Bob Deakin Short Stories

Cars heading to the Davenport tag sale clog traffic.

Police responded to a disturbance at 111 Northrup Street early Saturday morning when a traffic jam formed in front of the Davenport home as dozens of people showed up for a much-anticipated tag sale. Police were called by the homeowner, who claimed he had announced no such event.

“I never arranged for a tag sale for today or any day,” said angry homeowner Vincent Davenport to police, who were forced to direct traffic in the rural neighborhood for several hours. “Why would I invite a bunch of strangers to my house on a Saturday morning?”

Davenport was initially awakened by knocks on his door and startled to find several dozen people milling about in front of his house. When they refused to leave he grew angry and returned with a baseball bat to scare them away, only to receive several offers for the bat.

Respondents produced an ad in the local newspaper showing a tag sale slated for 7 am at that address on that day, which police took into evidence. Several attendees also produced a printout of the notice posted on Craigslist for the same event, which police quickly discarded as fraud.

The disturbance erupted at approximately 6:55 am when a prompt group of veteran tag sale aficionados, or ‘taggers’ as they are known in the trade, arrived to peruse the wares at his home at the start of their well organized day.

Mr. Davenport awakens early to find 'taggers' in front of his home.

Tagger Hank Zeppo was typical of those who showed up.

“We were following our itinerary through the southeastern quadrant of town – based on the rising sun – before moving on to northeast quadrant number two at 41°31′33″N 73°21′39″W. From here we move on to central sectors one and two, then to the north and west, as is normal for our coverage pattern launch at dawn on Saturdays.”

These experts come well prepared for the weekend missions armed with food, water and generic soda rations, GPS devices, dubiously-claimed amounts of cash (depending on the item discovered) and small slips of paper known as ‘checks,’ formerly used as a form of currency now used only by women over 50 at grocery stores.

Veteran tagger Ray Hornig was none too pleased with the goings on at 111 Northrup.

“Jannie and I were all set to start here as part of a busy day of tagging and we get this,” he said, incredulously. “I don’t know what’s going on but we were going to designate 20 to 30 minutes to this place and 15 to the next and now we’ve got to make adjustments on the fly all day. This world is going to hell in a hen basket.”

The analogy was later corrected to ‘hell in a hand basket,’ which still makes no sense, but his point was made.

Tagger Justin Mitchell, whose first name belies his age – estimated in his late 60s – intends to approach city hall to crack down on the tag sale ordinance in Springfield.

Mr. Davenport takes a stronger stance against the uninvited guests.

“We must have an ordinance for police to identify permitted tag sales,” he stressed. “My wife and I came here looking for Wacky Packages, Partridge Family and M*A*S*H memorabilia, as any tagger worth his salt would expect to find in a neighborhood like this. We just heard a minute ago he didn’t plan this sale but since we’re all here and traffic’s backed up can’t he just pop open the garage door and let us have a quick look around?”

The ad printed in the local newspaper welcomed early birds and boasted of vintage clothing, Hammond organs, HDTVs, cocktail glass sets, 1970s memorabilia, classic furniture from the 1960s and much more.

All anyone got was disappointment.

“I’ve been searching for a Hammond B-3 organ for the last ten years and I thought today might be my lucky day,” said Troy Dufiss, oblivious to the fact that there was in fact, no tag sale at the house. “Is he going to open that garage or am I going to have to open it for him?”

Davenport continues to guard the home throughout the day.

After several hours of research police determined that the announcement of the tag sale was a hoax concocted by an acquaintance of the homeowner. It turns out Ed Maloney, bartender at the local tavern, “One For The Road,” submitted the advertisements as an act of revenge on the part of Mr. Davenport.

Davenport and his wife – both regulars at the tavern – were there earlier in the week and gave Maloney yet another in a series of extremely poor tips after spending several hours at the establishment.

“What comes around goes around,” is all Maloney is reported to have said to police during questioning.

Mr. Davenport declined to press charges but Springfield Police Sargent Duke Morris confirmed that several of the taggers filed complaints. Asked how residents can prevent such scams in the future, Sargent Morris gave only one bit of advice.

“Tip your bartender.”

This story was originally written as a guest blog piece for Greg Van Antwerp’s Video Martyr Blog.

Copyright 2011

Good Afternoon!

Columnist Bob Deakin looks into public transportation and its effect on people

Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton sing their hearts out.

It’s another wonderful evening together – Lucy and me at the rooftop lounge. The margaritas are going down like water with hors d’ oeuvres to die for. The moon is rising over a turquoise sky with a velvet breeze rustling our hair as the soft pop tunes from the late 70s so appropriately score the scene with an undercurrent of melancholy.

Could she be the one? I ask myself – a fleeting thought comes to me before I stop it in its tracks. Let’s just take it easy and enjoy our time together, I reassure myself knowing the challenge that lies ahead.

My life with Lucy is developing into a thrilling love story but still, there is but one giant hurdle to conquer before we reach the next level, and she doesn’t even know it. I wander and wonder, looking for a way to break it to her gently: I am an openly obsessed Kenny Rogers fan.

That’s right. The Gambler. The Coward of the County. Kenny Rogers Roasters fried chicken restaurants and the duets with the ladies.

Maybe Lucy will take it well. Maybe she’ll love me and maybe she won’t, but I hope if she leaves that she believes in me. I’ll just have to suck it up and go home singing “you picked a fine time to leave me Lucille.”

All of a sudden I decide it’s time to get this over with. I steady myself, puff out my chest, look Lucy in the eyes and announce loud and clear, “Lucy, I’m a big time Kenny Rogers fan, I’m proud of it, I’ll never stop loving his music and if you leave me as a result, I’ll take it like a man. All I ask is that Lucy… don’t take your love to town.”

I can see she’s uncomfortable, wriggling in her seat, looking at her hands, and I find myself deeply concerned with the condition that her condition is in.

“Lucy,” I stammer, the words crashing into the lump in my throat. “You’re my lady. I don’t expect you to fall in love with a dreamer, but you’ve decorated my life in ways you’ll never know. I’ll understand if you don’t need me baby but if you accept me for who I am, through the years, we can love the world away.”

Out of the blue Lucy sings out, “Islands in the stream!” I start to smile but I don’t know where she’s going with this. “That is what we are,” she continues in her best Dolly Parton.

“No one in between,” I respond at the top of my lungs in my stellar Kenny impersonation, hopping on top of our table. “How can we be wrong!”

“Sail away with me, to another world!” Lucy sings out as she joins me on the tabletop, in the cutest, most adorably shilling, delicate Dolly impersonation anyone has ever heard, as if she’d spent years pretending to be Dolly… as I had Kenny.

Then we sing out in unison, for the whole lounge and the whole world to hear:

“And we rely on each other, uh huuuhhh.”

Copyright 2010

Rough versions of the yellow and blue topaz.

I’m at this party Friday night following a poetry reading and meet a diverse group of interesting people. It is held at a beautiful home by the lake and many of the guests have very exotic names including Felicity, Brando, November, Heath and Brock. My name being Bob, I almost feel too common to be in their company but I make the best of it and welcome the opportunity to meet new friends.

The poetry was very well done. Much of it inspiring, some of it funny and of course the depressing poets were well represented too, bringing us down with the dexterity of a concert violinist. Not being a poet, I feel out of place at the reading but I’m happy to be there and glad to make my way to the party afterward at the invitation of Rain, the poetry group leader. It’s a step outside my normal bounds and I find myself discussing things I haven’t pondered in years.

The food at the party is wonderful and I’m discovering fascinating personalities, exchanging ideas and views of the world and fitting in rather nicely. It’s a rousing soiree and Vespa, the hostess, is quite the social butterfly with a habit of sternly yet eloquently pronouncing the name of each person she is conversing or joking with, usually Felicity, Brando or November.

After a while however, the names are starting to get to me.

Why would someone name their daughter November? I ask myself as I glance in her direction. Nice name, but everyone who meets her must wonder if that’s the month in which she was born. If not, there must be some long-haired story behind it.

Just then, Brando walks up.

“Hey man,” he says, asking my name and clicking my glass with his. “Brando. What do you do? You an author?”

I don’t even ask him what he does. He’s Brando, and that sounds like a full-time job in itself: I guess I’m starting to get a little bitter.

I then bump into Felicity as we both walk into the kitchen to freshen our drinks and she is quite the sassy lass. She’s had a few already and asks me if I’m friends with Vespa. I think to myself that I once rode a Vespa – the brand of motor scooter – but that doesn’t seem an appropriate reply. She then tells me, ad nauseam, all about Vespa and how she tunes into the human soul with her poetry and that she’s also a brilliant painter.

My patience is waning and I’m sensing a slow burn at the bottom of my stomach. Just then, Heath strolls up and introduces me to a woman named Topaz, and that brings me to the boiling point.

“Your name can’t be Topaz,” I say, condescendingly, refusing her handshake and drawing uncomfortable stares from around the room. “Topaz is an aluminum-based mineral, as far as I know. No offense, but what block head gave you that name?”

Turns out it was her father.

“Were you named after the mineral or the car sold by the Mercury Division of the Ford Motor Company?” I continue, burning every bridge in the room and bringing all happiness to a halt.

She cynically explains that her father was a geologist, that the Topaz held supreme significance for him and that the Blue Topaz was her birthstone, from the month of December. I reason to her that before I was born my father drove my mother to the hospital in a Rambler Station Wagon and that perhaps my name should be Rambler.

“Imagine the number of songs I could put onto a custom CD mix for friends with my name as the theme,” I say to Topaz as she prepares to throw a drink in my face. “You could be talking to Rambler right now. Imagine Rambler asking your daughter out to a movie next Friday? Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” was Number One on the Charts the day I was born. Perhaps Babe should be my name.”

The good spirit now sucked from the room, Vespa’s sister, Polaris, swiftly escorts me to the door explaining that the Yellow Topaz is the November birthstone, and that November’s parents gave her the middle name of Topaz, which means there are actually two Topaz’s at the party.

“It’s time to leave, Bob,” she said, sternly.

Copyright 2010

Mr. Skinny Mini delivers a package no one wants to sign for.

Here he comes,

Walking down the beach.
He gets the funniest looks from,
Everyone he meets.

No, no, he’s not one of the Monkees, he’s a grown man wearing a speedo. Mr. Skinny Mini, and he’s a comin’ this way.

“Honey, hide the kids,” a man on the beach hurriedly calls to his wife, spotting the approaching man in the creepy-small speedo. “Skinny mini at 3-o’clock.”

Honey diverts the kids’ attention as the father rifles through a sack of beach toys for an object that doesn’t exist in order to divert his own attention.

Mr. Skinny Mini pays no mind. He doesn’t see the family scurrying. He doesn’t hear the people laughing. He’s got only one thing on his mind: Mr. Skinny Mini and the flock of women that surely must be waiting for him and his dangling sack of toys.

In a modern-day version of The Emperor’s New Clothes, Mr. Skinny Mini doesn’t see a disturbingly-small bathing suit, he sees the most stunningly beautiful bathing suit in the land, but the “common people” on the beach see almost nothing at all. Either they’re unfit or just too stupid to revel in the beauty bestowed upon them.

Regardless, it’s not the clothing that makes the man, it’s what’s on the inside that counts, and everyone on the beach has no choice but to count: Two. As in the number of potatoes fighting their way out of his bikini bottom, making everyone on the beach wish they were as far away as Idaho and pray that a pretty girl doesn’t walk by, making something the shape of Florida enter the fray in the battle to escape his britches.

It’s an instant theater of the awkward. Otherwise happy, comfortable people scramble to look away, walk in another direction, draw their attention to something else or strike up a conversation about anything but Mr. Skinny Mini and his wares. The prettiest girls cringe, the toughest guys shy away and rambunctious children sit quietly by their parents. Even smoke from a distant fire drifts in another direction.

And just when it looks safe to head back into the water, it’s time for the encore: His bum. Resembling two bulldogs trapped in a balloon, Mr. Skinny Mini does his best to make sure anyone who missed the approaching train will surely marvel at the caboose. He makes just as grand an exit as he did an entrance, living by the old showbiz adage, “leave them wanting more.” Those on the beach just wish he would leave them.

When it comes down to it, Mr. Skinny Mini’s just trying to be friendly, and he’s too busy swinging, to put anybody down. He’s there to impress the women – and maybe even the men – and he’s pulled out all the stops to make it happen. He’s the living embodiment of the phrase “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”

Just like the emperor, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, not in the eyes of those obligated to do so, at least on a public beach. Whether it’s a sack of toys, a couple of potatoes, the state of Florida or two trapped bulldogs, Mr. Skinny Mini has delivered a package no one wants to sign for.

Copyright 2010

One of these days I’m going to find the estate sale from heaven.

I’ll be driving by late on a Saturday afternoon, long after the professional “taggers” have contaminated the place after their week of planning, research and subsequent assault.

I’ll park in the large, shaded driveway, not on a narrow two-lane major thoroughfare with a 55 mph speed limit, and I won’t feel like I’m walking onto the set of King of the Hill if it wasn’t a cartoon. I will comfortably get out of my car and no dogs will be there to harass me, nor will I experience the requisite rise in testosterone preparing to kill them.

I will leisurely stroll over to the house with a presence of pleasant human beings when a lovely female hostess arrives, leading me through the spotless, palatial estate. Thereafter I take in the sights, observe the wares – all tagged with prices – and wring my hands at the countless opportunities while the score of an Italian film from the early 1960s plays softly in the background.

Right away I find an old Hammond B-3 organ, just like the one on the pop and rock songs of the 60s, and it works. I confirm the model by easily looking on the back panel, see that all the parts are in place, and make it known to the hostess that I plan to walk out with it, and find that she wants only $50, a significant discount from the several thousand dollars I would expect to pay.

I then head back to the items on display and what to my surprise? It’s an electric vibraphone with the vibrato foot pedals in place, also working, also with a price tag of $50, again a solid discount from the several thousand dollars I would expect.

Once the purchase is secured, before I even make my way across the room, I stumble over a Bang & Olufsen turntable, never used and still in the box from 1982. There is no price tag on it but the hostess doesn’t even know what it is and tells me I can have it for, “does five dollars sound fair?”

Indeed it does. I secure it and continue browsing.

I pass the countless antiques, Ansel Adams prints, 1920s cuckoo clocks, 1930s telephones, 1940s baseball memorabilia and neon Ballantine Ale signs from the taverns of Manhattan in the 1950s, making small talk with the hostess.

I then spot a dark blue, sharkskin suit with narrow pant-legs, matching white handkerchief and cuff links, circa 1962, a la Dean Martin in the Rat Pack movies. It’s a perfect match for my size, and the hostess modestly utters, “would you be interested in the cocktail mixer set, including etched-glass martini shaker, ice bucket, silver-plated snifters, bottle stopper and tan leather case from the same era?”

“Indeed I would, although I only have so much to spend, and I would like the suit, so…”

All my dreams of the 1960′s are nearly complete and I take a complementary walk around the place, ponder a few more purchases, and notice that I’m a bit parched.

“Would you care for a Negroni? The hostess offers, introducing herself as Maria. “It’s the original martini, the perfect blend of gin, sweet vermouth and bitters. If you don’t mind vintage martini glasses from the set of Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder, I’d be happy to pour you one.”

“Well… I guess one wouldn’t hurt,” I politely respond.

Maria, who is the spitting image of Sophia Loren in 1960, pours two and hands me one, then gently caresses my hair with a swath of her hand, admitting she’s a bit shy for being so forward on a Saturday afternoon at an estate sale.

“My sincerest thanks to you, my dear,” I say, raising my glass toward hers. “Such a lovely day among such opulence, with such a charming hostess being so kind to a gentleman stranger. What, may I ask, have I done to deserve such splendor?”

And just then, I turn over in my bed and wake up. Damn it! Another Monday. Why can’t I have these dreams on Saturday mornings.

(This story was my submission as a guest blogger on Greg Van Antwerp’s Urban Archeologist blog on June 24, 2010.)

Copyright 2010

"You and Me Against the World" is from Helen Reddy's "Love Song for Jeffrey" album.

I was always a sucker for a good sappy song from the 1970s. When I was a little kid roaming the shores of St. Pete Beach, Florida, my only cares in the world were finding sea shells and hoping my older brothers and sisters would let me stop by their rooms and listen to music. They were into Chicago, Steely Dan, The Beatles, Beach Boys and others, and I was hip to everything except why The Doobie Brothers called themselves that when they were obviously not brothers.

I did have some of my own forbidden musical pleasures, however, such as The Carpenters and Gilbert O’Sullivan (yes, Gilbert O’Sullivan), but there was one song that I adored, which was just too sad to play on the stereo: “You and Me Against the World,” by Helen Reddy. I remember it occasionally playing in the house, typically followed by everyone going their separate ways or one of my brothers yanking it off the turntable and quickly throwing on something else.

The song was written by Paul Williams and Kenny Ascher and it sadly emotes a single mother’s plight ‘against the world’ and how they’ll ‘muddle through’ when ‘one of us is left to carry on’ and so forth. It’s an amazingly beautiful song. A small orchestra works the melody with a stunning vibrato electric guitar while Helen works her magic on the lead vocal. For added anguish, Helen’s young child is included in the mix, cooing “I love you mommy” at the end for maximum melancholy. The little bastard.

The song’s sentiment fits any situation at a given time of sadness and unfortunately it works really well. Someone in my family bought the record not long after it was released in 1974 and I played it a few times, but it was just too sad to play, and I wouldn’t play it in front of anyone for fear that I might start crying. The notes were sad enough but to hear the lyrics was just too much. It’s so sad that I almost wish it had never been written.

“You and Me Against the World” always hit me hard. I was very independent in a large family and occasionally had ‘me against the world’ feelings, in an immature, dramatic way. Match this with my realization that not every kid had it as good as me, and there we have a powerful emotional collision to ruin a good afternoon.

I must add that at the time, I still had the wonderful innocence to believe that songs were “real” in the sense that the singer was telling their own true story. This caused me to wrestle with the dichotomy: “If you’re Helen Reddy – rich, famous and beautiful – aren’t things going better than that for you these days?” I always wondered what the inspiration for the song really was, so I decided to go to the source, and I contacted Paul Williams.

“It’s one of those songs that seems to resonate with single parents,” he said. “I get a lot of nice ‘heart payments’ from people thanking me for the song. It’s the best part of being a songwriter. Thanks for honoring the tune.”

I didn’t tell him that I’m not really “honoring” the tune though in a way I guess I am.

Another source of torment for me is the apparent message that the song conveys, which is to retain sad memories: The memories alone will get us through; Think about the days of me and you. You and me against the world.

Somebody get me a drink and some pills.

I didn’t ask if he was trying to torment the listener with that message, but I have a growing list of concerns about the song that just might warrant another phone call to Mr. Williams.

Damn you Helen Reddy.

Copyright 2009

You can't rush the band getting ready for the gig.

The drummer arrives and begins an endless succession of thumps on his kick drum, snaps on his snare and booms on his toms – all to tune the drums – as well as pings and ta-dings on his cymbals, as if there’s anything he can do to change their pitch.

Next up is the bass player, turning up his amp and popping the strings with his thumb – a la funk style – then it’s long slides up the fret board to demo his rock & roll chops before he finishes off with the obligatory 4-string chords to show he can play jazz like Stanley Clarke.

The keyboardist then takes his turn experimenting with every conceivable sound effect on his synthesizer even though he’ll use only two different sounds during the entire performance.

Last but not least it’s the guitar player. He’s already late for the gig but he’s obligated to play the requisite riffs from “Smoke on the Water,” “Stairway to Heaven” and a Jimi Hendrix lick or two. After that he must have the absolutely-precise blend of Myers rum, ginger ale and ice topped with club soda in his tall glass before he’ll even consider beginning the show.

Heaven forbid there is more than one vocalist because they are each required to practice singing a phrase from a Beatles, Journey or Lynyrd Skynyrd song or, of course, the line, “Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends…” from the Emerson, Lake & Palmer song.

Once everyone is ready to go the lights dim, the background music is turned off and each member of the band must check the set list five more times, get another drink, smoke another butt then finally begin the first song.

A famous recording engineer once told me that the way to tell a real professional musician is if he doesn’t play even one note before the session begins.

As I sit in the audience I think to myself that bit of advice is too many miles and too many smiles ago, and how I wish that engineer was sitting next to me here for this evening of 50′s tunes at the senior center.

Copyright 2010

There she stood, long hair dangling in the warm breeze as she writhed like a snake, to the pleasure of the small group gathered to watch. All the people came to stop and stare, including me. But it wasn’t her belly I was staring at, it was the bells on her bottom.

“Did you hear the music?” Did you see her body sing that song?” the wise man next to me asked.

“I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom,” I replied, feeling foolish and narrow-minded.

I was struck at how the bells on her bottom were the perfect accompaniment to the tabla and other Middle-Eastern instruments. Her veil echoed the winds while her belly played the bass.

A man with a curiously intelligent beard then sidled up to me and asked, “Do you know the meaning of the music?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, pensively, feeling ignorant and shallow. “I was too busy watching the bells on her bottom.”

Her hands and arms were floating in the sound waves of the main theme, while her hair changed directions with every measure.

“Do you know why it is that she is performing this dance?” another man asked me, conspicuously awaiting my reply with raised brow.

“I was really taken with those bells on her bottom,” I replied, sheepishly and embarrassed.

I couldn’t get my mind off the way her hips played a frantic rhythm, uninterrupted and even. Everything on her moved in concert, but I couldn’t get my mind off those bells on her bottom.

“Did you notice those bells on her bottom?” a young child asked, innocently.

“What bells are you speaking of?” I replied, feeling deaf, blind and immature.

Copyright 2010

Frankie suffering for his art.

“Can’t you knock first?” shouted Frankie, the red-faced artist, angrily, raising his pallet so that only his eyes were visible.

He was standing in a small, poorly-lit room, with various objects carefully sprawled about the floor while staring at his painting of a pirate. Included were everything from an ashtray and industrial adhesives to nude photos, bottles and buckets. This was a scheduled visit by the students from Stetson University to see his latest work in progress, but Frankie was not quite ready to show it off.

Everett Thomas, the art teacher leading the students, apologized as the students filed in and quickly viewed the display before leaving. He then had a brief, tense chat with Frankie before heading out with the students. Frankie agreed to come and speak to the group a few minutes later and offer insight into his current work.

The students made their way to another room and sat to discuss the show. Energy was high and they were bouncing in their seats to make comments.

“It was an unconventional display of art of course, but aren’t they all,” Mr. Thomas began. “Did you notice how important it was for the artist, right there, during our tour, to re-position the bucket in such a carefully chosen location? A true artist is never satisfied with random placement of his subjects.”

“It was amazing,” Tiffany interjected, her hands on her knees in glee. “That was such a compelling statement. I don’t know where to start. I’ve never had a work of art hit me like that before.”

“I see a man of the sea in horrible pain,” offered Seth, frantically attempting to explain Frankie’s use of color, texture and ‘found treasures.’ “His ability to emote an emotion is incomparable.”

Other students followed in praising the artist’s work, complimenting everything from the pirate hat in the painting to the mop in the bucket on the floor.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie finally arrived to talk to the students and answer questions.

“What was the message you were trying to send with this phenomenal work?” Mr. Thomas said, kicking off the questioning.

“I must start by apologizing to you all about this project,” Frankie said, his face painted with extreme disappointment. “I’ve been up for three days drinking beer, sniffing glue, looking at porn and trying to fix this goddamn leak in the ceiling.”

Copyright 2009