Poker Face

I remember very well what the fortune teller said to me last week. But I did not understand when she held onto my hand and repeated, "You must now make your eyes see clearly what your heart does not want to acknowledge."

I know my eyes got wide and I could feel a little butterflies in my stomach. "See what? I don't know what you are talking about."

"I think you do," she replied. And that's all she would say.

Cecil and some friends were still playing cards at a picnic table shaded from the hot tropical sun by ironwood trees. There were five middle aged men drinking beer and eating boiled peanuts, like they did every Sunday after mass. My husband usually lost whatever money he brought to the table, but it was only ten or fifteen dollars, nothing to worry about. Good cheap entertainment, and it kept him busy while I had time with my own new friends making the dinner.

The move to Kahului from Honolulu had been sudden. Cecil had gotten into some bad company at Matson Shipping where he worked in a warehouse. Between my job as a waitress and his job as a team leader, I thought we were doing pretty well. We put some savings aside, and we'd bought a house last year. No sickness in the family, children growing strong.

Some guy Cecil worked with knew we had that money put aside and talked to Cecil about investing in a plate lunch restaurant near the Matson building they both worked in. The friend, Brian, was so sure this idea would make them both rich.

"We can work the plate lunch from five a.m. to two p.m. then we're done for the day, man. And we can write off any food we take home for the family. Business expense, yeah? And think of all the cash that comes in. The goverment doesn't need to know about all of it."

"Cecil," I said, "I don't like this dishonest stuff. If we owe taxes, we should pay. What do you know about selling food? What does Brian know?"

No matter how many good reasons I had for staying out of this partnership, Cecil and Brian, and then Brian's wife, Angela, had winning argument.

"Ok," said Angela. "I don't like two sets of books either. Let's you and me run the books and we can keep it honest. There will be plenty of income to keep us and the tax man happy."

And worn down, I consented. I liked Angela. She was energetic, optimistic, and wanted to be my friend. Soon, we did everything together, and it felt so good to have that closeness. We called the plate lunch restaurant Pa'uli, or Blue Plate.

But just in case, I found an accountant who would oversee the set up in the office, and who would teach us organization. I'm not afraid to say when I don't know something that I need help with it. Angela said she was pleased that we were learning alongside each other. We worked hard. We made good product and we made good sales. Angela and I got tips, too, and we put them in a jar for splitting at the end of each day.

The men both quit Matson and worked in the kitchen.

One time when we were making dinner at Angela's house, I saw a bag of rice like the kind we used at the restaurant. She cheerfully admitted that she'd taken it home.

"It's a business expense. You should take some home yourself." I wondered where the pork came from, and the sodas she gave to our children. I asked Cecil about it when we got home.

"If Angela says it's ok, it's ok. She and Brian are very smart business people. You could learn a lot from them." I'm sure I looked shocked, but Cecil did not seem to notice. Angela this, Brian that, it's all I ever heard from Cecil. The three of them were thick, that's for sure, and I felt a little like an outsider.

"Brian says there's a store for sale on Kaneohe side. If we jump on it, we can buy it for almost nothing." I told Cecil I did not want to do that. I explained it was too far away, and we hadn't been doing what we're doing long enough to know if we could take on more.

Cecil said, "It's a goldmine. We have to do this. Don't you want to have nice things? You could visit you mother in Manila twice a year instead of just once a year. We can go on cruises and send our children to private school."

I said it was just too soon to take on more. Then Cecil lowered his eyes and said that the store was already under contract, he'd signed my name to the purchase and sale agreement. Brian had said he should do that because it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission in these cases. He thought I'd be grateful in the long run. It's good business.

Angela came over about then with a bottle of champagne.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she said, "We're going to be tycoons! I've been talking to a banker all week about how to pull this off, and he says we can borrow for the new place on the strength of our working restaurant. He's impressed with what we've done so far. We just put them both in one corporation. We'll show the store to you in the morning. I want to know what you think of the color swatches I've picked out."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" I asked, my heart pounding. What did I feel? Hurt? Anger? Shock? I wasn't sure. My husband loves me and these are my friends. They all believe this is a good thing.

Cecil explained since Angela has such a head for business, that they thought she should noodle the whole process out and present it. Cecil handed me a copy of the contract with my signature in his handwriting.

Three days passed, while I tried to sort out what I thought was making me feel afraid and unsure. Angela and I continued to work side by side at Pa'uli. She worked every bit as hard as ever and was every bit as cheerful as ever.

At the end of the day, I brought the tip jar to her. "There's no tip money in here," I said. "What happened?"

"Oh," she smiled, "Cecil and Brian said I can have the tip money to compensate me for all the work I did putting the Pa'uli Two deal together. I put a lot of time into that. Didn't you tell Cecil it's ok?"

I didn't answer, but turned my back and shrugged my shoulders. I had to leave quickly so she wouldn't see my face. "Bye! See you tomorrow!" she called after me.

Cecil was at the kitchen table with a beer. He smiled at me, then frowned when he saw how red and angry my face was.

I stood squarely in front of him and said, "You and Angela and Brian can have Pa'uli Two. I will go along with it. Then on the day after the closing I am going to file for divorce and I will not be nice." I left Cecil with his eyes bugging out and got in the car. I drove down to the beach and parked the car. I took my shoes off and put my bare feet in the soft sand along the shoreline. The cool water felt good and the tradewinds felt like comforting arms around me. I must have walked two miles up and down before I went back to the car and home.

I'm glad I have the CPA and a current copy of the books, I thought to myself.

I found Cecil crying in the living room. "Don't leave me," he said.

"Do you want me to unplug this deal?" And he nodded at me. "Alright then." I reached for the phone.

"Angela, this is Carmen. I will not sign anymore anything. You let us out now. Otherwise, I go to the county courthouse first thing tomorrow and file for divorce from Cecil. You will not have clear title on Pa'uli One and you'll lose your earnest money. If you want to buy us out, you'd better do it fast."

And that's when the real Angela and Brian revealed themselves. They yelled, they cursed, they screamed. Violent acts were promised. They said they would ruin us. Our friends told us they'd visited each of them and said we'd cheated them and were bad people. Of course, our friends knew better.

So, long story short, the lawyer got our money back plus some gain and we moved to Kahului. Matson agreed to hire Cecil at that warehouse complex. I still look over my shoulder because I don't know how far Brian will go with his rage.

"We made money on that," says Cecil, "It turned out well in the long run."

Yesterday Cecil brought home a motorcycle. He told me his friend, Pat, said it was a good deal and after all he works hard for his money. Pat's going to buy a motorcycle, too. They should spend sometime riding together because Pat doesn't have it too good at home. He has an unhappy wife who complains that Pat thinks he's right all the time. What's Pat supposed to do? Be wrong?

And I was thinking about this as the five men set up their card game today. Gabriel was there first. He's the guy who seems to get Cecil's money each week. I asked him how he plays cards so good.

And Gabriel said,"Well it's statistics and human nature. A study of both. Some of us are pretty good at it."

"So you're saying you can read Cecil but he can't read you?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's about it."

I think I see something now. And my heart is no longer standing in the way.

Rebel

It was the third rain of the fall season in Livermore, CA. This was semi-arid country about forty miles east of San Francisco. Rolling hills of working cattle and sheep ranches and a scientific community associated with the University of California supported a nice little town.

But three rains between September and November was a lot.

I sat quietly at my desk in Mrs. Mettler's second grade class, twirling my hair and trying not to get caught looking out the window instead of at the frumpy teacher with the brightly dyed red hair. I didn't like looking at her because she had strong features, that awful red hair and her eye makeup was always sliding into the deep wrinkles in her pasty skin. Her voice was grating.

On rainy days, she took delight in turning the day away from spelling and math lessons to story telling and games. Like it was a holiday or something just because we couldn't go outside for recess. But on this third inclement day in as many months, it was apparent one story took precedence over any others.

She was telling the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Mrs. Mettler was narrator, all three Billy Goats Gruff, as well as the troll beneath the bridge. Two desk chairs, the only prop, represented the bridge that crossed the stream between where the goats started out and the lush green pastures they wanted to go to.

"Who's that crossing my bridge?" I remember her bellowing, as the troll confronted the first billy goat. Clop, clop, clop and she stomped her feet on the thin plywood chair seat.

Leslee, my new best friend, stood up and went to the water faucet at the back of the room. She took a long drink, wiped her face with her sleeve, and smiled at the rest of us.

"Leslee, sit down," said Mrs. Mettler in her Mrs. Mettler voice. Back to the show, she continued in a cartoon voice, "It is me, Billy Goat Gruff. I'm traveling to the lush meadow where I can become fat."

Leslee worked her pencil eraser around the formica top of her desk. It made bright marks on the surface. "Preacher Creature Teacher," she pointed and made me read it. I giggled, but stopped when Mrs. Mettler shot me a look in her evil troll character.

"You don't want to eat me. My brother is coming next, and he is bigger and tastier than I am." Mrs. Mettler hiked up her dress and stepped off the make-believe bridge. "Off with you, then, I'll eat your brother," in the troll's voice.

Leslee got up again and took a long drink from the fountain.

The second Billy Goat Gruff looked down at her from the bridge and said, "I told you to sit down."

Leslee said, "I have the hiccups. Mom says to take a drink of water when I get the hiccups." She smiled at the whole room this time.

"Sit down, Leslee. I won't tell you again."

The story of the goats and the troll continued, not a word different from the other two times we'd been subjected to it. The troll was going to get his butt kicked by the same oldest and biggest Billy Goat Gruff again.

"Leslee if you get up one more time, I'm going to tie you to your chair."

The seven year old girl hiccupped loudly and started for the faucet. Mrs. Mettler, true to her word, found three jump ropes in the closet next to the entry door, and Leslee was secured to her desk. Except for her right leg. She reached out with it and tripped Mrs. Mettler, causing her to fall with her dress rising almost to her waist.

I laughed out loud. The other children had the good sense to be quiet.

That was the first time Leslee and I went to the principal's office together. There would be repeat vists from time to time over some great idea she would come up with.

"It's not running in the hall if you're skipping."

"We can't go back to class if we're not wearing shoes. Let's throw them over the fence and say some boys did it."

"It's not destroying the Weekly Reader if you only wad it up. We can call it the Wrinkly Reader."

"Calling her Tub of Lard is not cursing. And she called me Shitass first. You saw what happened. You tell the Duty."

I think about Leslee sometimes when I've been very especially well-behaved and feel unappreciated.

She would laugh if she saw me push the walk button at a cross walk and wait for the light even with no cars in sight.

I had a particularly stressful day today, but I kept my composure every minute. I could feel my heart pounding and my temper rising up into my throat. When it was over, I left my office and walked the few blocks to my car, wishing I could let go of the knots that seem to hold me together these days.

This day, with no cars in sight and no one looking... I jaywalked in the middle of the block. But I didn't walk and I didn't run... I skipped. I got in the car, took off my shoes and threw them into the backseat.

That's better.

On Turning Eighty

I turned 54 this week. My friend, Sue, had a birthday, too, and she is older than me. We talked on the phone today, and agreed that if it were not for mirrors and aches we would not know what age we are... it could depend on where we are and who we are with how old we feel. Especially if we have our glasses off because that makes the lines in our friends' faces disappear.

Another good friend turned eighty four days before my birthday. Over the years, we'd wish each other happy birthday because the dates are close together.

Doug Burton owns Burton Jewelers in Anacortes. His father established it when he was a child, and he is about to hand it to his own son, Phillip. Doug and his wife Laura were two of the first people I met when my family moved to Anacortes in 1968. I was just 12 years old that summer, and was sorely missing my friends in California. I wandered around exploring the small town, and Burton Jewelers was stocked with lots of interesting things. Not just jewelry, but fine porcelain, crystal, sculpture, and art glass from all over the world.

Doug's wife, Laura, made me feel welcome, and I spent quite a bit of time with her. She took treasures out of the safe and let me handle them. Gems of all colors, species and sizes... she and Doug told me about the facts and qualities and characteristics of each piece. Laura told me about all the places in the world they traveled to find and purchase the very special items. Blown glass from Venice, Italy and crystal vases from Poland. Baccarat sculpture they bought at the source in France.

Ooh. Ahhh. See and touch and share stories. I'd forget about homesickness for awhile.

I've checked in with the Burtons over the years since then. Forty years have gone by, and I watched their son, Phillip, get his education then return to learn the business. We watched with great sadness when Laura became ill with cancer and faded before our eyes about four years ago. I gave her a book when she couldn't work any more, one I put alot of thought into and hoped she'd enjoy. I inscribed it with a note of thanks for a friendship that made a difference in my life.

Phillip gave an after-hours party for his dad in the store. I got an invitation, and meant to attend. It was promised that the first certain number of attendees would receive an envelope with a gem in it, one of which would be a 1/2 carat diamond. Quite the party favor! That sounded like it would generate quite a crowd, so I came by an hour early with a card and a bottle of wine. Doug loves fine wine among the other finer things. Thinking I'd be able to bestow the honor and avoid the crowd, I left the gift with Pam. He probably wouldn't know if I was at the party or not.

Today I received a card from him: "I'm glad you could make it to the party, and I'm glad I'm here at eighty, but I'm sorry that Laura wasn't here to share the joy... enclosed is a verse I wrote on my birthday."

On Being Eighty

The evening of my life has come
but my work is not done
For I still have work to do I feel
and still much to learn
Bright morning is long past
and those who nurtured me are gone
High noon came into my life with joy
and I began a long romance
As the zenith became more mellow
we learned of strength and weakness
But love surmounted all in a golden afternoon
as the shadows lengthened
So now comes evening, my favorite time of day
and let me still sing praises to the
Lord of it all.

Douglas Burton
12 November 2009

Last Tango in Toledo

Finally quiet. Go to sleep, you bastard. I'm numb from all your complaining, your fussbudget crap.

The dishes you left from this morning are washed, dried and put away. Your underwear and socks are folded as you wish and stacked in the drawers like firewood.

I vacuumed and swept and had the carpets steam cleaned. The surfaces have been scrubbed with Lysol, removing every trace of what was us, so all that will remain when I'm gone is YOU.

I was placing my suitcases in the entry hall when you came home. You walked past me and inspected the great room and kitchen. Then you actually smiled at me and said one thing you'd miss about me is maid service. I could smell Chanel No. 5 on your coat when you dropped it on the floor for me to hang up.

You "tapped" me when I bent down to pick up the coat so I would stumble. And you laughed. You said I never did have a sense of humor.

I kept my eyes downward so you wouldn't see my thoughts. You brute, you liar, you cheat.

I smiled back at you and said that since this is what we both want, why can't we just be pleasant for the last few hours. I hope when some time has passed we can stop being angry. I won't take anything away from you that isn't mine.

You narrowed your eyes at me and said fat chance, looking at my hips and thighs. I'm not going to react to that, I thought to myself. I know what lawyers are for, and I can continue the fight for whatever shit belongs to me from my mother's house. A few hundred miles between us and I'm much stronger for the contest.

I dressed for bed in the bathroom with the door closed. How is this going to go? I entered the bedroom, and there you were already in bed with the light off. I told you I'd sleep on the couch in the living room and took a pillow and blanket from the closet.

One last power play from you. No you won't, you said. You won't leave this room. Sleep on the floor like a dog, you bitch.

Why? The game is over. David will pick me up first thing in the morning, and I'll leave your sorry ass far behind.

I can do this. I get as far away from you as you'll allow. Just inside the closet I put my head down on the pillow and pull the blanket over myself.

I am exhausted. I listen for your breathing to become slow and regular, then I allow myself to drift off.


"It is wrong to think that love comes from long companionship and persevering courtship. Love is the offspring of spiritual affinity and unless that affinity is created in a moment, it will not be created for years or even generations." Kahlil Gibran

That Special Place in Hell

I'm watching the news this morning. The big story is about Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan, who shot up Fort Hood in Texas.

This man shot 34 people, with 13 fatalities, earlier this month and his story will be in the headlines until long after he is dead. I can't imagine the public will allow for anything less than a death sentence.

There must be a special place in hell for someone who commits such a crime.

I think there is. He's in it now. Whether he loses his mind or stays lucid through what's left of his life, he will never know peace. He does not need to wait for death to open the blackened gates of a netherworld.

His goose is cooked up brown.

Not much comfort to the those who lost loved ones in this horrifying act of terrorism, little comfort to those who survive it, but there it is.

We send our prayers to the victims, survivors and families... that is the obvious thing to do.

For the man who did this, I feel sorrow for a wasted life. He's in a blind alley, and he will never find his way out of it. Once a counselor and healer, now a villian and killer.

I wish I knew what prayer to offer for him.

The Story of Ross

Ross is my seventeen year old son. I think he's a really good kid. He doesn't have much focus on school, and no thought at all about adulthood, but after raising the two other boys, I've learned that might not be so bad. The other two are just about finished, even though they are 28 and 31.

He's pretty spoiled, and has every right to be. I think that boy has been indulged in every way we could think of. He'd been to one Disney property or another eight times by the time he was twelve years old, for example.

Classic overcompensation.

His way into the world was not simple. At the first checkpoint in my pregnancy, Dr. Stalsbroten told me that there was an indicator in my blood that there could be a neural tube defect. At my advanced age of 36, he was concerned about Down's Syndrome or spina bifida. But it's borderline, he said. We could do amniocentesis and know for sure. But what would I do about it if I knew for certain? Nope, just leave it alone and let it happen.

Same Dr. Stalsbroten informed me of a mass in my abdomen during the first ultrasound. He sent me to Dr. Ely, an obstetrical surgeon, for a consult. The object was in between golf ball and tennis ball size and attached to an ovary by a stem. This is not good, said Ely, because even if it is something benign it could twist and necrotize. And if it is malignant it needs to get out of there quick so it doesn't kill you. Let's just open you up, take it, biopsy it, and deal with it while you are still under anesthetic. That's the efficient thing.

What about my baby? At twelve weeks' gestation isn't that a little tough on him? You would likely miscarry, said Ely. But if there's a malignancy, we'd have to clean everything out anyway.

This guy is steely, I thought to myself. Who else can we talk to? Stalsbroten sent me to Robert Pringle in Mount Vernon, who told me pretty much the same thing with one exception. He asked me: What do you want to do? I asked him: What are possible scenarios? How likely is it I'd survive cancer, anyway? What if I let the baby have his own life and worry about mine later?

Dr. Pringle the Human Being said let's wait a little while, then. If we get you to six months, the odds are good I can stop a miscarriage in surgery. I can wake you up in the middle of the process if I find malignancy, and you can tell me what you want me to do.

And that is what we did. He found something called a teratoma cyst, which is a very interesting growth. It's an egg that has not absorbed sperm, but is ripe at the time of conception. Pregnancy hormones stimulate it to grow, but without a blueprint, it's willy nilly. So you might see a tooth, or a strand of hair... even brain tissue. That's one theory. Another is that the cyst was my fraternal twin and it had been there as long as I've been, but three pregnancies had stimulated it to grow until it was noticed. It has no one's DNA but mine, so it's hard to prove where it came from.

What a relief to wake up in a recovery room intact! I had some early labor contractions, but the Good Dr. Pringle put a stop to them, and we ran for the finish line over the final weeks.

But there's more, said Billy Ray.

I went back to work at the Prosector's Office at the end of my leave (with a couple of interesting detours as a temp for Steve Skelton, Doug Owens, and the Public Defenders Office). I had a wonderful daycare that was run by the right kind of Mormon family. Say whatever you want, but these people can be some of the most ethical and kind folks you'll ever meet. Jim and Kathy Christianson are two of the finest people I know and I'll say it right here!

I digress.

After the five month checkpoint, Dr. Stalsbroten called me at work. He said that Ross' head growth was outside the chart, and he made an appointment for us at Children's Hospital the following Tuesday. What does that mean, I asked. Stalsbroten said he thought he should not speculate, but leave the entire process to Children's Hospital.

Bang. I'm taking my break, I announced, and walked outside. Two blocks away was a used book store, the closest I was going to get to a library in fifteen minutes. I found a 1962 family medical encyclopedia and within a few minutes I read something like this:

"Hydrocephalus is sometimes found in the womb or sometime during infancy... large head, downward cast of eyes... shiny scalp... fontanels that don't seem to be closing as normal...." Yep, that's Ross.

"Prognosis: as there is no surgical remedy, the patient gradually grows lethargic and sleepy and slips into a coma from which he does not awake. Death is inevitable."

Back to my office. I must speak with Stalsbroten. He's not too busy to take my call dammit.

You'd better explain this, I said. He asked where I got the medical information and I told him. He said well there are surgical remedies now, and yes he was very sure it's hydrocephalus and it was too early to start dreading. The child does not have a death sentence, there is excellent management in this modern age.

My boss sent me home. Thank you, Mavis, for having a heart.

Tuesday was in the middle of Thanksgiving week, and things at Children's were winding down for the four day weekend. We got right into radiology, though, and the tech scanned Ross' tiny head. We could see a big, fat ominous-looking X taking up most of the space in his skull. The radiologist said, "I can't interpret this image for you, but I can't pretend you don't see it, either. Walk directly to neurology, and I'll send the images over to them as quick as I can get it there."Hydrocephalic/Normal

We carried our son as directed and waited about half an hour. After a quick course on neurology, brain surgery, and shunt appliances, we were told that they could probably schedule the procedure for the following Tuesday, what with Thanksgiving and all.

We'd been talking to resident surrounded by medical students in short white coats. "See, this kid has all the classic signs." Four of them touched Ross' head and said, "Very large fontinal. Sunset eyes. Yes, the skin is tightened across the skull and has a shiny cast, just like in the books." They were delighted.

NO! I practically shouted. Look at how fast this came onto this baby! What can happen to his intellect between now and then? Can you answer that?

The resident and the white coats made a quick retreat. And then they came back.

Tomorrow morning at 9:00. We filled out the admittance papers and I extended my Skagit County employee's insurance card. Thanks again, Mavis, for having a seat for me when my leave was over.

Dandy-Walker Malformation is a neural tube defect. How about that?

There were many, many fears and obstacles ahead after the very successful surgery. Would the boy have deficits? He did. He had poor balance, low muscle tone, and some dyslexia. He repeated Kindergarten and still couldn't write the alphabet in the correct order until about the end of first grade. Letters were sometimes backward until third grade. He could not peddle a tricycle until he was four. He had headaches until he was about fourteen.

In his infancy, he could have stopped breathing, or his heart could have quit because of the odd formation of his cerebellum (the cyst on the fourth ventricle split the cerebellum down the middle, kinda) Nerve connections could have been incomplete. He had sinus infections. Those are oddly-shaped, too.

He decided he wanted to skate on a hockey team in Mount Vernon when he was nine, but first he had to learn to skate. It was painful to watch, but he went from parallel to upright in about three months of trying hard. He made the team and played two seasons before he went on to the next interest.

Skateboarding. Dangerous stuff. I seldom watch because it gives me the shudders, but he's quite good at it.

Of course, we never told him he had deficits, and the school system is too self-absorbed to test him and tell him.

You're a miracle. Three times over a miracle, I told him when I caught him with marijuana. Don't you dare screw your brain up with chemicals. I'll kick your ass.

I look at him at seventeen and I think... it's time now I can stop worrying about his development. You cannot tell him apart from the other guys. You really can't unless you x-ray him.

Ordinary is about the best a kid can be.

Where there's smoke...

Got a call from a downtown businessman about four teenagers in John's car. It was parked behind the man's shop and he wanted us to know they were smoking marijuana in it. John's car, you see, has his business logo and phone number on it.

"I don't understand why they would do this in full view of myself and my employees, but I'm letting you know instead of just calling the police."

I sent a text message to Ross: "whaddaryadoin? call me"

He did, and I asked him where he had been in the last hour or so. His tracks went through the parking lot identified earlier.

"Were you smoking dope in your dad's car? Someone called and said he saw you all doing that. He is certain he saw you pass a small pipe around. I want you to come home immediately."

"We didn't have marijuana, Mom. I'm telling you the truth."

"Yeah, sure you are. Kids never lie to their parents. You are going to lose your car privilege and I'm gonna get a buncha grief from some parents because of your stupidity and indiscretion."

"No, Mom. Remember I told you Ethan is hooked bad on cigarettes and he's trying to quit? His dad gave him this electronic nictotine device and that's what we were passing around. I'll come right home and show it to you."

First thing I did was the sniff test inside John's car, but I didn't smell anything. I looked into the four angelic faces, eyes clear and not dialated.

The device is about 5" long and silver in color. It is a battery-driven nebulizer and makes a mist out of flavored nicotine drops. The mist could be mistaken for smoke.

I tried it myself. It hits the throat quite a bit like smoke does, a surprisingly fair immitation. I could feel the nicotine buzz my brain a bit.

"What flavor is in it?" I asked.

"Kiwi lime."

"Weird."

"You can get forty different flavors. We like the blackberry."

"Got chocolate?"

"No, but we can get it."

I was so relieved, I hugged all four of them and sent them out for McDonalds, all expenses paid.

Now they are over at Tyler's house showing the device to Tyler's mom. She has COPD and is also hooked hard on cigarettes and one other flammable substance. An aging hippie (true California-style) I bet she thinks she's seen everything.

Not yet.