The Autumn of Our Discontent (Part 3)

There was a horrible, loud cat fight in the midst of the Sack last week.  It occurred at about four o'clock in the morning. Almost everyone who lives around the centre circle was awakened by it.  

The angry cries of the two combatants were blood curdling. When it was over, more than a few people had trouble getting back to sleep.

By "cat fight," of course, we're referring to the actual feline variety. This should be distinguished from the human cat fights that take place around the Sack's centre circle.

Those tend to happen during daylight hours.

***

Florence had been dating Slim Ford for almost six months. Most of her suitors don't last that long.  This is because she has very clear ideas about what she's looking for in a partner.  If a man doesn't quickly pass muster with her quality control department, Florence will send him packing at the earliest opportunity.

Slim Ford, however, received a decent try-out.  In the end, he was found wanting for a very simple reason.  He couldn't be trusted.

***

A lanky frame, a fondness for cowboy boots and ownership of a pick-up truck earned Slim Ford his moniker.  I'm told his real name was Jeffrey.  We're using the past tense here because Jeffrey is now a mere footnote in the Sack's history book.  Florence says he'll never grace the cul-de-sac with his presence ever again.

Florence was under the impression that Slim Ford was divorced. She had some good reasons for believing this. First, this is what he told her.  Secondly, she had no reason to believe otherwise. His life seemed to be wide open to her.  She had been to his home on numerous occasions. She had even met some of his extended family.

Recently, however, Florence discovered that Slim Ford wasn't divorced.  He was only separated from his former spouse.

Florence said it was one thing to be deceived about this fact. It was the length of his separation that added insult to injury.  Slim Ford had only been separated for about eight months.

The icing on the cake, however, was something even more significant.  During the last month of their relationship, Slim Ford had neglected to tell Florence about another important detail in his life.  He was attending marriage counselling sessions with his estranged spouse.

Of course, Slim Ford was not the one to divulge this information to Florence.  She learned about it from a third party.  It came in the form of a telephone call from Slim's wife.

When the smoke cleared from this unfortunate matter, Slim Ford received several consequences for his actions. Florence, of course, gave him his proverbial walking papers. And his wife, not surprisingly, issued him a more tangible type of document.  She served him with divorce papers.

***

It should be no surprise that Florence was steamed about Slim Ford's deception.  She informed Mrs. Wonders that the experience has permanently altered her view of the entire male species.

To recover from the experience, Florence decided to spend a weekend at her cottage.  Located on a secluded cove, her oceanside cottage offers a perfect tonic of reflection and renewal.

While this decision seemed like a good idea for Florence, it created some anxiety for your agent.  Whenever she leaves her Sack home unattended, Florence will ask the Wonders' to keep an eye on things.  Your agent's response to this request is always the same.

"No sweat," I say to Florence.  "Don't worry about a thing."

***

As the worry-free Florence leaves the Sack for her cottage, your agent's worry meter becomes engaged.  I worry that her house will burn down on my watch.

Of course, this is a very unlikely outcome.  There has never been a problem with Florence's home while she's away. Nevertheless, it doesn't stop me from imagining the conversation with Florence when she returns to the Sack and finds her home in ruins.

"Sorry about that," I say to Florence, avoiding her eyes.  "I just turned my back for a second and the place was gutted."

***

Shortly after Florence asked for your agent's home security services, I received a second, similar request.  This one came from Oscar.

That particular weekend marked a significant wedding anniversary for Oscar and his wife, Gloria.  In celebration, they planned a weekend getaway.  This would mean leaving their son, Dorian at home.

Dorian, of course, is sixteen years old.  This would be the first time he had been left alone for an entire weekend. While Oscar was confident that the boy would behave himself, he told his son to call your agent if he required any immediate adult assistance.  Then he asked me if I would "keep an eye on things" during the weekend.

"No sweat," was my reply to Oscar.  "Don't worry about a thing."

***

My worry meter quickly moved into overdrive.  It was now possible for two houses to burn down during my watch. Even though Dorian would be held accountable if something went amiss, your agent, as the responsible adult, would still hold the burden of blame in the matter.

"Sorry about that," I imagined myself saying to both Florence and Oscar, after their respective homes were decimated.  Of course, I wouldn't be saying this in person. Instead, these words would appear on a sign in the midst of the Wonders' lawn.  

I would be seeking refuge on the west coast until the matter blew over.

***

Thankfully, neither house burned down during that weekend.

Florence returned from licking her wounds at her cottage. Her house was in the same condition as when she left.  As usual, she expressed her gratitude for your agent's stewardship.

I replied in my customary fashion.  "It was no sweat," I said with a wave of my hand, "anytime at all."

Oscar's house remained intact, as well.  However, this didn't mean that shenanigans did not occur during his absence.  In fact, a very significant event occurred.  It garnered almost the same kind of attention that one might expect from a house fire.

At the height of the matter, your agent's worry meter exploded.

***

The affair took place on the evening after Oscar's departure. It was a Saturday night.  Your agent and Mrs. Wonders were spending a quiet evening in our front room.  Mrs. Wonders was watching something on the television.  Your agent reclined on the couch with pen and notebook in hand.

When the shenanigans began, the state of Oscar's house was the furthest thing from my mind.  Dorian had spent a quiet Friday evening with a few friends and everything seemed in order during the Saturday's daylight hours.

Shortly after ten o'clock, Mrs. Wonders announced her intention to retire for the evening.  Only a few minutes later, she called out to your agent from upstairs, urging me to look out the front window. As I rose from the couch to do so, the telephone suddenly rang.  It was Weed.

"Are you supposed to be keeping an eye on Oscar's place?" he asked.

"Yup," I said, slowly.

"Then, you're not doing a very good job," said Weed, with a hint of merriment in his voice.

By this time, I had crossed to the front window with the telephone in hand.  It took several seconds for the scene at Oscar's house to register in my mind.  There was a crowd of teenagers on his front porch.  Another group of youths had ensconced themselves in the Sack's centre circle. Incredibly, a further stream of party-goers was ambling up the street toward Oscar's house.

"I guess I better go ever there," I said to Weed, before hanging up the phone.

***

Your agent is rather slight in stature.  Teenagers, especially the male variety, seem to be constructed from much larger stuff than in my day.  It took a bit of time to negotiate through the crowd of teenagers to gain entry into the house. When a tall, gangly kid accidentally bumped into me, he turned and said politely, "Sorry, dude."

"No sweat," I replied.  I have no idea if this was a dude-like response.

While navigating this path, I noticed that almost everyone in the Sack was either on their front porch or standing in their front windows to observe the affair.  Gordon and his new girlfriend, Gordette stood on his porch.  Both had their arms folded and wore looks of disapproval on their faces.  Big Doug stood like a sentry on his driveway.  Only our strict gun control laws likely prevented him from holding a shotgun in his hands.

Elizabeth was visible in her front window.  Her husband, Prince Philip was beside her.  Both appeared to be wearing pajamas.  Weed and Little Doug were sitting on their porch with drink in hand.  They seemed to be enjoying the shenanigans unfolding in front of them.

There was a distinct odour of marijuana as I navigated through the outdoor crowds.  Most of the youths seemed to be armed with a can of drink.  I was met with the same state of affairs when I finally gained entry to the house.  As I edged between the revelers in Oscar's foyer, my cell phone rang.  It was Dorian on the line.

Despite the noise in the house, I heard his words quite clearly.  "I need help!" he said, in an urgent tone.

I finally located him in the kitchen.  Amidst the crowd of young people, Dorian and two of his buddies were wedged into a corner. When he saw me, his face erupted with relief.

"This is not my fault," he said quickly.  "It was Facebook!"

***

According to Dorian, he was most certainly not hosting a party.  He said it might look that way, but it was not his intention.  His two buddies were quick to make the same assertion.

Dorian and his two pals had settled in for the evening to watch Hockey Night in Canada together.  The Montreal Canadiens were scheduled to give the Toronto Maple Leafs another spanking. Shortly after nine-thirty, however, six youths showed up at the door without warning.  Dorian said he knew most of them from school. Not wanting to lose face, he reluctantly allowed them to enter the house.

It soon became evident that his visitors had learned about the absence of Dorian's parents from his Facebook page. Apparently, his plans for the weekend were prominently displayed there.  

Weed, who is savvy about such things, told me later that Dorian's Facebook page read:  "Parental unit away.  Non-stop partying with my crew."

***

Things quickly grew out of control for Dorian.  Word had spread through the local online community that Oscar's house was open for mayhem.  Within the next half hour, almost thirty teenagers had gained entry to the house.  The same number now milled about on the porch and in the Sack's centre circle.  Dorian claimed that he was unfamiliar with most of them.

These numbers didn't include the steady stream of adolescents who were still heading into the Sack.

Your agent began to urge the visitors to leave the premises. Dorian and his two buddies attempted to do the same.  We didn't appear to be having much success at first.  Suddenly, however, the crowd seemed to develop its own sense of urgency to leave.

This was because the old town's police had arrived on the scene.

***

Four peelers entered the house.  Your agent looked out the front window and saw three police cars in the Sack with their lights flashing.  The reflection of red and blue against the houses was reminiscent of the night that Burning Manor was set ablaze.  

The mass of youths in the centre circle had dispersed. Some had sprinted through the backyards of Sack homes, while others simply walked boldly past the peeler cars.

Inside the house, your agent was able to explain the matter to the peelers. According to the officers, such impromptu gatherings are quite common when someone's Facebook or MySpace page notes the absence of parental authority. When Oscar and Gloria returned from their anniversary getaway, they encouraged me to remind them of the legal liabilities involved when underage drinking occurs, regardless of their knowledge of it.

Dorian also received a pointed lecture about the matter from a female officer.  Thankfully, he nodded appropriately and respectfully. On several occasions, however, he repeated the same line of defense.

"All we were doing," he said earnestly, "was trying to watch the hockey game."

***

Incredibly, there was no damage to Oscar's place.  There were a considerable number of empty drink cans strewed about the house and in the street.  But Dorian and his pals collected them in recycling bags.  

It was well after eleven-thirty when your agent finally returned home.  The Sack had returned to its movie set appearance.  Gordon, however, remained standing in his window with his hands on his hips.  I gave him my trademarked peace sign, but he didn't reply in any fashion.

As per my agreement with Dorian, he informed Oscar of the shenanigans when his parents returned.  It didn't take long for Oscar to show up at the Wonders' door.  His face was dark with anger.  Thankfully, his rage was neither pointed at your agent, nor at Dorian.

Oscar's wrath was directed at Gordon.

***

Not only had Gordon admitted to calling the peelers, but he also sent Oscar a long email diatribe about parental responsibility and the evils of alcohol and marijuana. Apparently, the email was sent in his capacity as the Grand Poohbah of the Sack's Resident's Society.  It was also copied to Elizabeth.  

According to Gordon, Elizabeth is now second in command of the august Society.

I allowed Oscar to rant and rave about the matter for a short time. Eventually, he ran out of steam.  Then he thanked me for keeping an eye on Dorian and dealing with the Facebook-inspired shenanigans.

"No sweat," I replied calmly, "anytime at all."

***

Next:  Recent Maxwell shenanigans. . . .  

The Autumn of Our Discontent (Part 2)

The dour mood among some Sack residents intensified last week. The nation's most recent federal election was held on Wednesday. Computer Doug called the outcome "adding insult to injury."

The Conservative Party, of course, was re-elected to a second straight minority government. The Sack's federal riding, on the other hand, elected the social democratic candidate for the fifth consecutive time. As Ben pointed out, "the feds ain't likely to be spreading any gravy in this neck of the woods for a while."

He could be right about this.

Oscar, however, took the election result in stride. "Say what you want about Maritimers," he said firmly, "but we know how to back a loser."

In the midst of the Sack's grayish mood, Oscar's optimism was refreshing. There is something valuable in taking a positive view when life goes astray. The old "glass half full" adage isn't always easy to do, but it certainly has its merits.

Last week's election provided another example of such optimism. A Marxist-Leninist candidate stood for office in the Sack's riding. He's a man in his mid-sixties. He has been a candidate during every federal election since the seventies. In every contest, he has finished dead last. Nevertheless, he keeps showing up whenever an election is called.

That's what I call commitment, baby.

***

Gordon's new girlfriend is named Gordette. That's not her real name, of course. But it's the moniker we bestowed upon her after learning about her many similarities with Gordon.

Two weeks after Gordette backed her car into the side of Little Doug's pick-up truck, two very unusual events occurred. In the first instance, residents returned from their working day to discover two narrow, deep holes on opposite sides in the Sack's centre circle. A neon-orange pylon covered each hole, with a small pile of dirt and rocks beside each pylon. Presumably, this was the material removed when the holes were created.

"It looks like we have gophers," said Oscar on the telephone. He called as soon as your agent returned home from work.

"They must be very safety conscious gophers," I replied, referring to the pylons.

Oscar snorted. Then he relayed his knowledge of the mysterious holes in the Sack's centre circle. Apparently, a three-man crew from the old town's maintenance department arrived in the Sack at about ten o'clock in the morning. One of the men dug the holes with some kind of motorized digging implement. The other two men leaned against the truck and smoked cigarettes.

Oscar, of course, works from his home. Apparently, he's paid to do this. When the maintenance crew arrived in the Sack, he was in the midst of one of his infamous "planning sessions." This involves lying on the couch while idly surfing television channels.

After hearing the crew's arrival, Oscar ventured outside. He approached the two men as they rested comfortably against their truck. Then he inquired about the nature of their business in the Sack.

One of the men explained that they were making preparations for the erection of two new street signs. Unfortunately, he had no idea about what the signs would communicate.

"We just dig the holes," he added. He said a different crew would arrive the next day to erect the signs. Oscar told me he really appreciated the simplicity of the man's job.

Sack residents had varied opinions on the nature of the impending signs. Weed, however, had a unique idea about the matter. To ensure maximum safety, he said the signs should read: "Watch Out For Slow, Fat Kids."

***

Two days passed before the street signs were finally erected. Fortunately, Weed's prediction was incorrect. The signs read, "No Parking At Any Time." This meant that cars parked around the Sack's centre circle would now be forbidden.

This is precisely where Little Doug's truck was parked when Gordette smacked her car into it.

A number of Sack residents were immediately irritable about the new signs. These were folks who often parked their cars there. Suspicions, of course, were quickly cast upon Gordon as the possible instigator of the signs. When confronted about the matter, he denied any responsibility for it. According to Ben, Gordon also added that the Sack Resident's Society had asked the old town "a long time ago," to put up "No Parking" signs around the circle.

No one could remember if the esteemed resident's group had every discussed the subject. Nevertheless, Oscar encouraged everyone to give Gordon the benefit of the doubt. He said there was no way the Sack's Grand Poobah would ever lie to his loyal subjects.

I think he was being sarcastic.

***

While Sack residents were simmering about the new signs, the second unusual event occurred. Gordon's big Dyck election sign disappeared. This was the sign that heralded his support for a candidate in the upcoming municipal election. The candidate bears the unfortunate surname, Dyck. Mr. Dyck is competing against the current city councillor. The incumbent councillor is the one who recently told Gordon to "go pound sand."

The day after Gordon's big Dyck sign disappeared, a new sign was erected on his lawn. It wasn't as prominent as the previous one. It was just a regular-sized election sign.

Clearly, Gordon had suffered a change of heart. The new sign was in favour of the existing city councillor.

The optics of the situation did not look good for Gordon. Had he garnered the "No Parking" signs from the old town in exchange for returning his support to the city councillor? Did the two men come to some kind of nefarious settlement to their dispute?  Were the signs instigated by Gordette's collision with Little Doug's truck?

"Of course, not," said Oscar resolutely. "A Grand Poobah would never do such a thing."

***

To say the least, Sack residents were peeved about the matter. Their darkened moods soon became fertile ground for new conflicts, especially with each other. A few days after the appearance of the "No Parking" signs, two other residents found themselves in a squabble.

Young Doo was at the heart of the affair. Intrigued by the two holes in the Sack's centre circle, he became inspired to dig his own hole. The lad has been chastised on several past occasions for thinking about the circle as his own personal construction site. Sack residents prefer to view it as a community garden surrounded by a few trees and ornamental rocks.

Eight-year-old Doo, of course, is a big fan of digging. Oscar thinks the boy was born with a shovel in his hands. He could be right about this. In this particular instance, Doo dug one of the deepest holes of his young digging career. Big Doug said the boy was already halfway to China when he was apprehended.

The person who discovered Doo's activity was Elizabeth. She was ambling toward the circle as she embarked on her early evening power walk. According to Oscar, Elizabeth adopts a power walking routine every September in an effort to lose weight. By early November, however, she appears to lose interest in the activity.

When Elizabeth happened upon Doo's digging site, she stopped, stared and then placed her hands on her hips. Sack observers have noted that such body language usually means that a blood vessel is about to burst in the anger section of Elizabeth's brain.

That's exactly what occurred on this occasion.

***

Big Doug watched the meltdown with a look of amusement on his face. He was in his garage at the time. Apparently, he was cleaning his snow shovels for the upcoming winter season.

According to Big Doug, Elizabeth launched a verbal tirade at Doo, as the boy stood open-mouthed with his trusty shovel in hand. Normally, Doo would take flight at the first inkling of such trouble, but he likely didn't have time to react on this occasion.

Elizabeth, after expelling a lengthy lecture on the merits of digging only on one's own property, stood over Doo with her arms folded as he began to refill his China-bound hole. That's when Doo's mom suddenly appeared on the scene. Apparently, she had watched the entire confrontation from her front step. Big Doug said it was clear that she wasn't pleased with Elizabeth's tactics in admonishing her son.

For the second time in two weeks, a loud, verbal skirmish unfolded near the Sack's centre circle.

***

Doo's mom is quite adept at tearing a strip off her son when the situation demands it. However, she does not take kindly to others when they attempt to occupy that role. Apparently, this was the gist of her position when she confronted Elizabeth beside Doo's latest construction site.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, does not take kindly to being on the opposing end of an admonishment.  It didn't take long, therefore, for a brouhaha to unfold in the Sack's centre circle.  Both young Doo and Big Doug enjoyed ringside proximity to the affair.  Doo stood beside the half-filled hole with his mouth agape.  Big Doug remained on his driveway, resting his chin on the handle of a snow shovel.

The intensity of the finger-pointing between Elizabeth and Doo's mom left some observers (those of us watching from our front windows) wondering about the outbreak of fisticuffs.  Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed and the two combatants suddenly ran out of steam.  It was a short, but spirited encounter.

The abrupt easing of tensions could've stemmed from a sudden awareness of propriety by the two women.  Your agent, however, gives some credit for the de-escalation to another factor.  At the height of the battle, a third figure suddenly emerged on the scene.  This seemed to distract the combatants.

The distraction was the arrival of Handsome Man.

***

Despite the cool evening, Handsome Man was shirtless.  He still possessed a deep summer tan.  His dark chest hair glistened with perspiration.  A closed bottle of water swished in his left hand as he jogged toward the circle.

Handsome Man barely slowed his pace as he passed the dueling Sack residents.  Nevertheless, his sudden appearance seemed to disarm them.  Elizabeth stopped in mid-tirade and gazed beyond Doo's mom's shoulder.  In response, Doo's mom turned and looked at the approaching figure.

As Handsome Man began to jog around the circle, he glanced at the two women and raised his right hand in solemn greeting.  Both returned the gesture and then stared after the swarthy jogger for a split-second.

This was just enough time for tempers to abate.

By the time Handsome Man had moved through the circle, the two women glared silently at each other for a few seconds.  Finally, Elizabeth strode swiftly away and soon resumed her power-walking gait.  Doo's mom called out to her son and bade him to follow her.  She strode down the street toward her home with Doo walking sullenly behind her, dragging his shovel along the pavement.

By this time, Handsome Man had disappeared from the Sack.

***

Next:  The Autumn of Our Discontent (Part 3):  The head-butting continues; Oscar blows his stack, Florence ditches her boyfriend and Maxwell draws more negative attention.

The Autumn of Our Discontent (Part 1)

A pervasive air of conflict has settled upon the Sack. Almost everyone seems to have a beef about something.

It's difficult to ascertain the cause of this state of affairs. The deteriorating economic climate could certainly be one source. The existence of simultaneous election campaigns (federal and municipal) might also rate consideration. Additionally, the old town experienced a cool, wet summer. Noses could still be disjointed about this, too.

Regardless of the cause, the situation forced your agent to scour the house for a thesaurus.  While possessed of a reasonable vocabulary, I have my limits when it comes to synonyms for "pissed off."

***

It should be no surprise that Gordon is in the midst of the Sack's ill will.  Oscar believes that he's the ultimate agent provocateur and is responsible for most of the world's current turmoil.

"Gordon started flapping his lips and, before you know it, the world went to hell in a hand basket," he said recently. He thinks Gordon is ultimately responsible for the current economic climate, our environmental woes and the failure of the Toronto Maple Leafs to win the Stanley Cup during at least ten of the last forty-one years.  

"It's classic chaos theory, man," he told me with a smirk.

It all started when Gordon garnered some intelligence on the fate of Serenity Terrace, a newly developed street on the Sack's eastern flank.

Serenity Terrace was supposed to be a collection of spacious town homes.  It would act as a buffer between the Sack and the local coffee cathedral.  More important, the values of Sack homes were expected to a rise as a result of this new, adjoining cul-de-sac.

Unfortunately, things haven't quite worked out that way.

***

After standing empty for a number of months, it became apparent that sales were moving rather slowly at Serenity Terrace.  In fact, not a single unit had been sold.  In response, the developer decided to change strategy. It became a rental property instead.

This hasn't proven to be a profitable decision.  Among the twenty units on the street, only two have been rented. This is likely because the rental price remains ridiculously high.

The developer seems to be either quite patient or slowly running out of money.  It could be a combination of both. To cut costs, they've halted work on the street's exterior landscape.  The front and back yards of the units are littered with large rocks and discarded construction materials. Some of the units remain without any back decks.  The street still hasn't been paved.  

Weed says Serenity Terrace looks more like a ghost cul-de-sac.  He could be right about this.  The only thing missing is rolling tumbleweed.  Oscar says he has actually seen some, but I remain doubtful about this.

***

Gordon, of course, has been outraged about the whole matter.  As the Grand Pooh-Bah of the Sack Resident's Society, he has pestered the local city councillor with strident, indignant telephone calls and emails.  

Recently, he flipped his noodle completely when he learned that the developer was refusing to build a fence that would separate Serenity Terrace from the Sack. Apparently, this was part of the agreement when the old town accepted their building application.

The local city councillor grew increasingly frustrated with Gordon as the Serenity Terrace debacle unfolded.  He said there was nothing he could do about the matter. When the subject of the fence arose, the sudden crescendo was unsurprising. Tired of Gordon's complaints, the city councillor finally told the Sack's Grand Pooh-Bah to "go pound sand."

Gordon was more than a little miffed about this.  He didn't think an earnest, righteous, and civic-minded man should be treated in such a fashion.  Apparently, he was referring to himself in particular.

In retaliation, Gordon decided to throw the weight of his considerable support behind the city councillor's competitor in the upcoming municipal election.  So, he removed the city councillor's sign from his lawn and replaced it with the other fellow's.

***

It was a big election sign.  It would've been more appropriate at a busy intersection, rather than someone's lawn.  Most people agreed that it had definite billboard properties. 

The size of the sign, however, didn't really concern anyone. Sack residents are getting used to seeing Gordon with a bee in his bonnet. However, one aspect of Gordon's sign caused considerable amusement, especially among those whose sense of humour has room for the sophomoric kind. 

The rival candidate's surname is Dyck.  

Weed, of course, immediately said we should replace the candidate's first name on the sign with the words, "I am a." Oscar and Weed had some serious debate about a plan to do this, but nothing came of it.

Computer Doug also had his own view on the matter. "When I walk out of my house in the morning," he told me recently, "the last thing I want to see is a gigantic Dyck."

"That's true," added his wife, Marion.  "It's the biggest Dyck I've ever seen."

There were certainly more comments of this nature, but I'll spare you the details.

***

Ultimately, I suppose Gordon's big election sign did cause the beginning of the Sack's recent rancour.  The first tentacles of distemper emerged when the sign was at the centre of a recent automobile accident.  It happened when a visitor to Gordon's house backed into the side of Little Doug's truck.

At the time, Little Doug's truck was parked alongside the Sack's centre circle.  This was a perfectly legal thing to do.  

The person who backed into the truck was Gordon's new girlfriend.  He started seeing her about two months ago. Apparently, he found her on the Internet.  Or perhaps, that's where she found him.

Gordon's new girlfriend appears to be a very pleasant woman.  At least, that's how she appears from a distance. Your agent hasn't had the privilege of meeting her, yet. Nevertheless, some Sack residents report that she is the mirror image of Gordon.

"They're like two peas in a pod," says Norma's husband, Ben.

Oscar recently spent some time in conversation with Gordon's new girlfriend.  Gordon was also present at the time.  Since the conversation, Oscar has been referring to her as Gordette.  This name was recently endorsed during one our shows on the Wonders' front porch.

***

Gordette wasn't particularly apologetic about backing into Little Doug's pickup truck.  In fact, she was quite indignant that Little Doug had placed his vehicle in her way.

Little Doug, of course, is an all-round amiable fellow.  He's not a man who wades easily into conflict.  But he was taken aback by Gordette's offensive strategy.  They ended up having quite an argument about the matter.  Gordon, apparently, stood firmly behind his girlfriend's position.  

Some say that Little Doug's furious retort was influenced by a negative predisposition toward Gordette.  After all, she came from the Internet.  That's the same place where his ex-wife ran off with someone about nine years ago. Oscar said he's quite certain this fueled Little Doug's vexation with Gordette.  I, on the other hand, have no idea about such things.

Nevertheless, a further flurry of accusations was exchanged. Little Doug said Gordette should have looked where she was going.  She said he shouldn't have parked directly adjacent to Gordon's driveway.  Little Doug pointed out that he was legally parked.  Gordette said he should have used common sense.  Gordon stood beside her and nodded his agreement.

That's when Little Doug pointed out that Gordon's big Dyck sign was blocking the view from Gordon's driveway. It was inevitable, he pointed out, that someone would bang into something if they tried to exit from Gordon's driveway.  The back of the big Dyck sign blocked more than half of the required viewing plane.

Gordon, of course, hotly denied Little Doug's statement. Then he accused Little Doug of parking like a hillbilly.  Later, Little Doug would say that he had no idea what that meant.

Nonetheless, Little Doug responded quickly and incisively. He made a direct comment about Gordon's general character.  He made it clear that it wasn't a reference to the election sign.  He called Gordon "a big dick."

More angry words ensued.  Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed.  Insurance information was exchanged and the matter appeared to be closed.

Within a week, however, there were more developments in the affair.  The result would further stoke the wrath of Sack residents.

***

Next:  The Autumn of our Discontent (Part 2).  Everyone becomes annoyed with Gordon.  Then we become annoyed with each other.

Words of Wisdom

"Next!"

It was time for a haircut. This meant another quick trip to see Hennie, my pint-sized, grandmotherly barber. This is usually a brief affair, as your agent only requires a few buzzes over the skull with a number three razor.

There was only myself and another man waiting in Hennie's hole-in-the-wall barbershop. A third, unoccupied chair held two bags of groceries. These belonged to the man beside me. Through one plastic bag, I could see a large box of frozen, pre-cooked sausages.

My seatmate was a round, sweaty fellow. He wore a plain white, short-sleeved dress shirt that was opened at the neck. Underneath this garment was a white T-shirt. By about an inch, the sleeves on the T-shirt were longer than the ones on his dress shirt.

A few tufts of dark hair surrounded the top of his ears. Another line of follicles graced the lower regions at the back of his head. He didn't have very much hair at all. It wouldn't take Hennie very long to fix him up with her razor.

On this basis, I considered offering my turn to the fellow. But he was deeply engaged in an issue of People magazine, circa July 2003. He had plucked the publication from the disorganized pile on the coffee table in front of us, as if drawing from a deck of cards.

While reading People magazine, the man wore a very unusual look on his face. His tongue was curled over his bottom lip. It remained in this position while he read. This gave him the appearance of a doubtful lizard.

I decided not to disturb him. I rose from my seat and then lowered myself into Hennie's barbering chair.

***

"What can I do ya for, Doc?"

My closely cropped hair is not meant to be a fashion statement. It's not even an anti-fashion statement. Although it's a convenient style, this is only a remote consideration in allowing Hennie to shave my head with her number three razor.

If necessary, I could probably do the job myself. While she's not a big fan of the buzz cut, Mrs. Wonders could likely be convinced to do it for me, as well. We would just need to avail ourselves of an electric hair shaver with a number three razor.

But that's not what I want.

Although Hennie only charges six dollars for her work, the cost of her service isn't a factor, either. While I'm practical by nature, the low price is an irrelevant byproduct of the matter. Besides, I always give her ten dollars for her time.

Even Hennie's head-shaving abilities aren't enough to draw me to her little barbershop every month. Hennie, of course, is a specialist in shaving heads. It's the only kind of haircut that anyone seeks from her. This is because she's not particularly adept at any other hair-cutting configuration. As a consequence, she has become highly skilled only in the art of head shaving.

It hardly bothers Hennie that people do not want her services for anything other than head shaving. In fact, she prefers it this way. As she told me once, "If ya don't do what you're good at, ya might as well stay home."

Instead, my particular hairstyle and choice of service provider has everything to do with the opportunity to spend a few moments in her company. For a mere six dollars (and a four dollar tip), I gain exposure to her rambling stories and opinions, her unique grasp of language and the unusual blend of visitors to her tiny barbershop.

I can get my head shaved and be entertained at the same time. Digital cable could never do that.

***

"Okay, Doc. Now, scooch down or you'll only get half a haircut."

At least half of my ten dollars is well spent when Hennie asks me to "scooch down." I sit tall in her barbering chair just so she'll say it. But even if I did scooch down first, she would probably tell me to do it anyway. I think she likes saying it just as much as I like hearing it.

Somehow, Hennie has also come to the conclusion that your agent is a medical doctor. About six months ago, she started calling me "Doc." I've paid attention to her other customers during this time, just in case she uses the name as a familiar form of address. But I've yet to hear her call anyone else by this particular moniker.

Beyond calling me "Doc," there is other evidence that Hennie has decided that I'm a medical doctor. Whenever I scooch down into her barbering chair, she regales me with complaints about her physical health. Often, she'll discuss the myriad of health woes experienced by her long-suffering, good friend, Fiona.

Fiona, of course is also burdened by the antics of her extended family, another frequent topic in Hennie's arsenal of stories. These problems include an ex-husband who suffers from schizophrenia and the antics of her nephew, the Sack's very own Maxwell.

But most often, Hennie tells me about her own "plumbing" problems. I'm now intimately aware of her bladder woes and the inner workings of her private parts. During a recent visit, she rambled on about her "Fallopians" for most of my haircut. Near the end of her rant, she looked at me in the mirror and exclaimed, "Go figure, Doc. Before all this happened, I thought Fallopians were some folks back in the time of Moses."

On another occasion, Hennie provided me with a detailed description of her latest symptoms and diagnosis. It was a grand tour of the female bladder and reproductive system. Finally, she paused for a few rare moments and said, "So, in layman's terms, Doc, my junk is sunk."

I have no idea why Hennie thinks I'm a medical doctor. She rarely asks me anything about my own personal circumstances. I have made several feeble interjections to correct the matter of my occupation, but she pays no heed. Thankfully, she never asks for medical advice or recommendations. So I just scooch down, listen and nod sagely. This seems to work well for both of us.

Listening to Hennie is worth every penny.

***

"When I wanna get classy, I put on my sunglasses."

On this latest trip to Hennie's barbershop, she had little to say about medical matters. After a brief complaint about some wrist pain ("It hurts when I move it like that -- I know, Doc, then don't do that."), she moved on to the topic of her recent one-week vacation.

Hennie was quick to describe her time off as a "staycation." Apparently, this involves spending one's holidays close to home. She said she learned about the word on CNN. If the ancient TV in her barbershop isn't showing the Weather Network, it will certainly be tuned to CNN. This is where Hennie gets her information about the world.

Her only complaint about the channel concerns Larry King. She thinks he looks like he died about five years ago. She could be right about that.

By her own admission, Hennie's vacations are always well deserved. She says she spends so much time listening to problems among her friends that her head would explode if she didn't take a week or two off every summer.

Hennie says it's not difficult for others to know when she's on vacation. She puts on a pair of jean shorts and keeps them on for the duration of her time off. Then she stores the shorts away until her next summer break.

"If you see me with my jean shorts on," Hennie tells her friends, "then put your problems in your pocket for a while." Apparently, her friends are now well aware of this rule and let their woes simmer until Hennie's jean shorts have disappeared.

One of Hennie's activities during her recent staycation was a leisurely day of blueberry picking in the nearby Annapolis Valley. This year's crop, according to Hennie, was quite spectacular. She said she picked enough to keep herself in blueberry pie "from now until Judgment Day." Then she tapped her knuckles on your agent's skull and said, "Touch wood."

She knocks her knuckles on my skull at least once during every haircut.

Hennie is quite conscious that a pair of cut-off jeans may not be the most sophisticated apparel for a woman in her mid-sixties. Fortunately, this where her oversized sunglasses come into play. When she dons the glasses, she feels instantly transformed into the persona of an aging Hollywood actress. As proof, she picked up the aforementioned glasses from the counter and smiled into the mirror at me.

"See, Doc," she said proudly, "instant class."

***

"The day you see me walking on water is the day you'll hear me passing judgment on someone else."

The most notable aspect of Hennie's "staycation," however, was her visit to the old town's recent Gay Pride Parade. She attended the event with her good friend, Fiona.

According to Hennie, she had been curious about the event for some time and wanted to "see what the fuss was all about." She said it took some effort to convince Fiona to join her. This wasn't because Fiona had any problems with the parade. It had everything to do with her irritable bowel. Hennie said Fiona's bowel had been "bitchin' at her something bad" for the previous few days. Nevertheless, Hennie convinced her that a visit to the parade might be just what the doctor ordered.

This was one of the moments where your agent simply nodded sagely.

So with two folding chairs in the trunk, Hennie and Fiona set off for the Gay Pride Parade. It was a bright, sunny day, so they brought a pair of umbrellas with them to provide some shade. Apparently, Fiona is quite prone to sunstroke if she sits outside for too long.

Hennie said the parade was a fantastic experience. The exuberance of the participants, the cheerful music and the appreciative crowds almost brought tears to her eyes. The highlight of the event was when Hennie and Fiona got their pictures taken with two statuesque drag queens, who, according to Hennie, were "taller than the treetops."

The only startling moment of the afternoon was when a float sponsored by a local sexual health centre passed by. A group of young men and women dressed in skimpy beach attire were atop the float. As they passed, they threw handfuls of what Hennie thought were bubble gum and candy to the assembled crowds. Hennie said she and Fiona managed to catch their fair share of the freebies as the float passed by.

However, Hennie was surprised to learn that the bubble gum and candy were actually condoms. She said Fiona almost wet her pants when informed of this. At first, Hennie said she wasn't sure about what to do with the condoms. She said she had no intention of letting a man near her unless it was the good Lord calling her home. Besides, she added, the state of her Fallopians and her sunken junk wouldn't help matters, anyway.

Fortunately, she came up with a good use for the condoms. She said one of Fiona's nephews was "just after having another little fella." Apparently, it was his fourth or fifth child from three different women.

According to Hennie, by the time the first three kids reached the age of five, the local schools were "fitting them for dunce caps." Fiona, she added, expected the same thing to happen to the next two kids. As a result, Hennie figured Fiona could give the condoms to her nephew so he could put a stop to this situation.

As Hennie finished my haircut with her number three razor, she brushed some errant hair from the back of my shirt. After taking my ten dollars, she placed the note in the drawer below her barbering counter. Then she retrieved a small paper bag from within it.

"Fiona wouldn't give these to her nephew, Doc. But I hear he lives up there in your neck of the woods."

I looked into the bag and saw a small collection of condoms.

"So, I figured the next time I saw you, I'd get you to pass them on. The boy's name is Maxwell. Just give 'em to him and say it's from me, if you like. I'd do it myself, but I figure it might carry more weight if he got them from a medical man."

I nodded sagely and walked out of Hennie's barbershop with the bag of condoms.

***