11.12.2022

ZUCCHINI

(a true story)

​

I drove down to Northern California awhile back to visit my dad. My mom,

Lucy, died a couple years ago so now my sister and I try to see the old man

as much as we can. 

He seems to be doing okay, making the major adjustment slowly, but 

keeping up his routines that give him some kind of stability and comfort. 

We were worried about him at first. 

When Kim and I showed up after hearing the news about my mom, we 

walked into the house and there was dad at the breakfast table, sitting alone 

in the silent house. He was having his “lunch”; using a chocolate biscotti 

from Costco to spoon tuna out of the can and into his mouth. 

Just shock probably, we thought, envisioning some mighty interesting 

future meals. 

So my sister Barbara and I have been taking turns going and seeing him, 

making sure he’s not eating frozen peas mixed with Kibbles and Bits, or 

turning into Ronald Reagan.

To get a more complete vision of my dad, close your eyes and imagine the

Skipper from Gilligan’s Island. Got it? Okay, now for his speaking voice,

imagine Floyd the barber from the Andy Griffith show, combined with the

awkward...strained...and chopped...speech pattern...of William...Shatner.

It’s always been surreal being around him. He’s a very strange person. He 

believes that the rest of us should be able to read his mind, and that makes 

for colorful conversations. Such as:

DAD - 

Where’d she put it?

JIM - 

Who?

DAD - 

The key.

JIM - 

What key..? Who?

DAD - 

Water, water, water.

JIM - 

What are you talking about?

DAD - 

Yer MOTHER, kid!!

JIM -

Oh. What key?

DAD - 

To the GRANDFATHER CLOCK, kid! Jesus...

JIM -

Mom...she kept the key? I’m confused.

DAD - 

No, jeez...your mother used to wind...the clock while I was out...watering.

We...had...two keys. Now I just lost one of them and I...can’t...find the other

one. Aren’t you listening to me? Jeez, Lucille...where’d you put it?

I think my mother is resting peacefully.

So I showed up at Dad’s house this most recent time after driving for ten

hours. I walked in, we chatted for a few minutes, had a couple of cocktails,

and seeing how it was about 8pm I asked him what the plans were for dinner.

​

He said, “Well, I thought you could cook something.”

​

I told him that I just drove ten hours to get there and if he thought I was cooking, he could go get fucked. 

You’re taking me out, I told him.

We started calling a few places to see what was open and it turned out, 

everyplace in his little town that didn’t cause extreme intestinal distress was closed Mondays.

So I got in the damn car, went to the damn market, and shaking my head and muttering to myself the whole time, cooked our damn dinner.

Before going to bed that night my dad said, “Okay 10.15 tomorrow...we’ll go

to the produce market...”

I’m usually an early riser, but dad lives basically in the forest. Very quiet.

When I visit down there I’ve been known to sleep till someone wakes me up.

“Can you wake me up by 9 if I’m not already up?” I asked.

He said sure, and the next morning I was awoken by a fist beating on the

door.

“Quarter to ten, Jimmy...get up.”

Quarter to...God Da...arggh.

So I raced around and was ready by 10.25. Dad was all in a dither.

We jumped in the car, got down to the produce market (tents set up on the 

parking lot of a church), and dad nearly leapt from the car, clearly agitated.

It was 10.30 am and 105 degrees. 

And I don’t do heat.

We approached a small group of old folks gathered around a woman who

was seated.

“R65...322” she said.

“That’s me!” a blue-haired, doddering granny delighted. She proudly handed

over her ticket stub to the woman running the raffle, and received a head of

iceberg lettuce. Granny beamed.

“Shit!! We missed it!!” Dad said.

“Oh, I didn’t know there was a raffle” I said.

“Kid, I told you - 10.15!!!” Dad said.

In the past I would’ve pointed out that by him saying “Produce market at 10.15”, well, that doesn’t automatically explain to me that there’s a RAFFLE that my dad wants to go to at the produce market at 10.15...but I let it go.

“Last week I won potatoes...” Dad said.

I had no response to that.

​

The next little exchange that we had, standing out there broiling on asphalt 

under a raging sun, really stands out in my mind as one of our great father /

son moments. 

​

Here it is:

DAD - 

Alright, kid...here’s 20 dollars.

JIM - 

For what?

DAD - 

Get whatever you want.

JIM - 

Uhh...I don’t want anything. But thank you.

DAD - 

Get some fruit.

JIM - 

But, I don’t want any fruit.

DAD - 

For breakfast.

JIM - 

Oh...well, you see...that’s what YOU eat for breakfast.

DAD - 

It’s good for you.

JIM - 

(a blank stare)

DAD - 

Well, at least get the zucchini.

JIM - 

Zucchini? For what?

DAD - 

For the CASSEROLE...Jesus, kid!

I’d like to start a band called Jesus Kid.

Three months ago, I found some of my Grandma Bessie’s old recipes in a

box we took from her house when she died several years ago. Over the next

couple of weeks I cooked a few of them, and had told dad about it. One of

the meals was a zucchini casserole. When I told him I’d cooked it, he

grunted, and that was the end of it. Till now I supposed. I deduced that this

was what he was on about, this casserole I’d eaten and digested 12 weeks ago.

​

JIM - 

Are you talking about Bessie’s casserole?

DAD - 

Yeah! You can cook me that casserole.

JIM - 

Well, heh, a couple of things. First, I haven’t exactly committed that recipe

to memory quite yet. Sorry about that. Second, had I KNOWN you wanted

me to cook you Bessie’s casserole, I would’ve made it a point to bring the 

recipe with me. Sadly though, it’s 500 miles away from here in a box on top

of my refrigerator.

Dad furrowed his brow and squinted into the sun.

DAD - 

Well then what are we doing here?

And that was my thought exactly.

11.6.2022

THE EXTERMINATOR GAVE US THE SKINNY

(a true story)

​

It was sometime in late 1993.

Kim and I had just kinda started, um...getting physical. 

Sorry, I  don’t know how to sugarcoat these things, please forgive me. 

Now you know.

We were living in LA. 

Kim was working for this old-timey movie producer guy - Dino DeLaurentis. 

This guy started off in Italy as a younger man producing Fellini movies and other 

cool stuff. Then after he moved to the States he produced the first remake of KING 

KONG with that hubba-hubba Jessica Lange back in the day. 

He also did David Lynch’s bizarro masterpiece BLUE VELVET, SILENCE OF 

THE LAMBS and tons of other great flicks. 

Suffice it to say, she had a great job and got to meet a lot of interesting folks during her stint in LA. 

There was a woman in Kim’s office who was taking a trip to Israel with her 

husband and her kid. 

She asked Kim if she’d take care of the house while she was gone. 

Kim agreed.

This was a very thrilling time in our budding relationship. 

I had an apartment in Pasadena but I had a room mate - no good for the, uh...getting physical. 

Again sorry.

Yes, we sinned, okay? It was against the Lord and stuff so they tell me and I guess 

we’re going to burn in Hades. 

That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Kim had an apartment but she was trying to extract herself from her room mate who used to be her boyfriend. It was very touchy and potentially an emotional powder keg. No good.

So it was difficult to find a good place to sin.

But - once in awhile when one of Kim’s coworkers would ask Kim to house sit it’d

all work out.

One time, Kim house sat at this woman’s house who used to be Madonna’s assistant during the TRUTH OR DARE period.

We stayed at her place for weeks. The place was adorned with somewhat Goth swag this chick had pilfered from Madonna. Lots of flowing curtains, black candles, 

statues, and like that.

I recall we had the Graham Parker cd, THE MONA LISA’S SISTER on a constant

loop whenever we were there. 

The things that stick in one’s head are so odd.

So Kim decided to house sit for this Israel chick.

This was not going to be quite as exciting as the Madonna-decorated joint, but 

the location was great; just a couple blocks off of Melrose. 

Lots of restaurants, shops, and stuff to do. Perpetual hub-bub.

It was a Friday and we were on our way to spend the weekend at the house. 

Kim was going to be taking care of the place for five weeks.

Yay, sin.

As we pulled up the the place - a very cozy bungalow-style cottage - Kim told me

that the woman who owned the house had a live-in maid named Olivia. Olivia 

apparently had left the house that afternoon to go stay with her family while Kim 

was house sitting.

So what do I do? I ask Kim if she’s REALLY sure this Olivia is gone and the 

moment we walk in the door to the house I start screaming, 

“Hey Olivia! Hey Olivia, where are you? What’s going on, baby? Where are ya,

honey?”

I’m barreling though the house, throwing doors open, yelling for Olivia.

I throw this one door open, and sitting on the bed is...Olivia.

Here’s this young Mexican woman who has been minding her own business, 

patiently waiting for her family or whatever, and suddenly there’s this tattooed 

stranger hollering, knocking down her door, and scaring the living daylights out 

of her.

When I saw her I was completely mortified. The last thing I expected to see as I

screamed Olivia, was OLIVIA.

She stared at me from her bed, her eyes huge with fear. 

She said something in Spanish in a trembling voice.

I’m sure she thought I was going to kill her.

I apologized and shut the door quickly.

I turned and looked at Kim. I put my hands in the air.

“I didn’t know...I’m sorry. I feel terrible. I’m such a tool! What the hell is she still

doing here anyway? She was supposed to be gone this afternoon! Oh my Lord...”

We went into the master bedroom and shut the door. 

Then we laughed into the pillows for twenty minutes. 

I mean, try to imagine what was going on in this poor woman’s head. 

The more we thought about it, the funnier it became.

Shortly after that, we got ready for bed, leaving the poor distraught Olivia to 

her room.

As we were climbing under the covers I saw something dart across the floor and 

under the closet door.

“AHH! Holy God...d’ja see that?” I said.

Kim said no.

​

“It was a big black thing...it ran across the floor!!” I said.

​

“Oh God, what?!” Kim said hopping into the bed and pulling the covers around 

herself.

​

“I have no idea...” I said.

I walked over to the closet door and threw it open. 

I heard a skittering sound. 

I looked at the wood floor and there, running back into the shoes was a big 

cockroach.

“DAHHH!!!” I yelled leaping backward a few feet.

In all my years living in LA I’d never even SEEN a cockroach. Not one.

That was New York stuff...not LA. That’s what I thought anyway.

I tried for about fifteen minutes to find the roach so I could smash it, but it never 

reappeared.

I laid there in the dark for hours, listening in the silence for a new skitter. 

Waiting for the insect to run across my face and mouth in the dark. 

But it didn’t come back. 

It was a very long night.

The next morning Olivia was gone, and we never found out what the mix-up was,

and why she hadn’t left by Friday afternoon like she was supposed to. I’m thinking

she probably mentioned me to her family.

Kim and I had pancakes at Farmer’s Market and spent the day goofing off. 

Sometime during the afternoon we had a couple of beers and Kim suddenly decided she wanted to a tattoo. She got a cute one too, on her shoulder.

​

We rented the movie MISTRESS starring Robert DeNiro (Ernest Borgnine has a 

delightful cameo in the film as well), bought a bunch of provisions, and went back

to the house.

We cooked dinner and listened for the very first time to what has become one of my favorite albums - WHATEVER by Aimee Mann. 

But whenever I hear that record now it reminds me of what happened next...

We ate, drank, and as the night came down, settled in to watch the movie. 

Kim sat on the couch, while I reclined back on my elbows leaning on the 

hardwood floor.

We were about halfway though the movie when something ran quickly across the right side side of my peripheral vision. My head snapped to look but it was gone under the sofa.

I made a sound like a little girl scalded by a hot bath. I jumped up.

“AHH! I think that damn roach is back!” I said, standing there in the middle of

the living room.

I grabbed the remote and hit pause.

Ernest Borgnine froze in position.

I got down on my hands and knees and peered into the blackness under the couch.

Nothing.

“D’joo see that?” I asked Kim, who was in some kind of an upright fetal position on

the couch.

She had a horrified look on her face.

​

I looked back under the couch. 

For some reason, I blew a mouthful of air into the dark. 

A sound not unlike a Rainbird sprinkler came back at me. 

I realized it was the fast, crisp beating of insect wings. 

I jumped back, and a fast-moving roach about the size of a Cadbury chocolate

Easter egg ran out of the dark and then into a corner by the front door. 

It sat there shifting its weight back and forth. 

It was so big I could see it breathing, wings moving up and down with fear.

I ran into the kitchen to grab a newspaper to swat it with. 

I flicked the light on and nothing could have prepared me for what I saw next;

The walls were covered with these roaches. 

There were dozens of them; on the kitchen cabinets, running across the linoleum,

moving sideways across the window.

They were everywhere.

“Holy fuck, we’re infested!” I bellowed.

Kim yelled.

I grabbed a newspaper from a pile in the pantry. 

Two roaches skittered underneath.

“GAHHH!” I said.

I rolled the newspaper up and decided to go after the original culprit who was still 

shuddering its horrible wings in the corner. One at a time I figured.

I ran at it with my weapon, and as I brought the paper down it jumped, then FLEW

into the air and across the room, landing on the mantle above the fireplace.

Oh God these things could fly?

Well that raised the stakes a little.

It turned and faced me, bearing down for whatever was going to happen next. 

It hunkered down like a bull in a ring. 

I ran at it with the paper again, and once again it FLEW into the air. 

Its cellophane wings made the sprinkler sound again as it landed unsteadily behind the couch.

“I’m getting outta here, me!” I said.

Kim was way ahead of me. 

We ran into the bedroom to get our stuff and bail out. 

We turned on the lights and saw about ten of these roaches scramble across the floor and walls. 

We both screamed.

In about four seconds our stuff was thrown into our bags and we were running for

the front door. 

I remember passing a baby’s crib as we headed for the door and seeing a couple of the bugs running around inside it.

We both screamed again.

As I grabbed the door knob and pulled there were three or four of them clinging

onto the outside of the front door.

We screamed again. 

Christ, this was like something out of a fucking Stephen King story.

​

We threw the luggage in the back seat of Kim’s car and hopped in. The whole way 

back to my apartment in Pasadena we just kept shuddering and going 

AHHHHHH!!!

The next day Kim called the exterminators. 

A few days after that she went back to the house to retrieve a few items we left 

behind in our exodus.

There were dead roaches everywhere. A few live ones lay on their backs, legs still 

moving feebly in the poison air.

The exterminator gave us the skinny:

Turns out that being as close as we were to Melrose, and Melrose was rife with 

restaurants, the restaurants were also lousy with bugs.

One restaurant would call in the air strike and the little beasts would move next 

door till the death cloud blew over. 

When that newly-infested restaurant called the exterminator, they’d simply move to

the house near the restaurant. 

When THAT house called the bug guys, they moved to the NEXT house. And so on

till they reached the house where we were staying. 

We just all happened to hit the right weekend all of us.

When Kim called Israel to tell her friend what had happened, the woman said. 

“Oh yeah...that happens once in awhile...”

Jesus! THAT happens once in AWHILE? Does it rain frogs too?

Just goes to show that human beings can adapt to anything no matter how 

horrifying.

One thing; we never did see the end of that MISTRESS movie.

Any good? 

I keep meaning to rent it again but I have this fear that I’ll keep feeling tiny 

phantom antennae brushing my cheek every time I start to get interested in the 

story.