recent foray to the local coffee cathedral.

"Think about this for a second," Oscar said finally, "you've got a picture of Jesus on your front step and he's looking really pissed off." He raised his finger in the air and gave me a stern look.

"How could you possibly disregard a sign like that?"

"A sign of what?" I answered with a laugh.

"Well," he sputtered, "I can't help you with that.  Angry Jesus is on your front step. You're the one with the soul-searching to do."

***

Oscar, of course, is a big fan of omens, symbols and signs. He's superstitious to a fault.

When a low-fat blueberry muffin mysteriously appeared on the Wonders' driveway a few years ago, he pondered the matter for days.  If there's sea smoke hovering over the old town's harbour, he refuses to leave his house except for necessities.  He says there's no profit to be found outdoors on such a cold day.

And when Dirk returns his empty beer bottles to the recycling depot, Oscar boldly predicts drunken shenanigans at Burning Manor within a fortnight.

He's usually right about that one.

***

Thankfully, the matter of Easter Jesus Extreme was soon dropped.  A visit to the local coffee cathedral was planned and Oscar had maple sugar donuts on his mind.

When I returned from our little repast, however, Jesus' furious glare awaited. Alone on the front step, I pondered the matter for a few minutes.  Then, bending over the imposing, yet soggy image, I lifted one of its corners.  At this slightest touch, the paper began to tear.  

I quickly withdrew and considered the matter again.

Your agent's conscience, of course, has no difficulty with discarding a religious tract into the nearest recycling bin. After all, the reverse side of the Jesus image likely contained a message from one of the old town's more expressive ministries.

But on this particular day, my conscience wouldn't yield to the idea of tearing the image of Easter Jesus Extreme.  It just didn't seem like the right thing to do.

I left Jesus on the front step and carried on with my day.

***

Later, I mentioned the matter to Mrs. Wonders.  

She hadn't noticed the picture during her own travels.  She didn't seem too interested in the matter, either.  Instead, a different piece of winter debris had captured her attention. After I provided the gist of the Jesus matter, she simply replied:

"So, which one of us is going to be first to pick up that empty can of lobster meat on the front lawn?"

***

The matter of Easter Jesus Extreme faded from my mind again, but only until the next day. That's when your agent received an email from Ben.

Ben is currently in Afghanistan.  He's a senior cook in the Canadian Forces.  His deployment began in January.  He'll be home again in June.  Right now, Ben works at the main airbase in Kandahar.

Several Sack residents have been trading occasional emails with Ben. His wife, Norma says he looks forward to them.

Ben's email was rather brief.  He said life on deployment was either busy or boring.  Thankfully, however, he had been able to watch the hockey playoffs on satellite television.  Apparently, it was the first time he had ever watched the Montreal Canadiens at four o'clock in the morning.

The most notable aspect of Ben's email was the postscript that followed his name.  It was a single, simple statement:

I hear you've got Jesus at your front door.

*** 

My reply to Ben's email made no mention of Easter Jesus Extreme in the main part of the message.  Instead, I left my own postscript:

Yes, Jesus is at the front door.  And Buddha's on the back steps. They have me surrounded.  Help me.

***

That wasn't the end of the Easter Jesus Extreme matter. There was more to come.

Later that day, I heard voices around the front steps.  I was reclining in the Wonders' front room at the time.  Glancing out the window, I saw three somewhat bedraggled teenagers gathered at the bottom of the steps.  It was Oscar's boy, Dorian and two of his pals.  They were looking at the picture of Jesus.

Dorian is now a strapping sixteen-year-old.  I could hear his muffled voice as he introduced the image to his friends. Eventually, one of them exclaimed:

"That's wild, man."

Dorian and the third friend laughed nervously.  The other one quickly joined in.  There was a few seconds of silence and then they sauntered away.

I think they might've been smoking pot.

***

After dinner, Weed appeared at the Wonders' door.  The sunshine and relative warmth had continued for a second day.  Weed had iced cappuccino on his mind.  He extended an invitation to the local coffee cathedral.

As we walked down the front steps, he stopped in front of Easter Jesus Extreme.

"So, this is the picture I've heard about," he said thoughtfully.  He studied it for a moment while rubbing his chin.  Then he smiled and said:

"If you ask me, it looks more like Che Guevera."

I'm quite certain that Weed had been smoking pot.

***

The following day was Monday.  It was another glorious spring day.  It was also time to go back to work.

I didn't think about Easter Jesus Extreme during the day.  I didn't even notice it on the way out in the morning.  But my return to the Sack at days end quickly brought the matter alive again.

After parking the car in the driveway, I walked down the street to the community mailbox.  As I passed her house, Elizabeth emerged from her car.  She was just getting home from work.  After a recent stress leave, she has returned to her job in administration at a local psychiatric hospital.  

Elizabeth stopped and made a show of looking your agent up and down.

"I hear someone's been sinning up a storm."

"What?" I replied with surprise.

"You know what I'm talking about," she said coyly.  "I hear Jesus came right to your front door looking for you."

After pausing for moment, I replied, "Oh, right. . . . you heard about that, did you?"

"I sure did," said Elizabeth.  

Then she did something very unusual.  She cackled.

Elizabeth, of course, is generally a very stern woman. Humour doesn't find her easily.  But now, for the very first time, she had cackled.

"Well," I called out in reply, "everybody's good at something.  Sinning must be my thing."

Elizabeth closed her car door and smiled.  "It's always the quiet ones, you know." Then she cackled again and walked to her front steps.

I briefly considered whether Elizabeth had been smoking pot.  I also made a mental note to suggest 'cackle' as the Sack's word of the month for May.

***

On my return from the mailbox, I encountered Big Doug. He was spreading lime on his front lawn.  It's a sure sign of spring when he has lawn care on his mind.

As I passed by, Big Doug grunted and nodded in my direction.  He didn't stop spreading the lime.  We walked parallel to each other at a slow pace.

"Getting the lawn ready, eh?" I said casually.

"Yeah," said Big Doug, without looking up.  "It's a pain in the arse."

"You've got that right," I answered.

We walked in unison for a few more feet.  Big Doug continued to spread lime on his lawn.   I was on the sidewalk.  Just as we reached the end of his lawn, Big Doug suddenly said:

"Heard about your picture of Jesus."

"Yeah," your agent replied.  I couldn't think of anything else to say at the time.

Big Doug turned and started spreading the lime in the opposite direction.  As he turned, he called over his shoulder in a low voice:

"Put in a good word for me, would ya?"  Then he bellowed with laughter.

***

A fourth, consecutive sunny day followed.  At the end of the workday, the Sack was alive with activity.  Sack kids were out in droves and adults seemed to be looking for the slightest reason to linger outside.

The street had emerged from its winter hibernation.

Easter Jesus Extreme was still on the Wonders' front step. I checked on it when I left for work that morning.  The image was definitely starting to dry out.  This made Jesus look older and more irate.

Mrs. Wonders had agreed to leave the image in its place.  In return, your agent picked up the empty can of processed lobster on the front lawn.  I put it in the recycling bin.  I also picked up the rest of the debris on the lawn and around the front door.  

That was my good reason for being outside.

***

As I puttered about, young Doo appeared on the driveway. He was on his bike. An enormous red helmet was on his head.  The unfastened chinstrap dangled on his shoulder.  I think the helmet was on his head backwards.

Doo stopped his bike in front of the picture of Jesus.  He balanced his bike with one foot on the ground and one on the opposite pedal.

"Who's that guy?" said Doo, pointing down at Jesus.

I looked at the image for a few seconds and then replied:

"He's the goalie for the Montreal Canadiens."

Doo looked up at me and then back down at the picture.  He seemed only partially convinced.  Finally, he said quietly:

"Did he get hit by a puck?"

Barely stifling laughter, I replied, "Yeah, he sure did."

Doo considered this for a moment and then said with enthusiasm, "Ouch!  That must've hurt!"

Then he straightened his bike and pedaled away, making a gleeful, high-pitched siren sound.  He was pretending to be an ambulance.

***

On the fifth day, the old town awoke to high, gusting winds. The sky was gray and there was a foggy mist in the air. Rain was forecast for later in the day.  The temperature had dropped dramatically.

On the way out in the morning, I paused on the front steps. Easter Jesus Extreme was gone.  I looked around to see if it had been carried by the wind somewhere nearby.  But it was gone.

***

Oscar says a decent omen usually has an expiry date. Apparently, you only have a limited amount of time to make sense of it.  Oscar said he could only hope that I had made good use of mine.

I have no idea about such things.

***

Easter Jesus Extreme arrived and departed with pleasant and agreeable sunshine.  Weeks of wet, dreary weather had preceded it. Their winter inertia fading, Sack residents stretched and mingled again.  They were talking, puttering and playing outdoors.  

The image also invited more than a few Sack residents to laugh aloud, your agent included.  It even made one person cackle. Another one was moved to make a high-pitched siren sound.

And that can't be a bad thing.

***