Posts
Watching High Society from 1956 on TiVo. Wouldn't be bothering with it except that when it came out in 1956 I saw it in a movie theater in Cooperstown, New York. I was ten, and I was on the best vacation ever with my parents and brothers. We had spent a week at Lake George, water skiing and rowboating and adventuring, then we drove to Howe Caverns and spent the day being awed by stalactites and stalagmites and the impenetrable, frightening blackness of the underground river, then we drove to Cooperstown and toured the Baseball Hall of Fame, then we had dinner out in a fancy restaurant (any restaurant was fancy to us in those years) and then we went to see the movie, which had just opened. I loved it; we all did. The Cole Porter songs were bouncy and clever, Grace Kelly was beautiful, and witty lines and soul-satisfyingly big words were sprinkled throughout the script: "enervated"... "intolerable"... Wow. Very cool stuff.
Later on I learned that the real Bing Crosby was an abusive father and the real Frank Sinatra was a thug, and I saw The Philadelphia Story and watched real actors play their characters... Oh, well. Today I'm content to try to recapture the innocent fun that my ten-year-old self was having in 1956, on the best vacation ever.
(Oh, and right now they're playing our song: True Love, which Ada and I still sing together on road trips. Crosby and Kelly sang it better, but we have more fun, I think.)
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
It's Not Just the Damned Terrorists that Annoy Me
They have a new noise-abatement law on the books here in Gotham; it doesn't work any better than the old one, because the cops figure that if they bother someone who's only making noise, he might do something worse, so best to leave things alone. As a consequence, much of the time I wear my new noise-cancelling earphones even here in my office, because I have a choice of listening to the incessant horn blowing out on the street (a hospital "quiet" zone) or the rapid-fire banging of the ancient air conditioner that rattles the metal-framed casement windows to jackhammer effect. Sigh.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Run-Walk '98
Last weekend they held the annual Revlon Run-Walk fund raiser in Central Park; I didn't have to be there, but in years past it was part of my job to manage the public-relations aspects of the event for the medical center. I wrote a letter about the experience to my mother, who was hospitalized in Denver at the time, back in 1998...
May 5, 1998
Dear Mom,
Well, it was another uneventful week here in the big city, except for last Friday, when I had to go to the annual cold salmon, cold asparagus, cold string beans and cold boiled potato Brooklyn Diocese World Communication Day Luncheon, and then over to Central Park to set up our booth for the big Revlon Run-Walk fund-raising event on Saturday morning. The car was so loaded down with stuff for the booth that it scraped on the ground when I went into the parking lot at the luncheon, but I was in a really optimistic mood because all of the brochures had been printed on time and were delivered to me or ready for pickup, and the all the pieces of the big booth display unit were delivered on time, and I got out of the luncheon on time after a satisfying repast of a buttered dinner roll and two miniature Italian pastries, and the rain was holding off and predicted only for the overnight, not for my setup that afternoon or for the event the next morning, and the traffic into Manhattan was light.
I stopped at the ad agency to pick up the boxes of the new brochure, and their creative director, who had argued with me about every detail of the brochure, and told me that what I wanted certainly was not what I needed, and that he would agree to do it my way only if I admitted that I understood that what I was asking for was all wrong and would serve no useful purpose and that he was acting against his every professional instinct and all his years of experience and training to condescend to put this – forgive him – wrong-headed and misguided waste of paper and ink to press, came down to meet me and to ask me if I didn't think the final product was brilliant and if I could ever thank him enough. I said it was and I couldn't.
Then I went to pick up Mike Quon, the designer who had worked on the graphics for the booth display and who had offered to help me set it all up in the park. I found him in perfect time and we got to the park precisely to our allotted hour, and we were admitted past all the security and allowed to drive right around on the field and pull up on the grass exactly behind our assigned tent, and I turned to Mike and I said – and oh! How bitterly did I later regret saying these words! – “Wow! This is really working out great! Isn't it?”
And I smiled at him vacuously as the luck ran out of my day like warm milk dribbling from a sleepy baby’s mouth, and Fate rubbed its hands together in glee and prepared to spring its sinister trap.
We got out of the car and the first thing I noticed was that the large circus-style big-top tent with the cement floor that we had been told to expect had somehow become a row of small, one-booth-per-tent “little-tops” pitched on grass. Oh, well, not to worry. We dragged all the materials from the car and into the little tent. Because the car would be out of our sight when we began to work in the tent I carefully locked the doors. This may be a park, but it’s still New York, right?
The display had been delivered in two big 72-lb. rolling cases. We opened them and found a tiny little instruction book with incomprehensible drawings. We took out the pieces of the display itself, and discovered a heavy, dense nest of interlocking plastic rods that we proceeded to twist and pull and turn and yank until one of us got lucky, and it suddenly blossomed into spidery seven-feet-tall by ten-feet-wide curved wall with knobs and hubs that needed only to be snapped firmly together by people with three hands and no tendency to vertigo as it bounded and swayed above our heads. It didn’t seem to fit in our little tent.
“It doesn’t seem to fit in our little tent,” I said to Mike.
“Maybe when we get it all set up?” said Mike doubtfully.
We took it out onto the grass in front of the tent and started attaching various “rails” and “panels” and “headers” and “footers”. With all of these parts attached, the display looked very professional. It still would not fit into the little tent, however, and in the increasing wind on the lawn it displayed superior aerodynamic properties, and seemed perfectly capable of carrying us off toward the lake like a flying carpet.
Mike’s beeper went off. Emergency back at his office. “Use my phone,” I said, reaching into my empty pocket for the car keys. “It’s – uh...”
I searched all my pockets. I searched the ground at our feet. I searched in the little tent, and on the tables in the little tent.
“... it’s, uh, locked in the car. With our jackets. And the car keys.”
And as we stared at each other in the suddenly dark and empty and lonely East Meadow of Central Park, it began to rain.
It’s surprising how ill-suited a shirt and tie and dress slacks and dress shoes are to spending even a few minutes in a downpour in Central Park. Clothing that is perfectly appropriate for infighting in the corporate office is worse than useless for keeping off the rain. Within no time our ties were dragging soddenly and our pants were drooping heavily and the grass had sunk into a nasty mud that kept trying to suck our shoes off at every step. We decided that Mike would go for help or a wire coat hanger, whichever came first, and I would disassemble the display.
He disappeared quickly in the driving rain, especially since I had to take off my glasses to be able to see at all, and I discovered that taking the fiendishly clever display apart was not more than twice as difficult as putting it together. By the time I had finished, each individual piece of it was soaked through and coated with mud and sticky leaves of grass. It would not, not, not, no matter what I did or said to it – and as I recall I said plenty – fit back into its clever carrying cases. When Mike returned he found me standing disconsolately under the dubious shelter of our little tent, shivering like an old horse. He had found a wire hanger.
Unless you have ever tried to open a car door with a wire coat hanger, you will not appreciate the steely determination and dispassionate resolve with which I approached – and conquered – the challenge of that locked car. It’s an older Buick, one of the last cars ever made, probably, in which the wire hanger trick is even remotely possible. Its lock posts have just the slightest little bulge to them at the top, just enough to give the fingers a purchase – never enough, you would say, to grab with a loop of sproinging wire from an extreme angle at the front of the window, and CERTAINLY never enough to pull the post up and unlock the door.
But I did it.
Took me 45 minutes of intense, grim-lipped effort, minutes during which Mike looked on quietly, rain water running down his face, his own concentration willing the wire to catch the post...
But I did it.
We loaded the car and I drove Mike home. Along the way I panicked when I couldn’t find my glasses, until Mike gently pointed out that I was wearing them. He hopped out of the car pretty quickly when we got to his house. The next day I would show up early at the park with Ada and we would get the little tent decorated suitably, and no one except Mike and me would ever know how close we came that night... how thin is the line between civilization and nature... how yucky it feels when cold mud squeezes into your dress shoes.
I’m pretty sure that Mike will never ever go anywhere with me again.
Your loving son,
Steve
By the way, if you're interested in fine art and graphic design, visit Mike Quon's web site at http://www.quondesign.com/index.htm.
May 5, 1998
Dear Mom,
Well, it was another uneventful week here in the big city, except for last Friday, when I had to go to the annual cold salmon, cold asparagus, cold string beans and cold boiled potato Brooklyn Diocese World Communication Day Luncheon, and then over to Central Park to set up our booth for the big Revlon Run-Walk fund-raising event on Saturday morning. The car was so loaded down with stuff for the booth that it scraped on the ground when I went into the parking lot at the luncheon, but I was in a really optimistic mood because all of the brochures had been printed on time and were delivered to me or ready for pickup, and the all the pieces of the big booth display unit were delivered on time, and I got out of the luncheon on time after a satisfying repast of a buttered dinner roll and two miniature Italian pastries, and the rain was holding off and predicted only for the overnight, not for my setup that afternoon or for the event the next morning, and the traffic into Manhattan was light.
I stopped at the ad agency to pick up the boxes of the new brochure, and their creative director, who had argued with me about every detail of the brochure, and told me that what I wanted certainly was not what I needed, and that he would agree to do it my way only if I admitted that I understood that what I was asking for was all wrong and would serve no useful purpose and that he was acting against his every professional instinct and all his years of experience and training to condescend to put this – forgive him – wrong-headed and misguided waste of paper and ink to press, came down to meet me and to ask me if I didn't think the final product was brilliant and if I could ever thank him enough. I said it was and I couldn't.
Then I went to pick up Mike Quon, the designer who had worked on the graphics for the booth display and who had offered to help me set it all up in the park. I found him in perfect time and we got to the park precisely to our allotted hour, and we were admitted past all the security and allowed to drive right around on the field and pull up on the grass exactly behind our assigned tent, and I turned to Mike and I said – and oh! How bitterly did I later regret saying these words! – “Wow! This is really working out great! Isn't it?”
And I smiled at him vacuously as the luck ran out of my day like warm milk dribbling from a sleepy baby’s mouth, and Fate rubbed its hands together in glee and prepared to spring its sinister trap.
We got out of the car and the first thing I noticed was that the large circus-style big-top tent with the cement floor that we had been told to expect had somehow become a row of small, one-booth-per-tent “little-tops” pitched on grass. Oh, well, not to worry. We dragged all the materials from the car and into the little tent. Because the car would be out of our sight when we began to work in the tent I carefully locked the doors. This may be a park, but it’s still New York, right?
The display had been delivered in two big 72-lb. rolling cases. We opened them and found a tiny little instruction book with incomprehensible drawings. We took out the pieces of the display itself, and discovered a heavy, dense nest of interlocking plastic rods that we proceeded to twist and pull and turn and yank until one of us got lucky, and it suddenly blossomed into spidery seven-feet-tall by ten-feet-wide curved wall with knobs and hubs that needed only to be snapped firmly together by people with three hands and no tendency to vertigo as it bounded and swayed above our heads. It didn’t seem to fit in our little tent.
“It doesn’t seem to fit in our little tent,” I said to Mike.
“Maybe when we get it all set up?” said Mike doubtfully.
We took it out onto the grass in front of the tent and started attaching various “rails” and “panels” and “headers” and “footers”. With all of these parts attached, the display looked very professional. It still would not fit into the little tent, however, and in the increasing wind on the lawn it displayed superior aerodynamic properties, and seemed perfectly capable of carrying us off toward the lake like a flying carpet.
Mike’s beeper went off. Emergency back at his office. “Use my phone,” I said, reaching into my empty pocket for the car keys. “It’s – uh...”
I searched all my pockets. I searched the ground at our feet. I searched in the little tent, and on the tables in the little tent.
“... it’s, uh, locked in the car. With our jackets. And the car keys.”
And as we stared at each other in the suddenly dark and empty and lonely East Meadow of Central Park, it began to rain.
It’s surprising how ill-suited a shirt and tie and dress slacks and dress shoes are to spending even a few minutes in a downpour in Central Park. Clothing that is perfectly appropriate for infighting in the corporate office is worse than useless for keeping off the rain. Within no time our ties were dragging soddenly and our pants were drooping heavily and the grass had sunk into a nasty mud that kept trying to suck our shoes off at every step. We decided that Mike would go for help or a wire coat hanger, whichever came first, and I would disassemble the display.
He disappeared quickly in the driving rain, especially since I had to take off my glasses to be able to see at all, and I discovered that taking the fiendishly clever display apart was not more than twice as difficult as putting it together. By the time I had finished, each individual piece of it was soaked through and coated with mud and sticky leaves of grass. It would not, not, not, no matter what I did or said to it – and as I recall I said plenty – fit back into its clever carrying cases. When Mike returned he found me standing disconsolately under the dubious shelter of our little tent, shivering like an old horse. He had found a wire hanger.
Unless you have ever tried to open a car door with a wire coat hanger, you will not appreciate the steely determination and dispassionate resolve with which I approached – and conquered – the challenge of that locked car. It’s an older Buick, one of the last cars ever made, probably, in which the wire hanger trick is even remotely possible. Its lock posts have just the slightest little bulge to them at the top, just enough to give the fingers a purchase – never enough, you would say, to grab with a loop of sproinging wire from an extreme angle at the front of the window, and CERTAINLY never enough to pull the post up and unlock the door.
But I did it.
Took me 45 minutes of intense, grim-lipped effort, minutes during which Mike looked on quietly, rain water running down his face, his own concentration willing the wire to catch the post...
But I did it.
We loaded the car and I drove Mike home. Along the way I panicked when I couldn’t find my glasses, until Mike gently pointed out that I was wearing them. He hopped out of the car pretty quickly when we got to his house. The next day I would show up early at the park with Ada and we would get the little tent decorated suitably, and no one except Mike and me would ever know how close we came that night... how thin is the line between civilization and nature... how yucky it feels when cold mud squeezes into your dress shoes.
I’m pretty sure that Mike will never ever go anywhere with me again.
Your loving son,
Steve
By the way, if you're interested in fine art and graphic design, visit Mike Quon's web site at http://www.quondesign.com/index.htm.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Remote Controlling
Word from Allan Janus, who has sommat to do with Panabasis, The Journal of the Janus Museum, which resides at http://www.janusmuseum.org/panabasis/main.htm, that he's trying out Orb, a service that allows one to access one's files remotely. Allan is using Orb successfully to share music files. This reminds me to mention that I use Logmein.com's remote-control and file-sharing software to remotely operate our computers and swap files around. Works like a charm, especially when I get to the office and find that I've left a crucial file on the home computer, or when Ada needs tech support. I pay a modest fee for the version installed on my computer to get added functionality, but use the free version on our other computers (and those of a few more-hapless-than-me friends who rely on me for help when they get into computer trouble). With Logmein, I can sit on the deck at Eagle Lake and connect to the computer at home to read e-mail, pay bills, and do work for clients. 'Tis a grand thing altogether... though it don't play music.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
A Thought Occasioned by St. Patrick's Day
Later today will go to el supermarquesa to "do a comprita" as The Lovely Former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico says, which is an exact translation of going to the supermarket to "do a small order" as me sainted grandmother Catherine "Kitty" Higgins used to call it -- which in Spanglish and in Irish-American means buy some needed things, but not buy all of the things that the family will need for the week. Buying everything is a "compra" or an "order". I'm always amazed at the parallels between the Irish and the Puerto Ricans, in big things and small.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Tech Wars, Vol. 1
I just posted an amazon.com review of the Brother Intellifax 1840c machine that I am about to junk. It's not up on their site yet, but it says:
[headline]
I would swap it for a case of beer and bust every bottle.
[copy]
I will never buy another Brother product again. I sent the following e-mail to Brother through their web site: “My Brother Intellifax 1840c Fax machine is apparently disabled because color ink cartridges are empty. I have no interest in or use for color printing/faxing on this machine. How can I continue to use the machine without going to the expense of replacing useless color ink cartridges?” A few days later, I received this reply: “Brother Customer: Thank you for taking the time to write to us. We apologize for any inconvenience. The color inks works with black to allow the printing ability of this machine. You will need to replace any empty ink cartridge in machine to resume printing. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. Sincerely, Facsimile E-mail Support, Brother International Corporation, USA, faxsupp@brother.com.” This machine is essentially an elaborate scam to force you to continually buy color inks (even if you never print in color, the machines uses up its color ink supplies by frequent “cleaning” of the heads), which multiplies the cost of operation exponentially. Did I mention that I will never buy another Brother product again? Sincerely. I am junking this Intellifax 1840c and buying a laser all-in-one; wish me luck.
[headline]
I would swap it for a case of beer and bust every bottle.
[copy]
I will never buy another Brother product again. I sent the following e-mail to Brother through their web site: “My Brother Intellifax 1840c Fax machine is apparently disabled because color ink cartridges are empty. I have no interest in or use for color printing/faxing on this machine. How can I continue to use the machine without going to the expense of replacing useless color ink cartridges?” A few days later, I received this reply: “Brother Customer: Thank you for taking the time to write to us. We apologize for any inconvenience. The color inks works with black to allow the printing ability of this machine. You will need to replace any empty ink cartridge in machine to resume printing. We sincerely apologize for any inconvenience. Sincerely, Facsimile E-mail Support, Brother International Corporation, USA, faxsupp@brother.com.” This machine is essentially an elaborate scam to force you to continually buy color inks (even if you never print in color, the machines uses up its color ink supplies by frequent “cleaning” of the heads), which multiplies the cost of operation exponentially. Did I mention that I will never buy another Brother product again? Sincerely. I am junking this Intellifax 1840c and buying a laser all-in-one; wish me luck.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Introductory
The weather here in New York has been cold enough this past week or so to get me to thinking about...
An Ice-Fishing Story
The lovely former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico once worked as administrative assistant to a general contractor's project manager, on site at the construction of a big tower office building on Seventh, a little north of Times Square. I was in the city one day on business, so we met for lunch, and at my insistence went to one of the ubiquitous Irish steam-table bars nearby. Yum. Hadn't indulged in many years. Nor was I disappointed. Brisket with gravy and mashed, stale sliced bread and canned peas and lots of cold beer to lubricate all: very fine. An acquired taste, of course.
It was a late lunch and the place was beginning to quiet down, except for one table of seven or eight business types of various ages telling stories and laughing loudly. As we were finishing up, the oldest of them, very well dressed and distinguished-looking, began a tale that captivated us, and we fell as silent as did his friends, all of us motionless as he recounted it.
I don't know what got him onto the subject; I didn't hear that part. But he explained ice fishing -- several of his companions, city boys, had never seen or even heard of it -- and then told how he had been taken out on a gray day in the Adirondacks for his only experience of the sport. The friend he went out with drove a pickup truck out onto the ice, to this fellow's nervous amazement, taking them to a little fishing village of variegated shanties and huts right in the middle of the frozen lake. The friend's Rottweiler, very large and deep black and golliwog friendly, rode in the back of the truck, and seemed if anything even more excited than his master at the prospect of a day on the ice.
The friend's fishing shanty was a little larger and more elaborate than most, and was toasty warm inside, quite close to being above freezing, and they re-cut the hole with a power auger brought for the purpose, and settled down to fish. A highlight of the experience was the way the Rottweiler got into the action, for when a fish was caught and brought up to the surface, the dog would dart in, grasp the fish in his huge jaws, and very gently deposit it at the feet of his master. Lavish praise, special treat, stump of a tail wagging ecstatically... repeat.
This managed to make the day's events more amusing by half, meaning that the fun didn't go out of it all for our narrator for damn near an hour, as he said. But, not wanting to be a poor guest, he kept smiling bravely, applauded the dog's efforts manfully, and tried to imagine how good he would feel when they left, by way of keeping his spirits up.
And then his friend hooked onto a big fish.
It must have been a very, very big fish, for the friend fought it for a very great while, his rod being pulled down toward the hole, his face red and his breath coming fast and hot in visible huffs of effort. Gradually the struggle went to the man, however, and the fish, still wrestling wildly with supple strength, was hauled slowly up, up into the light. The Rottweiler was beside himself. He danced around the hole, barking gruffly in his huge deep voice, head darting in time after time as it seemed the fish would be in reach, only to have it heave and arch itself back into the depths. Again and again, fish and man writhing in opposition to each other, the dog growing ever more daring, crouching, springing, lunging back.
And then suddenly the fish was above the surface, a powerful broad silver band of muscle flexing desperately at the end of the arched pole, and the dog, sensing victory, stood tall, gaped his great jaws wide, and stretched far far out over the black water to capture the prize. He deftly turned and twisted with the struggling fish, seized it -- and the line broke.
Overbalanced, with a look of absolute astonishment in its staring eyes, the dog fell into the dark water with the fish still in his mouth, and disappeared.
Now it was the master's turn to be frenzied. After a second's pause of utter incredulity, with a cry he fell to his knees beside the hole, his arms stretched down into the frigid water, shouting the dog's name. The visitor crouched beside him, face close to the surface, trying to penetrate the featureless depth; he realized that he, too, was shouting the dog's name, comprehended that it was pointless and futile -- and shouted all the more.
No dog.
For interminable seconds, and then minutes, and more, stretching out to the utmost extension of what was reasonable, of what was unreasonable, of what was impossible, until their cries grew hoarse, until it was starkly, horribly plain that no warm-blood creature could survive so long in that icy deep. They looked up into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then each looked away, and wearily they stood up. Without a word they stepped outside the shack and, standing a little apart from each other, stared into the distance.
A hundred feet away or so was the next nearest fishing shack. It was a disreputable-looking thing that seemed to be made of doors nailed together and covered in tarpaper. The visitor found himself staring at it idly. Thin trail of smoke issuing from a makeshift stovepipe on the roof, blending quickly with the low gray sky... He turned slowly, studying the distant shoreline, snow creaking underfoot as he shifted his weight... He'd better get his friend into someplace warm before those wet arms-
A sudden loud gurgling scream of horror whipped their heads about. Before they could react the tarpaper shack next door seemed to explode out toward them, its facing side slamming to the ice with a loud report, and the figure of a man came at them at a shambling run, shouting, "Run! Jesus Christ, run! What the Christ is it? Jesus, come on, oh, Jesus, run!" He was upon them. "Get me out of here!" he screamed into their faces, turned to look back at his shack, then whirled upon them again."I'm going for your truck! Follow me! Oh, Jesus!"
They grabbed him, arrested his flight, spun him around. "What the hell is wrong?" they asked him. "What are you running from?"
"How the hell do I know? Oh, Christ, it's HUGE! Red eyes -- teeth like-" He stared at them. "It's all BLACK! Oh, Jesus-" and he broke from them and half-ran, half-staggered toward the truck.
They looked at each other.
"All -- BLACK?!!"
And then they were running, too, but in the opposite direction, of course. They pulled the shivering, frost-rimed dog the rest of the way out of the water from the lip where he was clinging desperately by his forelegs, scrabbling weakly for purchase and whimpering in his throat, found a blanket to wrap him in, and took turns carrying his sopping, sagging weight back to their own shack, where they cranked up the stove and dried him and chafed him and told him that he was a good dog, yes, a very good dog, the best.
He would not meet their eyes, though.
He had let go of the fish.
----------
The narrator told this story so well that everyone in the bar had stopped to listen. There was a long silence when he finished, and then, in a kind of an anti-climax, he stood and gathered up his cashmere coat. "C'mon, fellas," he said. "We'll be late getting back." I wanted to applaud, you know? But, of course, it's New York, and you don't. Though Ada and I still smile at each other when now and again we remember that lunch, and the tale, and how well he told it. We wonder if it was a true story, or was it one of those legends that gets picked up and repeated, like the poodle in the microwave legend, or the bloody hook on the car door legend.
Never saw him again, of course.
An Ice-Fishing Story
The lovely former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico once worked as administrative assistant to a general contractor's project manager, on site at the construction of a big tower office building on Seventh, a little north of Times Square. I was in the city one day on business, so we met for lunch, and at my insistence went to one of the ubiquitous Irish steam-table bars nearby. Yum. Hadn't indulged in many years. Nor was I disappointed. Brisket with gravy and mashed, stale sliced bread and canned peas and lots of cold beer to lubricate all: very fine. An acquired taste, of course.
It was a late lunch and the place was beginning to quiet down, except for one table of seven or eight business types of various ages telling stories and laughing loudly. As we were finishing up, the oldest of them, very well dressed and distinguished-looking, began a tale that captivated us, and we fell as silent as did his friends, all of us motionless as he recounted it.
I don't know what got him onto the subject; I didn't hear that part. But he explained ice fishing -- several of his companions, city boys, had never seen or even heard of it -- and then told how he had been taken out on a gray day in the Adirondacks for his only experience of the sport. The friend he went out with drove a pickup truck out onto the ice, to this fellow's nervous amazement, taking them to a little fishing village of variegated shanties and huts right in the middle of the frozen lake. The friend's Rottweiler, very large and deep black and golliwog friendly, rode in the back of the truck, and seemed if anything even more excited than his master at the prospect of a day on the ice.
The friend's fishing shanty was a little larger and more elaborate than most, and was toasty warm inside, quite close to being above freezing, and they re-cut the hole with a power auger brought for the purpose, and settled down to fish. A highlight of the experience was the way the Rottweiler got into the action, for when a fish was caught and brought up to the surface, the dog would dart in, grasp the fish in his huge jaws, and very gently deposit it at the feet of his master. Lavish praise, special treat, stump of a tail wagging ecstatically... repeat.
This managed to make the day's events more amusing by half, meaning that the fun didn't go out of it all for our narrator for damn near an hour, as he said. But, not wanting to be a poor guest, he kept smiling bravely, applauded the dog's efforts manfully, and tried to imagine how good he would feel when they left, by way of keeping his spirits up.
And then his friend hooked onto a big fish.
It must have been a very, very big fish, for the friend fought it for a very great while, his rod being pulled down toward the hole, his face red and his breath coming fast and hot in visible huffs of effort. Gradually the struggle went to the man, however, and the fish, still wrestling wildly with supple strength, was hauled slowly up, up into the light. The Rottweiler was beside himself. He danced around the hole, barking gruffly in his huge deep voice, head darting in time after time as it seemed the fish would be in reach, only to have it heave and arch itself back into the depths. Again and again, fish and man writhing in opposition to each other, the dog growing ever more daring, crouching, springing, lunging back.
And then suddenly the fish was above the surface, a powerful broad silver band of muscle flexing desperately at the end of the arched pole, and the dog, sensing victory, stood tall, gaped his great jaws wide, and stretched far far out over the black water to capture the prize. He deftly turned and twisted with the struggling fish, seized it -- and the line broke.
Overbalanced, with a look of absolute astonishment in its staring eyes, the dog fell into the dark water with the fish still in his mouth, and disappeared.
Now it was the master's turn to be frenzied. After a second's pause of utter incredulity, with a cry he fell to his knees beside the hole, his arms stretched down into the frigid water, shouting the dog's name. The visitor crouched beside him, face close to the surface, trying to penetrate the featureless depth; he realized that he, too, was shouting the dog's name, comprehended that it was pointless and futile -- and shouted all the more.
No dog.
For interminable seconds, and then minutes, and more, stretching out to the utmost extension of what was reasonable, of what was unreasonable, of what was impossible, until their cries grew hoarse, until it was starkly, horribly plain that no warm-blood creature could survive so long in that icy deep. They looked up into each other's eyes for a long moment. Then each looked away, and wearily they stood up. Without a word they stepped outside the shack and, standing a little apart from each other, stared into the distance.
A hundred feet away or so was the next nearest fishing shack. It was a disreputable-looking thing that seemed to be made of doors nailed together and covered in tarpaper. The visitor found himself staring at it idly. Thin trail of smoke issuing from a makeshift stovepipe on the roof, blending quickly with the low gray sky... He turned slowly, studying the distant shoreline, snow creaking underfoot as he shifted his weight... He'd better get his friend into someplace warm before those wet arms-
A sudden loud gurgling scream of horror whipped their heads about. Before they could react the tarpaper shack next door seemed to explode out toward them, its facing side slamming to the ice with a loud report, and the figure of a man came at them at a shambling run, shouting, "Run! Jesus Christ, run! What the Christ is it? Jesus, come on, oh, Jesus, run!" He was upon them. "Get me out of here!" he screamed into their faces, turned to look back at his shack, then whirled upon them again."I'm going for your truck! Follow me! Oh, Jesus!"
They grabbed him, arrested his flight, spun him around. "What the hell is wrong?" they asked him. "What are you running from?"
"How the hell do I know? Oh, Christ, it's HUGE! Red eyes -- teeth like-" He stared at them. "It's all BLACK! Oh, Jesus-" and he broke from them and half-ran, half-staggered toward the truck.
They looked at each other.
"All -- BLACK?!!"
And then they were running, too, but in the opposite direction, of course. They pulled the shivering, frost-rimed dog the rest of the way out of the water from the lip where he was clinging desperately by his forelegs, scrabbling weakly for purchase and whimpering in his throat, found a blanket to wrap him in, and took turns carrying his sopping, sagging weight back to their own shack, where they cranked up the stove and dried him and chafed him and told him that he was a good dog, yes, a very good dog, the best.
He would not meet their eyes, though.
He had let go of the fish.
----------
The narrator told this story so well that everyone in the bar had stopped to listen. There was a long silence when he finished, and then, in a kind of an anti-climax, he stood and gathered up his cashmere coat. "C'mon, fellas," he said. "We'll be late getting back." I wanted to applaud, you know? But, of course, it's New York, and you don't. Though Ada and I still smile at each other when now and again we remember that lunch, and the tale, and how well he told it. We wonder if it was a true story, or was it one of those legends that gets picked up and repeated, like the poodle in the microwave legend, or the bloody hook on the car door legend.
Never saw him again, of course.
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