Expecting the Worst

If you were thinking about holding a press conference in front of a tree full of goldfinches, I wouldn't recommend it.


As my press conference continued, the goldfinches broke into another barrage of questions. I couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Once again, I asked for order. The birds were in the midst of calming when suddenly, they flew away. Your befuddled agent stood before an empty press gallery.

I was about to go back in the house when a shadow moved at the corner of my eye. Little Doug's cat, Stephen was perched on the deck rail. He was out on one of his bird-hunting trips. The mystery behind the abrupt end of the press conference was solved.

For a few moments, Stephen gave me an accusing glare, as if it was my fault that his prey had vanished. I returned his gaze with a look of indifference. Eventually, he hopped off the rail and toddled down the deck stairs.

I was about to return to the house when I heard a sharp, distinct sound. Glancing into the trees, I spied the distinct markings of a Downy Woodpecker. He was about six feet away on an upper tree branch.

"Is the press conference still on?" he chirped.

"I guess so," I replied. What else does one say to a Downy Woodpecker?

"Okay, then, he answered quickly, so what's up with Maxwell these days?"

***

Maxwell, Britney Bitterman's beau has not disappointed Sack observers during the last nine months. His antics have continued to amuse and amaze.

For the uninformed, Maxwell is a wheeling and dealing n'er-do-well who has ensconced himself in a comfortable Sack home on the sole strength of his talent for procreation.

Maxwell, Britney and their two rug rats, Hekyl and Jekyl have been living in the Sack with Britney's parents for several years now. Despite occasional rumours of a move to their own apartment, they seem destined for long-term residence in the Bitterman home. Mr. Bitterman said as much during a recent driveway chat with Oscar.

According to Mr. Bitterman, only a big lottery win is likely to terminate the current living arrangements.

***

Mr. Bitterman has good reasons for pessimism. During Maxwell's tenure at the Bitterman home, he has consistently demonstrated his inability (or perhaps, unwillingness) to earn a regular income.

Of course, Maxwell would be the first to explain about his extraordinary bad fortune when it comes to matters of commerce and employment. From his point of view, he has been on the cusp of economic success on numerous occasions, only to see his aspirations crushed by the devilish Lady Luck.

Cutlass Supreme Painting would be Maxwell's best example of this. This is the commercial painting business for which he serves as sole proprietor and chief
executive officer. The company's assets consist of its namesake, a battered 1995 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, a stolen fourteen-foot ladder, a box of simple text business cards, and whatever quantity of weed that Maxwell possesses at any given moment.

According to Maxwell, Cutlass Supreme Painting has been on the verge of securing numerous lucrative painting contracts. In the end, each gig has failed to materialize. As a result, the company's total revenue since inception remains somewhere close to a number resembling a maple sugar donut.

***

With the scarcity of work at Cutlass Supreme Painting, Maxwell faced the indignity of employment in the public domain. After a series of short-term gigs with other commercial painting outfits (amateurs who didn't appreciate the talent of the best interior painter east of Montreal), he found a full-time gig with the old town's waste management brigade.

Working under the supervision of his illustrious cousin, Doug "Dougie" Duggan, it first appeared that Maxwell had found his niche. After an extraordinary run of several months, he claimed that he was on a fast track to commanding his very own waste management crew.

Sadly, the job went awry after Maxwell suffered a shoulder injury at work. Apparently, he was demonstrating his acclaimed "Look, ma, no hands!" trick while perched on the back of a waste management truck. The resulting fall caused him to miss a considerable period of work. When he returned, his hours were sporadic. Eventually, the waste management profession determined that his services were no longer required.

***

For most of last year, Maxwell kept his distance from anything resembling paid employment. His only source of income seemed derived from peddling pot from the porch of the Bitterman abode. Thankfully, his delightful partner, Britney continued to bring in some cash from her part-time gig as a cashier with a government-operated liquor store.

In the fall, however, Maxwell stunned Sack observers with his announcement that he was stepping into a new career. He told Weed all about it during an impromptu discussion at the local coffee cathedral. This is where he takes his pot peddling activity when the weather turns cold.

According to Maxwell, he was about to enter the rarefied air of the white-collar world. Starting on the following week, he would assume an inside-sales position with a local lawn maintenance outfit. It would involve selling service packages over the telephone to an unsuspecting public.

Maxwell noted that his new career included a significant bonus scheme. With success almost guaranteed, he would likely quadruple his salary without breaking a sweat. In anticipation of this future wealth, he fully expected to take Britney and the kids to Disneyland by the time March rolled around.

It's very common for Maxwell to count his chickens before they hatch.

***

Of course, Maxwell's white-collar career lasted less than three days. He was two days shy of completing the weeklong training program.

Maxwell didn't say much about what lead to his departure. Apparently there was something about the company's misrepresentation of their bonus package. Most certainly, it had nothing to do with his absence on the second day due to an apparent "wicked toothache."

Mr. Bitterman provided the latter explanation during another driveway chinwag with Oscar.

***

One might expect that Maxwell would withdraw from the cruel world of gainful employment after yet another setback. And that's exactly what he did for the remainder of 2009.

In January, however, Maxwell displayed steely determination by landing a part-time job. He anticipates that it will become a full-time gig when spring arrives.

Your agent was the first to learn about this latest achievement. I was driving in the downtown quarter on a cold Tuesday morning. Traffic had come to a halt. The freezing temperature had somehow contributed to a broken water main. A work crew was holding up traffic to allow cars in each direction to navigate a single lane.

When I reached the worker holding the temporary stop sign, a very curious image materialized. Sitting on an upturned bucket beside the worker was Maxwell. He wore a white construction hat and a neon traffic vest. A take-out coffee was in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Maxwell smiled broadly in recognition and held up his coffee in a celebratory toast. I replied with a congratulatory 'thumbs up' and then lowered my window for a brief chat. Maxwell explained that he was on his first shift as an employee of a traffic services company. With great authority, he said it was the company's responsibility to manage traffic flow during significant road construction and repair.

Naturally, I had arrived during his first morning break.

***

Later, Weed learned that Maxwell secured his new part-time job through his connection to an existing employee. This was none other than his cousin, Dougie Duggan. Apparently, his career in the waste management profession had also turned sour.

Maxwell also told Weed that it's virtually certain that he'll be employed on a full-time basis when spring road construction begins. He expects to be rolling in cash before summer arrives.

His Disneyland plans abandoned, Maxwell has apparently turned his attention to a loftier goal. He says he's planning to save his hard-earned money until next year. At that time, he expects to have enough for a down payment on the Bitterman's Sack abode. Mr. and Mrs. Bitterman, he explained, would likely buy a condominium somewhere in anticipation of their future retirement.

Weed was emphatic that Maxwell outlined this plan with a straight face.

***

Sack observers agree that it's quite prudent for Maxwell to save his money for the future. This is especially so, given the most recent update on his fortunes.

Three weeks ago, Weed's partner, Daisy garnered some fascinating news during a conversation with Britney Bitterman.

Apparently, Britney had visited her doctor a few days before. This is when she learned about an impending change in the number of inhabitants at the Bitterman home.


Britney and Maxwell are expecting their third child in early July.

***

At the moment, there's no information available regarding Mr. Bitterman's awareness of this matter. As far as reactions are concerned, one can only expect the worst.

Resident Alien

The press conference continued. Poised in the trees off the Wonders' back deck, a flock of American Goldfinches acted as my audience. Once again, they sang out their questions simultaneously. It was impossible to make sense of anything.

"If you aren't going to be civilized," I said with authority, "this press conference will be over."

An immediate hush descended on the trees. After a few seconds, a sharply coiffed goldfinch in the front row sang out his question. A press pass tucked under his right wing identified him as a correspondent for the dreadful Finch News Network.

I made a great show of ignoring him.

Seizing the moment, another bird chirped in with a different question. It was actually a Pine Siskin. Sometimes they hang out with goldfinches.

"Come again?" I replied, making eye contact with the bird.

Realizing that she held the floor, the Pine Siskin cleared her little throat and sang, "Are there any new residents in the Sack?"

***

During a midweek morning last June, a small cube van entered the Sack and backed into Gordon's driveway. A few moments later, a car arrived and pulled in behind the van.

Oscar, who works from home, was sitting on the steps of his front porch when the vehicles arrived. He said he was taking a well deserved break at the time. It was far more likely that he was taking a break from lying on his couch.

According to Oscar, two young men emerged from the cube van. Gordon and his girlfriend, Gordette got out of the car. One of the young men opened the back of the van. It contained a number of boxes, pieces of furniture and other personal effects.

It didn't take long for Oscar to realize what was happening. Gordette was moving in with Gordon. It was her first day as a new, permanent resident of the Sack.

***

About two years ago, Gordon's marriage came to an abrupt end. His wife had secured a new job out west. She decided to leave Gordon and their marriage behind.

This wasn't a great surprise to most Sack observers. Order and conformity are very important to Gordon. His fervent attention to his home and property is almost legendary. His former wife's nature, on the other hand, was more relaxed. She had other, more varied interests.

It probably didn't help that Gordon often rubs others the wrong way. He tends to hold people to his own standards. Not surprisingly, this leads to conflict in diverse settings.

These characteristics, as well as his irksome efforts as the Grand Poohbah of the Sack Residents Society, have earned him a reputation as a bit of a dink.

Over time, it appeared that his former spouse came to the same conclusion.

***

Gordon clearly struggled in the months that followed the end of his marriage. It took some time for him to find his stride again. It didn't take too long, however, before he met Gordette.

After Sack residents had some exposure to Gordette, it became clear to that she shares many of Gordon's values and characteristics. In fact, this is how she earned her moniker in the first place. Ben's wife, Norma calls them "two peas in a pod." Oscar says they're "cut from the same cloth."

I think we're running seriously short of metaphors around here.

***

Not long after meeting Gordon, Gordette had a nasty run-in with Little Doug. He had the temerity to park his truck along the Sack's centre circle. Gordette backed her car out of Gordon's driveway and promptly dinged the side of Little Doug's pickup truck.

In Gordette's mind, the accident was Little Doug's fault. He thought otherwise, noting that he was watching The Dog Whisperer on television at the time of the accident. A caustic verbal exchange ensued.

In the end, the matter was resolved. Gordette, however, had already proven that her union with Gordon was a match made in heaven.

***

Gordette has been living in the Sack for almost nine months. As Oscar puts it, she has only shown up our collective radar screen on a few occasions.

The most recent time was only a few weeks ago. She gave young Doo a proper, public scolding in the midst of the Sack's centre circle. Using a baseball bat, he had been striking a metal pole attached to a "No Parking" sign. He had been doing this repeatedly for about fifteen minutes. He was making an awful racket.

Gordette's appearance on the scene was actually welcomed by other Sack residents. Big Doug said he was considering a chainsaw when Gordette approached the boy. He said he was going to cut the baseball bat into sawdust. Oscar said he was thinking about chasing Doo with a chainsaw.

In a strong, even voice, Gordette ordered the boy to cease and desist with the baseball bat. He quickly recognized her formidable demeanour. When the sharp lecture was over, he turned on his heels and marched down the street toward his house, dragging the bat behind him.

***

It was appropriate that Gordette was the one to intercede when Doo was clanging his bat against the metal pole of the "No Parking" sign.

Not long after her accident with Little Doug, the old town's civic workers arrived and erected a sign on opposite sides of the Sack's centre circle. It was no longer legal to park where Little Doug's pickup truck was located when the accident occurred.

Some Sack residents were perturbed by the sudden appearance of the signs. Parking along the circle was handy when visitors arrived or when they were in a hurry. Some people wondered why they weren't consulted about the signs.

At the time, Gordon was in frequent contact with the local city councillor about other Sack-related matters. However, he denied any knowledge of the old town's decision to install the signs.

Eventually, the matter was forgotten.

***

Before Christmas, however, there was an small gathering of Sack residents at Big Doug's house. It was a low-key, drop-in affair to celebrate the holiday season. Gordon and Gordette were in attendance.

Mrs. Wonders had occasion to engage in a lengthy conversation with Gordette. Apparently, she's thrilled to be sharing her life with Gordon. She's also looking forward to helping Sack residents in dealing with the old town about various civic matters. She said everyone will be happy to know that she has some unique skills and experience in this area. This is because she has worked in an administrative capacity for the old town for the last fifteen years.

As evidence of her prowess, Gordette nudged Mrs. Wonders' arm and said, "Who do you think got us those "No Parking" signs?"

***

Weighty Matters

Where to begin after nine months of silence? If each bit of Sack news were a snowflake, there would be a small mountain of the stuff to shovel.

A short time ago, young Doo (now at the lofty age of ten) was out in the Sack's centre circle. I watched him dig aimlessly through a mound of snow. That's when it occurred to me that I should just grab a shovel and move small bits of Sack news at a time.

But where to start?

Later, gazing out at the Wonders' snow-covered back deck, the answer appeared. On the feeders, a flock of American Goldfinches was grazing on sunflower seeds.

Suddenly, the birds became a throbbing mass of inquisitive readers of your agent's past scribblings. They sang out their questions about what has transpired in the Sack over the past nine months. It was like a press conference, except with goldfinches.

"One question at a time," I said calmly, "I can only answer one at a time." The throng of birds slowly grew quiet.

"Okay, then," chirped a plump male goldfinch, "Who won the Doug of the Year award for 2009?"

***

For the first time in recent memory, there was little
debate about the Doug of the Year (DOTY) award winner. Computer Doug made it too difficult for us to ignore him.

Simply put, Computer Doug made himself larger than life during 2009. He didn't accomplish this with a sparkling résumé of accomplishments. Instead, he did it by adding about forty pounds to a frame that was already on the portly side.

Computer Doug's weight gain earned him the DOTY award for one particular reason. Throughout the year, he made frequent declarations about his devotion to a healthier diet and a more active lifestyle.

Somewhere along the way, things went awry.

***

Computer Doug spent most of the year without a job. His last few employers have shared the alarming habit of going tits up. Oscar says you should probably start looking for another job, if Computer Doug shows up at your office as a new employee. He could be right about this.

After being cast into unemployment, Computer Doug added a few extra pounds in a short period of time. He was the first to admit that it was due to inertia. However, it didn't take long for him to declare his desire for a healthier lifestyle. His first effort would be to adopt a vegetarian diet.

Computer Doug opted for a step-wise approach to change. First, he eliminated red meat from his diet. He confined his carnivorous behaviour to poultry and pork. Gradually, he would embrace a full vegetarian position. This would include a ban on fish, something he admitted he didn't like anyway.

In Computer Doug's case, however, this new diet meant consuming a lot of poultry and pork. Apparently, he developed affection for a substance called turkey bacon.

By the end of summer, it was clear that his particular brand of vegetarianism wasn't working. His weight had increased by about twenty-five pounds. In September, however, he declared war on turkey bacon. He would become a strict "daytime vegetarian." This meant no meat of any kind until supper. The only exception would be Sunday breakfast.

It has been a long-observed tradition in Computer Doug's family to have a "big fry" on Sunday mornings.

***

Computer Doug announced in October that he had secured a new job. It's outside of his field of expertise, but the job will pay the bills while he looks for something better. Fittingly, his new job is with a company in the food business. Thankfully, they're not in the turkey bacon trade.

One might expect that a return to work would have a slimming effect on Computer Doug's expanding belly. Unfortunately, his weight continued to rise despite the successful adoption of daytime vegetarianism. He said it was a clear case of overcompensation.

"By the time supper rolls around," he told me in November "I want my meat."

***

Shortly before Christmas, your agent observed
Computer Doug and another fellow as they carted
two enormous boxes into his house.

Later he would tell me that the boxes contained the makings of a new electronic treadmill. He said he and his spouse, Marion were planning to get in shape when the new year arrived.

Patting his stomach, he said he needed to get rid of his spare tire.

***

Computer Doug doesn't know about his victory in last year's DOTY contest. He's also unaware that his treadmill purchase has created a bit of wagering around the Sack.

Oscar has started a betting line on the amount of time that will pass before the treadmill is at the curb during one of the Sack's yard sales. Weed has a side wager on how long it will take before the machine is used as a clothes hanger.

However, Computer Doug has made it clear that it might be some time before any bets are settled. Your agent encountered him on his driveway last Saturday. I asked about his progress with the treadmill.

"Kinda slow actually," he replied, "I haven't had a chance to open the boxes yet."

***

Here He Goes Again. . . . .

"Jesus, it's January."

According to Oscar, this is what Canuckleheads like us would say if Jesus tried to impress us with that walking on water thing here in Canada.

Nevertheless, it is January and your agent has twice before threatened to return to the blogging machine. I'm skating on thin ice as far as credibility is concerned.

Let this entry be known as the third declaration of intent. This time I even changed the header image. That's gotta count for something. . . .

***

Pants on Fire

Yes, about that "I'll be back in August" thing. I really meant to say November.

The Sack is still standing. Shenanigans still occur with some regularity. However, your agent has been too busy to give it any attention. This condition will continue for another few weeks. First, I must complete a working venture south of the forty-ninth parallel. If you failed geography, this means, in a rather loose fashion, the U.S.A.

Weed says it would be a good idea if every place in the world was known simply by its exact latitude and longitude. No more place names anywhere. He says people would get along better because it would be too confusing to figure out which countries they didn't like.

Oscar, of course, disagrees with the idea. He says he has a long-standing dislike for anyone who lives along the fifty-second parallel. It doesn't matter what longitude they live along either.

"I've got no time for the fifty-second parallel," he said flatly.

***

Our regular programming should resume before the end of November. Meanwhile, if you're American and you see a guy wandering around with his pants on fire, that will be me.

***

"I Shall Return."

Where were we? I can't believe three months have passed. Your agent, of course, has been a busy man. Too busy, unfortunately, to get to the blogging machine.

The American general, Douglas MacArthur is the apparent source of the title of today's brief entry. However, my friends at Wikipedia note that "I shall return" wasn't uttered as a stand-alone sentence. It was merely part of the larger statement, "I came out of Bataan and I shall return."

Anyway, I've never been to Bataan and I don't know very much at all about military history. I shall, however, return to the blogging machine sometime in August. There's a project to finish up and then a driving vacation to the wilds of Toronto and parts north of there. After that, there will be more tales from the Sack.

The Sack has been a busy place during the last three months. While the usual shenanigans have ensued, there are many new developments to report. Young Doo broke his arm (again) and Weed has grown a beard. Big Doug suffered a major lawn catastrophe and there are several new Sack residents to introduce. Sometimes it's hard to believe the breathtaking excitement that occurs in a suburban setting.

Oscar, however, is still a dink.

***

The Season in Between

As far as weather is concerned, these are uncertain times in the Sack. We're stuck in that no man's land between the end of winter and the arrival of bonafide spring conditions.

During the last two weeks, the old town has experienced two sudden snowstorms, a tantalizingly sunny day with low two-digit temperatures, and then a maddening number of days with every type of weather a meteorologist could imagine.

Oscar, Weed and your agent discussed this matter during a recent sojourn at the local coffee cathedral. At issue was the proper name to attach to this in-between season. It should be no surprise that a dispute erupted between Oscar and Weed.

***

Oscar was in favour of "wring" as the moniker for this arduous valley between winter and spring. He said it was a time where one could do nothing else but wring one's hands in frustration.

Weed, on the other hand, was fond of "sprinter." He felt this was an appropriate name, given one's propensity for running back and forth to change clothing or adjust the furnace according to rapidly changing weather conditions.

Your agent thought both monikers had merit. As a result, I had no preference that would allow either man to claim victory in the debate. This ensured a continued argument at the coffee cathedral and no hope of a resolution.

***

If there has been anything consistent during "wring" or "sprinter," it would be the fog. This should be no surprise to anyone living in a port city along the North Atlantic.

The old town, of course, receives fog in spades throughout the year. However, it seems even more prevalent these days. During the last few weeks, we've seen fog in the midst of a snowfall and during a predominantly sunny day. The rest of the time, the fog has simply hung over the old town like a dense, low-lying white cloud. At times, you can almost reach out and touch it.

Your agent, of course, is a big fan of fog. I like the surreal lighting it creates when it settles over the old town. I also appreciate its appearance when you rise in elevation somewhere and can look down upon it. At times, I even enjoy the cool dampness on my skin when I'm out and about on a foggy day.

Oscar, on the other hand, doesn't look fondly upon fog. He says there's something sinister about it. In his opinion, foggy days and nights are when crazy people are more likely to run amok.

"Only a serial killer gets a charge out of fog," Oscar said firmly, poking a piece of maple sugar donut in my direction.

Weed, however, agreed with your agent. He said he had no problem with fog. In fact, he said it had one major benefit in comparison to other types of weather.

"My hair," he said proudly, twirling a curling, wavy lock that dangled from under his pork pie hat, "is way more manageable on a foggy day. You wouldn't believe the difference it makes."

According to Weed, there's no product on the market to rival fog as a hair conditioner. He said it was too bad you couldn't bottle the stuff and sell it for that purpose.

"I could make millions," he said confidently.

***

The Sack's word of the month for April has been chosen. Once again, it's a phrase rather than a single word. Around the Sack, we're rather loose about this sort of thing.

This month's word is fog-related. Ben uttered it during a discussion with Oscar and Weed. At the time, they were standing at the foot of Ben's driveway on a foggy wring afternoon in the Sack.

Exaggerating his own Newfoundland accent, Ben apparently looked about and said, "Dat's some t'ick fog, b'y."

Oscar and Weed looked at each other immediately and then replied in unison, "Dat's the new word of the month."

***

Ben, of course, was thrilled that his phrase was selected as the Sack's word of the month. He's a big fan of these shenanigans.

Oscar said we should present Ben with a commemorative plaque to mark the achievement. However, Weed was opposed to the idea. This was mostly because Oscar wanted him to construct the plaque himself using Little Doug's vast array of woodworking tools.

Despite being unemployed at the moment, Weed said he had far more important things to do than make trophies for other Sack residents. His only exception, he said, would be in the construction of a plaque awarded to Oscar.

"It's gonna be called the "Dink of the Month" award," he said wryly.

***

"Dat's some t'ick fog, b'y" has been uttered numerous times around the Sack since it was acclaimed as the word of the month. Weed used it three times in one conversation before Oscar told him to shut his "cake hole."

"Shut your cake hole," by the way, was the Sack's word of the month for March.

Dora, the queen of Burning Manor, used the phrase during a confrontation with Elizabeth about her illegally parked car. That's a story for another day.

***

Despite the fog and the onslaught of sprinter, there have been a few signs around the Sack of the approaching spring.

In the first instance, we note a change in young Doo's play behaviour. Now that the block of ice in the Sack's centre circle has melted and the surrounding snow has vanished, the boy has discarded his various digging implements. His bicycle and a hockey stick have replaced those tools.

Doo rides his bicycle in a clockwise direction around the centre circle for what seems like hours at a time. It's no casual ride, either. Most of the time, he pedals like he has a particular destination in mind.

When he tires of the cycling marathon, Doo retrieves his hockey stick and proceeds to strike it against the pavement, the curb or the ornamental rocks in the centre circle. Sometimes, he simply scrapes the stick along the pavement as he wanders aimlessly up and down the street.

Doo's hockey stick shtick has proven to be rather unpopular among Sack residents who live around the centre circle. The sound of wood against stone has become a familiar part of the Sack's wringtime soundscape. Not surprisingly, someone will usually open his door and tell Doo to give himself a rest.

That's when Doo gets back on his bike and races around the centre circle once again.

***

The second instance of the changing seasons can be found in the street debris revealed by the departure of ice and snow.

In the centre circle, there's a piece of aluminum siding lying in the brown, muddy grass. It's the same colour as Computer Doug's house and seems to match an area of missing siding high on his west wall.

Computer Doug, however, denies that the siding originates from his house. Despite the evidence to the contrary, he claims it must belong to someone else.

Oscar says there could be two reasons behind Computer Doug's denial. If Computer Doug acknowledges that the siding belongs to him, then he must admit that his home requires some maintenance and repair. As long as he denies it, there's no need to do anything about it.

Secondly, Oscar says it's plausible that Computer Doug is simply following a commonly held convention among Sack residents. If there's a particular piece of debris on the street or even on your own property, you're not obliged to pick it up if it doesn't belong to you. The real owner of the debris is responsible for this.

This is also why there's been a plastic, camel-coloured shoe tray in the middle of the street for the last few weeks. The wind has blown it onto several lawns (including the Wonders') but no one (including the Wonders') has taken the initiative to pick it up and dispose of it.

***

In addition to the errant siding and the plastic shoe tray, there's also a dark, damp piece of clothing on the pavement near the top of the circle. It's closest to Weed's residence (at Little Doug's house), but he claims no ownership of it.

The most common type of debris on the pavement, however, is shards of jagged, colourful plastic. These appear to be the crushed remains of children's toys.

Like the rest of us, young Doo declined any knowledge of this debris. When your agent asked him about it, he simply shrugged his shoulders and then went back to striking his hockey stick against the curb.

***

Your agent also discovered the flattened, wet packaging for a hair colouring product on the Wonder's driveway. I've yet to encounter anyone who's willing to accept ownership of it.

In the coming days, I'll be keeping my eyes open for a Sack resident with Medium Bronze brown hair.

***

Our final sign of the impending spring occurred a few days ago. Oscar and your agent were chatting beside his parked car at the time.

As we bantered about, the front door of the Bitterman residence opened. A barechested Maxwell emerged into the foggy afternoon air. Ample portions of striped boxer shorts were visible above his low-slung blue jeans. On his feet was a pair of battered black slippers.

Maxwell stepped onto the top of the front steps and casually scratched the dark hair on his exposed belly. He lit a cigarette and then coughed noisily after the first drag. This was followed by a looping curve of phlegm that he spit across the steps and onto the lawn.

After a few more hits on the cigarette, Maxwell walked down to his unlocked and inoperable 1993 Cutlass Supreme. He rummaged in the back seat and then emerged with a small plastic bag. After tucking the bag under his arm, he took a few more quick drags from his smoke, before firing it onto the street with a practiced flick of his fingers. As he wandered back into the Bitterman residence, he scratched aimlessly on his left butt cheek.

Oscar and your agent watched Maxwell's appearance without discussion. The sight of a barechested, ass-scratching Maxwell is akin to seeing the first plump robin on your front lawn.

After Maxwell had disappeared into the Bitterman house, we continued to stand in silence. Oscar simply gazed out at the ceiling of white fog that hung over the Sack.

Finally, he turned to me and said, "Dat's some t'ick fog, b'y."

***

A Bitter Pill

The Bitterman clan has been out of the Sack's spotlight for some time. This changed recently.

Mr. Bitterman, of course, is the patriarch of the family. He's a hard working man who seems to grow more beleaguered every year. This is mostly because of the trials and tribulations of his family.

Oscar is the Sack's primary correspondent on Mr. Bitterman's fortunes and current temperament. The two men enjoy a driveway relationship on account of living next door to each other.

Recently, Mr. Bitterman confessed to being at the end of his rope, as far as his family life is concerned. According to Oscar, his neighbour claims to be on the verge of "running away to Timbuktu."

To make matters worse, Mr. Bitterman is also suffering from some medical problems. A few years ago, his gall bladder was giving him "the gears." Now, he's complaining that he has "got the gout."

Mr. Bitterman has a certain flair for language at times.

***

Mrs. Bitterman is an interesting contrast to her husband.

For a considerable period, she appeared to walk through her family's troubles like a zombie. At the time, she was also at war with a bad case of menopause. She packed on a considerable amount of weight in only a few short years. It was rare to see her interact with other Sack residents.

Despite her increasing size, it seemed like she was trying to be invisible.

During the last year, however, Mrs. Bitterman has lost an impressive amount of weight. According to her husband, she's on some kind of fad diet. This involves periods of intense carnivorous behaviour, interspersed with grazing solely on various forms of vegetation. At least, that's how Oscar explained it.

In fairness, Mrs. Bitterman's weight loss should be attributed to more than just dieting. She has also been in regular attendance at a local fitness centre designed solely for women. Sack residents often see her carrying a mauve gym bag when she leaves for work in the mornings. According to Mr. Bitterman, his wife has been going to the gym "religiously" for the past eighteen months.

That can't be a bad thing.

***

Nevertheless, Mrs. Bitterman's renaissance has still ruffled her husband's feathers. He says she has become good friends with some like-minded fitness club members. In addition to their workout time, the group of fifty-plus women has been going out regularly for dinner, drinks and movies.

Mr. Bitterman says he has been mostly alone to deal with "all the family bullshit." Oscar says his neighbour is not happy about this at all.

***

Of course, Mrs. Bitterman is probably just getting on with her life, rather than becoming immersed in the constant drama provided by her daughter, Britney and her delightful partner, Maxwell.

Yet, Mr. Bitterman still has a point. Britney and Maxwell have continued to stumble through adulthood with no apparent sign of maturation. There are also their two rug rats, Hekyl and Jekyl to consider. While he remains a proud grandfather, Mr. Bitterman says the children are proving to be far more than he bargained for at this stage of his life.

"I can't believe there's still diapers in my house," he has told Oscar on several occasions. "I thought we were done with that years ago."

***

Maxwell has continued to be the bane of Mr. Bitterman's existence.

In short, Britney Bitterman's beau has proven himself, time and again, to be very adept at idleness. Consistently, he has failed to earn a steady income that provides any benefit to his young family. While Britney brings home some money from her part-time job at the local liquor commission store, they remain heavily dependent on the Bitterman family for their keep.

This is the gist of Mr. Bitterman's tirades when he meets with Oscar at their beside their respective driveways.

As a result of this situation, Mr. Bitterman says there's not even a hint on the horizon that his daughter, Maxwell and their offspring will be moving out anytime soon.

Maxwell, in the words of his de facto father-in-law, "doesn't have dime-one to his name."

***

Weed is the Sack's correspondent on all matters relating to Maxwell. He has provided us with some updates on Maxwell's view of the situation.

Maxwell, of course, was employed with the old town's waste management brigade. His career was interrupted when he toppled from the back of one their waste removal trucks. Apparently, he was demonstrating his patented "Look, ma! No hands!" trick. Sadly, a shoulder injury ensued.

The bum shoulder took Maxwell out of action for many months. He started to pick up a few shifts here and there with the waste management professionals, but eventually the work just dried up.

Fortunately, Maxwell claims that he's still waiting to hear about a disability settlement. He says he'll probably be "set for life" when the matter is finally resolved.

In addition to an upcoming windfall, Maxwell has continued to act as the Chief Executive Officer and sole proprietor of Cutlass Supreme Painting, a commercial painting enterprise. It's the most professional outfit of its kind among those that you've never heard of. At least, that's how Maxwell explains it to Weed.

Cutlass Supreme Painting, of course, has been in operation for a number of years now. However, it has yet to see a single dollar of income. This has everything to do with the absence of any real commercial painting gigs.

***

When he's not tending to their toddlers or under Britney Bitterman's watchful eye, Maxwell spends his time at the food court in the local mall. He's also a regular at the local candlepin bowling alley. This is a place, by the way, where champions are made.

According to Weed, Maxwell also spends his time peddling marijuana. Apparently, he's known as a low level dealer in low quality weed. This business is quite likely his only current source of income. However, Weed is quite confident that Maxwell likely indulges in enough of his own product to minimize any real financial gain. He could be right about this.

Maxwell, however, does remain with one enduring asset. He's still in possession of a 1983 Cutlass Supreme, the namesake of his commercial painting business. Both have value in Maxwell's eyes, even though neither has ever really been operable.

Weed reports that the vehicle recently suffered a burned out thingamabob. Maxwell says a new one is on order and is expected to arrive within a matter of weeks.

Mr. Bitterman, of course, isn't a big fan of Maxwell's 1983 Cutlass Supreme. In his mind, the vehicle is an eyesore fit only for a junkyard. The guardians of Sack aesthetics, Gordon and Elizabeth, certainly share this view.

***

According to Mr. Bitterman, the mobility of the vehicle isn't dependent on a back-ordered part. He says the real reason for the car's inertia is quite simple.

"Maxwell," he explained, "doesn't have a pot to piss in."

***

The family woes at the Bitterman abode have also been compounded by the recent return of their forgotten son, Jason.

Jason Bitterman is Britney's younger brother. He has been away from home for a considerable period. He left the old town when he joined the Canadian Forces. Now he's a three-year veteran of the Army. Until recently, he was posted to the military base in Petawawa, Ontario.

I like to say Petawawa almost as much as I like to type it.

Mr. Bitterman says the experience has certainly "made a man" out of Jason. Before he left home, he was considered impulsive and only sporadically responsible. Mr. Bitterman claims that his son is now lean and disciplined. Unfortunately, he adds that the young man has also demonstrated a new tendency to be self-righteous and hotheaded.

Jason has been posted back to the old town. He's also scheduled to deploy to Afghanistan later this year. Right now, he's staying at the family home as he awaits the purchase of his very own house.

It should be no surprise that Jason has had a few run-ins with his de facto brother-in-law, Maxwell. According to Mr. Bitterman, it didn't take his son long to discover that Maxwell was a lazy-assed civilian with no particular redeeming qualities. A number of confrontations have ensued, with Jason's sister, Britney usually in the middle of it all.

Apparently, this is the primary reason for Mr. Bitterman's desire to immigrate to Timbuktu.

***

About a month ago, one of the confrontations looked like it would get out of hand. Jason, it seemed, announced his intention to punch the living crap out of Maxwell.

Mr. Bitterman had to call the peelers.

Oscar was incredulous when he heard the story, since no other Sack resident has mentioned the matter. Certainly, he hadn't witnessed the peeler visit himself. Weed hadn't heard of it, either. It seemed impossible that such an event would also escape the eye of Gordon, the Grand Poohbah of the Sack Residents Society and his second-in-command, Elizabeth.

Weed, however, has deduced that the affair must've occurred during Gordon's latest two-week trip to Cuba. This would mean that the peeler visit occurred on Elizabeth's watch. Oscar says he intends to pursue impeachment proceedings against her at the earliest opportunity.

Nevertheless, it still remains surprising that the rest of us didn't notice a peeler visit to the Bitterman home. I think we might be maturing.

***

According to Mr. Bitterman, the peelers arrived and cooler heads prevailed. No charges were laid against anyone. Jason, however, was asked to leave the premises for twenty-four hours.

Since returning, Jason has kept his distance from Maxwell. In fact, Mr. Bitterman says his son has yet to acknowledge the other man's existence. He says Jason acts as if Maxwell doesn't even exist. Apparently, this causes continuing conflict with Britney, although Mr. Bitterman says Maxwell doesn't pay the matter any heed.

This continuing situation has unfolded without much interest or participation from Mrs. Bitterman. Her husband says she remains "addicted" to the gym and continues to "hobnob" with her friends.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bitterman sees himself as being left to suffer the consequences of their offspring.

***

Oscar says there's no telling what someone will tell you in the midst of a driveway relationship.

Apparently, Mr. Bitterman has revealed some of the hardships associated with having "the gout." In particular, he has noted an unfortunate side effect of the medication being used to treat his illness. He says he has been constipated now for weeks. For him, this is like adding "insult to injury."

"It's one thing to be living with an imbecile," said Mr. Bitterman about Maxwell, "but it's another thing to be constipated all the time."

According to Oscar, Mr. Bitterman has also acquired a rather strong body odour. He doesn't know if this has anything to do with getting the gout. Certainly, Mr. Bitterman didn't mention it.

After telling Oscar about his constipation, Mr. Bitterman apparently leaned closer to him and added, "Do you know what I mean?"

Oscar couldn't think of anything else to say but, "I catch your drift."

***

Short Blasts of Hot Air

Today's entry has no particular theme or focus. It's just an assortment of Sack news and nonsense.

Let's get ready to ramble. . . .

***

A few weeks ago, that Obama fellow from south of the border paid a visit to this land of Canuckleheads. He popped into Ottawa, the nation's capital for about seven hours. There was much ado about the matter in the media.

Oscar and Weed watched the whole thing on live daytime television. Both, of course, have the time for such endeavours. Weed recently became unemployed, while Oscar works from home. Even a seasoned eye would have difficulty telling their circumstances apart.

While Oscar and Weed are in general disagreement on most matters, both were very impressed by the new American leader. Weed said he would have no problem getting behind such an articulate, intelligent skipper.

"There's something about the dude that makes you want to be on his team," he said firmly.

Oscar nodded his agreement. He said it was a vast improvement on the previous American leader.

"Obama makes the other guy look like he had a brain injury or something."

***

The Sack's new ghost neighbours are back on the radar screen.

Oscar became the first Sack resident to interact with one of them since the couple arrived here in late December. He informed Weed and your agent about the matter during a recent conference at the local coffee cathedral.

Apparently, Oscar encountered the male half of the couple outside in the Sack last week. The fellow was getting into his car as Oscar ventured out to the community mailbox.

According to Oscar, the man's name is Winston. Unfortunately, this was the extent of the information he was able to garner during their brief conversation. He said our new neighbour, Winston was remarkably reticent about revealing any information about himself or his partner.

***

Oscar is blessed with the ability to meet people very easily. He's particularly good at putting people at ease and making a good first impression. Winston, however, proved to be a tough nut to crack. Oscar said the man was polite, yet distant. He laughed at Oscar's irrepressible wit at the all the appropriate places, but resisted any inquiries about his own life. At least, that's how Oscar described their meeting.

When asked about his occupation, Winston merely said that he worked "in business." Oscar couldn't believe the vagueness in his reply.

"That's like saying you're from Earth," said Oscar with a smirk, "when someone asks where you're from."

***

Oscar says the experience tells us that something nefarious is going on at Rental Doug's former abode. He said Winston and his partner are either involved in the espionage game or they're running a marijuana grow-op. He said he hasn't made up his mind on the matter.

"As soon as I get more information," said Oscar, with a wave of his donut, "I'll let you guys know what my final assessment is."

Weed said Oscar is probably right that the couple is involved in espionage. He said he has a good idea about the focus of their spying activity, too.

"They work for Oscar's main office in Toronto. They're here to check up on him and see what he does all day," he said with confidence.

Then he poked his own donut in Oscar's direction and added, "You, my friend, are about to get busted."

I remain doubtful about all of this.

***

Young Tremayne has paid another visit to the Wonders' front door.

Tremayne, of course, is the Sack's leading peddler of fundraising chocolate bars. In your agent's opinion, the boy is a legend in his field.

On this occasion, Tremayne was hawking chocolate bars in support of an upcoming school ski trip. He explained this in a dry monotone.

"A ski trip," I said cheerfully. "That sounds exciting."

Tremayne simply shrugged.

"Have you been skiing before?" I asked.

"Nope," said Tremayne. He was rummaging through his bag of fundraiser chocolate bars. I had already agreed to purchase one.

"Well, I'm sure you'll have a great time," I said hopefully.

Tremayne's face remained noncommittal. After accepting my cash and passing over my chocolate bar, he looked up and said, "If you don't go on the ski trip, you have to spend the whole day in the library."

"Ah," your agent replied, "that would suck." For the first time, Tremayne smiled.

"We're goin' on a bus," he said with his first hint of enthusiasm. "It's gonna take two hours to get there."

"That's a long drive, eh?" I answered.

"Yup," said Tremayne, "that's four hours altogether." A look of bold confidence suddenly appeared on his face.

"That's okay, though," he added, "because I'm gettin' a window seat."

***

Elizabeth, the second-in-command of the Sack's venerable Residents Society has delivered some new intelligence on the subject of Dirk's recent black eye.

Dirk, of course, is the dark lord of Burning Manor. His fragrant partner, Dora is the lady of the joint. Burning Manor is their Sack residence. It earned this moniker after their original house burned down. Before that, their place was simply known as the crazy house.

Recently, Dirk was observed bearing a rather nasty facial injury. Black, purple and yellowish bruises surrounded his right eye.

Sack observers have been stymied in their attempts to learn about the origins of Dirk's injury. At Tuesday Night Bingo, there are people who travel in Dora's complicated family and social networks. Apparently, they're always quick to provide the rest of the story whenever shenanigans occur at Burning Manor. Unfortunately, the Sack residents who frequent Tuesday Night Bingo haven't been in attendance. Both Norma and Doo's mom have given up the bingo in order to save money for their respective trips to Cuba.

Elizabeth, of course, does not attend Tuesday Night Bingo. Oscar says she wouldn't be caught dead at such a venue. He could be right about this.

***

The explanation about Dirk's black eye came to Elizabeth from a very unlikely source. As Weed put it, this marked the first time that news about the denizens of Burning Manor had arrived in such a fashion.

The details of the matter came from Dirk himself.

Elizabeth, of course, obtained this information in an equally unique fashion. She simply approached Dirk on his next-door driveway and asked, "What happened to your eye?"

According to Dirk, he took a spectacular slip on a patch of ice and then fell squarely on his face.

Elizabeth, of course, was left unsatisfied by Dirk's explanation. When she informed your agent about the conversation a few weeks ago, she smirked and said, "Of course, that bloody woman of his had nothing to do with it."

***

Our final bit of news also concerns Elizabeth. On Thursday, your agent motored into the Sack at the end of the workday. Her husband, Prince Philip was carefully escorting her down their front steps.

There was a noticeable cast on her left foot.

Oscar was quick to fill me in on the details of the matter. He said he had spoken directly to Prince Philip about the subject. Apparently, Elizabeth had taken a spill on an icy sidewalk near her job at a local psychiatric facility.

Prince Philip said his lovely wife suffered a badly broken ankle.

Weed says this is clear evidence of "karma in action." He could be right about this.

***

Chickens on Ice

It has been a dreary winter here in the old town. A thickening layer of ice now covers the deep snowfalls of January. The streets and sidewalks have grown narrower with every passing day. The Sack's centre circle looks like a crude ice castle.

It's a frigid place right now.

Oscar says the neighbourhood looks increasingly like a remote village in the high Arctic. He says it won't be long before we're getting around in snowmobiles, rather than cars. Weed, on the other hand, likens it to the planet Krypton as shown in the first "Superman" movie. Despite threats of global warming, he says we're really on our way to a new ice age.

Both observations, of course, are a little over the top.

Big Doug seems to be more level headed about the matter. When your agent encountered him the other day, he captured the essence of the weather in a single sentence. He also offered a note of optimism.

"It's a freeze-your-arse-off kind of winter," he said plainly. "It'll pass."

***

Oscar, Weed and your agent made plans for an outing to the local coffee cathedral. It was a Wednesday afternoon.

Oscar was in the midst of his workday. This meant he had nothing better to do but venture out for coffee. Weed, on the other hand, was on his third official day of unemployment.

So far, Weed said his unemployment experience was going swimmingly. He was slowly erasing his "personal sleep deficit". Apparently, this is your accumulation of lost sleep hours over a lifetime.

Weed says he's determined to get what's owing to him.

***

In addition to some severance pay, Weed says he has ample employment insurance to cover him over the next twelve months. He's targeting September as the time to locate a new job. In the meantime, he's going to chip away at his sleep deficit.

This is probably a good idea, too. Starting in June, Weed's going to be at home with his three-year-old son, Baby Doug. He'll be a stay-at-home dad throughout the summer.

Oscar says Weed's going to need all the sleep he can get. He could be right about this.

***

Weed said the opportunity to take a job like Oscar's would be the only reason he might stray from his current plan.

This was the third consecutive day they would go to the local coffee cathedral for an extended period. So far, Weed hadn't seen any evidence that Oscar had lifted a finger toward anything work related. In fact, the pair had enjoyed a two-hour breakfast at a local diner on the previous morning.

"I could ace a job like that," said Weed.

***

Your agent was present at the daytime trip to the local coffee cathedral on account of a "mental health day" away from work. Apparently, I'm entitled to such a day every year.

The fiscal year, of course is drawing to a close. If I didn't take the day off soon, I'd lose it. By "lose it," of course, I'm referring to my mental health day, not my mental health. I might live in a frozen suburban cul-de-sac, but I haven't slipped into the abyss quite yet.

Touch wood.

***

We walked past Gordon's house on the way to the local coffee cathedral. His longish, sloping lawn was covered in a smooth layer of frozen snow.

"It looks like a perfect sheet of ice," Oscar remarked. "You could walk right up to Gordon's front window like you're walking on pavement."

"Nah," said Weed, "you'd wipe out before you got there."

This reply, of course, ignited a fierce debate about whether one could walk up Gordon's ice covered lawn without falling. This was also how it was decided that an actual race should ensue. The three of us would compete against each other.

The idea was to race from the bottom of Gordon's lawn up to his front windows and then back toward the snowbank at street level. The loser would spring for coffee and a round of maple sugar donuts.

***

Even though Gordon's lawn was ice covered, there was a much thicker level of brittle snow underneath it.

Your agent and Weed had almost reached the house when Oscar legs plunged through the ice and into the deep snow. He was encased in Gordon's lawn right up to his crotch. Later, he would blame the plunge on the excess weight of his man boobs.

On the race back from Gordon's front windows, Weed suffered the same fate. Your agent's slight frame turned out to be a key advantage.

I won the Sack's first-ever race across Gordon's ice lawn.

***

Oscar had already extricated himself from the snow when Weed broke through its icy cover. He left two deep leg holes behind him as he laughed at Weed's predicament.

It took Weed a minute or so to free his first leg from the snow. He had to lie back on the ice to free his other one. Eventually, his other foot rose successfully in the air. Unfortunately, it was shoeless.

"I lost my sneaker," said Weed with dismay. With some effort, he retrieved it from the three-foot hole on Gordon's snow covered lawn.

Eventually, we reconvened on the street. There were now two distinct pairs of holes in evidence on Gordon's property. There was also a line of footprints leading to his front windows and then back again.

"That's going to drive Gordon crazy," said Weed. "He's going to think that Inuit terrorists are after him, or something like that."

"You've got that right," replied your agent. "Or maybe, giant raccoons."

Oscar nodded his agreement. "Then I don't mind buying the coffee and donuts. It's money well spent."

***

On the way to the local coffee cathedral, another dispute erupted. Oscar suddenly turned to Weed and said:

"What did you mean when you said, I lost my sneaker back there?"

Weed looked perplexed. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Oscar smirked and said, "You said sneaker. That's the American term. You meant to say running shoe. That's the Canadian term. We've always said running shoe."

"No," said Weed flatly, "I meant to say sneaker. That's what it is."

Oscar looked indignant. "That might be what you think. But you should be saying running shoe." He wagged his finger at Weed and added, "You, my friend, are watching too much American TV."

"Get out of town," Weed retorted, "I watch CBC all the time."

"Yeah," said Oscar dismissively, "just to watch the hockey games."

Weed bristled and added, "And I listen to CBC radio in the car all the time."

"Right," said Oscar, "just to get the hockey scores."

And so it went from there. The pair argued about the matter all the way to the coffee cathedral. They were still going at it while we waited to place our order.

***

My mental health day had so far yielded a race across Gordon's icy lawn, casual involvement in a debate about the linguist merits of sneaker and running shoe and finally, a discussion on the erosion of Canadian culture caused by the preponderance of American media.

I thought a mental health day was supposed to be good for you.

***

Later that day, I decided to chip away some of the ice on the Wonders' driveway. Despite our best efforts, we haven't been able to shovel some of the snow before it froze.

As I toiled mindlessly at this task, Computer Doug emerged from his house.

Computer Doug, of course, is the most experienced unemployed person in the Sack. He has been without work since early November. That's when his employer went "tits up."

Since before Christmas, Computer Doug has kept a very low profile around the Sack. He rarely seems to venture outdoors. Whenever anyone does catch a glimpse of him, he's dressed in the same attire: A pair of faded pajama bottoms, a bland T-shirt and his trademark bear-claw slippers. His face is usually unshaven, as well.

On this particular occasion, however, Computer Doug was clad in a bright red pair of sweatpants and a yellow pullover. On his feet was a pair of black Wellington boots.

To say the least, it was very peculiar attire.

***

"You must think I'm a fashion disaster," Computer Doug quipped, as I strolled over from the Wonders' driveway. He was standing beside the open door of his car.

"What do you mean?" I replied, feigning ignorance.

"Every time you see me out here, I'm dressed in the first thing I can find." He held his arms out and looked down at his own garb.

"Well," I said slowly, pointing at his feet, "I certainly like your Wellington boots."

"My what?" he replied.

"Your Wellington boots," I said. "That's what those are."

Computer Doug shrugged. "Oh, yeah? I've always called them rubber boots."

"Well, now you can call them Wellingtons, if you like," I said with a grin.

Computer Doug looked at me doubtfully for a moment, before saying, "I'll try to remember that. But I don't wear these very often. I just couldn't find my sneakers.

***

We stood beside Computer Doug's car and chatted for a while longer. Apparently, he came outside to search for some lost bananas. He said they might have dropped out of a bag when he returned from the local grocery emporium.

As far as his welfare was concerned, Computer Doug said he was doing reasonably well. He said he had no employment prospects on the horizon, despite a daily online search. When the weather warms up, he planned to become more aggressive in this regard.

When asked how he spends his days, Computer Doug simply shrugged and said, "Most of the time, I just sit around and surf the net all day. And sometimes, I play mindless games on the computer."

"That must get boring after a while," said your agent.

Computer Doug nodded. "Yeah," he replied, "but I'll probably be finished with it soon. I've been on the Internet so much, I think I'm close to the end of it."

***

Given the frigid temperature and his flimsy attire, Computer Doug hastened his search for the errant bananas. After a brief search of the car, he pulled a blackened bunch of the things from under the backseat.

"Oh, well," said Computer Doug.

"How long ago did you buy them?" your agent asked.

"About a week ago," he replied. "Finding them has been on my list of things to do."

"I guess you can check that box off now, eh?" I answered.

"I guess so," Computer Doug said, as he closed the car door.

***

Besides checking the box on his list of things to do, Computer Doug had another reason for locating the bananas. Two weeks ago, he decided to become a vegetarian. Apparently, he's taking a step-by-step approach in this direction.

"So far, I'm off all meat, except chicken," he said with pride.

"That's great," your agent replied. "Does that include fish?"

"Yup," he answered. Then he added, "But I never ate fish anyway. I don't like it."

According to Computer Doug, his step toward vegetarianism is for health reasons. Since becoming unemployed, he said he has gained fifteen pounds. At this, he lifted his yellow pullover and showed me an ample belly.

"See what I mean," he said flatly.

"I get the picture," I replied.

***

During his two-week venture toward vegetarianism, Computer Doug said he hadn't lost any weight. In fact, he thinks he might've gained a few pounds.

"I've been eating a lot of chicken," he said with quick smile.

In fact, Computer Doug said he had been eating turkey bacon for breakfast every morning. For lunch, he said he was frequently enjoying some boxed chicken nuggets available from the local grocery emporium.

"Turkey bacon?" I said with a puzzled tone. "I thought you were only eating chicken."

Computer Doug shrugged again and said, "Well, it's still poultry. I'm down to poultry only. By spring, I should be a complete vegetarian."

"That's good," I replied, "I guess the chickens will be happy about that."

"I guess so," he grinned. "Well, I better take a run out and get some new bananas. If I'm gonna get off the chicken, I gotta start eating more fruit."

Computer Doug locked the car door and then moved toward the house to get his coat. As he waved a friendly good-bye, he pointed down at his boots.

"I'm gonna take my Wellington boots off first, though," he said in a formal tone, "and put on my sneakers."

***