Category: Fourre-tout

I always maintained that we have hidden talents in our midst. Here is an excerpt of a piece written in 1993 by our own “père Noel”. Alain

Here I am again at the House of Toast. I close my eyes for only a second; how did a whole year go by? It seems nothing has changed. I am at the same ancient chrome and chipped Formica table with the same dismal yellow and pink tablecloth. The thick white cups are stacked the same way. The black vinyl chairs, greasy walls, and gummy floor are the same. I am sitting with the same people, but I’m happy to be with them because we are like an extended family.

My suit and tie are also the same. It’s a good suit and expensive tie, but they, with everything else, define the sameness that we all share here. It’s just a few days before Christmas, the time of year when I like to think that I’m doing some good in this world, but wonder if I am.

I have always loved Christmas, and even as an aging House of Toast schlepper, I invariably look forward to the season. Every year I hope and believe that each new Christmas will be better than the last. I hold on to this belief, although evidence to the contrary occasionally finds me in John’s Grill, drinking Christmas cheer rather than spreading it.

As a kid, I believed that Santa Claus existed through the fifth grade. My aunt and uncle, who had raised my twin sister and me, tried to gently explain that they purchased our gifts, but I refused to believe it. Most of the other kids in my class either made fun of me or tried to convince me of Santa’s non-existence.

“Ralph, there ain’t no Santa Claus” my boyhood chum Louie Farina told me.

“If not, how come I get what I asked for in my letter? I replied.

“Because your aunt reads your letter and buys you the stuff you asked for”, advised Louie.

“Maybe that’s true for you Louie, but I mailed the letter to Santa myself. I put a stamp and my return address on it, and send it to the North Pole. The letter never comes back. Nobody’s letter to Santa comes back, and do you know why not?

“No” he replied.

“Because they really go to Santa. They have to be delivered or returned. That’s the law. Anybody who messes with the mail is gonna pick up a federal beef, and wind up doing time in Leavenworth.”

“Yeah, okay,” said a doubting Louie, as he ran off to play with someone else. I guess my insistence on a literal Santa Claus, and my version of Mafia logic was just too much for him.

I continued this conviction into the sixth grade, but that year I inadvertently found the gift I had written Santa for under the sideboard in the dining room. At that moment I surrendered my tenacious hold on Santa Claus. I now suspect that my aunt had left the gift in a location where I was sure to find it.

Noel D. Marcovecchio

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Dédé always dreamed of seeing his name on the Cup. In the past, he came tantalizing close, but something always got in the way. Bad partners, biased umpires, rotten luck… Sometimes Dédé felt cursed.

This year though, he was determined to succeed. But this would require some planning and Dédé knew that it was not going to be a cakewalk.

This particular tournament was billed as a “select mixed triplette” event and it meant that at least one woman had to be part of any competing team. Winning that cup was no small achievement, and contenders came from far and wide to vie for the honor of having their names engraved on the golden trophy. There were to be no cash prizes, but money was of little importance when compared with the glory of being enshrined by your peers.

To achieve his goal, Dédé had to secure solid partners, and this would require a lot of finesse.
Dédé was a good player but this was not enough. Not only did he have to obtain the services of a solid “shooter”, but he also had to entice a woman to play with him, and this was one of the many challenges he had to overcome.

The “misogynous” label that stubbornly clung to his back didn’t help. Females had the unfortunate knack of remembering past slights, and only a precious few would be disposed to forgive and forget. But he was a reliable player he told himself, and some women might be willing to put up with past slights to achieve ambitions of their own.

Securing a good “shooter” would also be difficult. In the small world of pétanque good shooters were celebrities, and very conscious of their lofty status. They also had a sizable ego and didn’t care to endanger their reputation by associating with minor players.

This undertaking could be difficult… Just like asking a pretty girl for a date… with the prospect of being turned down… it could be very humiliating. But sometimes you have to eat crow to become top dog.
And the hell with humiliation! Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He could be charming with a chick if the situation demanded it. He could also be very persuasive with male contestants, even if their stars shone brighter than his. So he started his stealthy campaign.

In the club, there were four very good “shooters”, but he ruled out two of them right off the bat. There was too much bad blood between them. That left only two: “Le Gros Robert” and “The Corsican”.

Le Gros Robert, as his name indicated, was a stout, taciturn fellow endowed with astonishing skills. Unlike some other renowned pitchers, he didn’t need any undue concentration before firing his shots. He would simply step to the plate and let his “boules” fly. He was respected and held back at the same time by his uncouth demeanor.

The Corsican, on the other hand, was an irascible, wiry little fellow who could hit a fly forty feet away. No small accomplishment when the average player struggled to hit a target only thirty feet away. Both of these fellows would make excellent partners but the problem was their testy nature.

Traditionally, the “shooter” is the playmaker, the man who orchestrates the team’s strategy. He tells each player what and when to do it. He is the boss and you rarely second-guess him. Dédé was not a shooter per se, but he liked to have a say on the strategy to follow and this propensity of his was not always well taken by his partners.

In the game of pétanque played in a “triplette” formation, each player is allocated two “boules” and has a specific role to fulfill. The “pointer” plays first. His job is to place his boules as closely as possible to the “cochonnet”, the little wooden jack that is the target.

When the pointer has played his two boules, the “milieu” (middle player) takes over. He will try to position his boules closer to the cochonnet than those of the opposing team. If the situation demands it, he should also be able to act as a relief shooter.

The “shooter” is basically the gunslinger, the enforcer. His task is to neutralize the opposition with surgical strikes. But since he has only two shots in his quiver, he must use his boules judiciously. He must decide when to shoot and when to show restraint, and only he will make that decision.

Le Gros Robert was an aggressive player who never hesitated to shoot. The Corsican, on the other hand, was a more cautious fellow who would think twice before squandering his boules. But none of these two fellows took suggestions kindly. Their decisions were not open to discussion.

Dédé, unfortunately, couldn’t help second-guessing the captain’s decisions and this had led to spirited exchanges in the past. He would have to control himself and keep his mouth shut… even if he knew better.

To be continued…

Alain

PS: All characters appearing in this essay are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A cat called Calvin has been wandering in our neighborhood. He is extremely friendly and runs to our front door whenever he hears a car coming. He then meows rather loudly and seems to be asking for food.
But such is not the case. He barely nibbles on my offerings and meows some more. It appears that Calvin is lonely and looking for affection and possibly a new home.

Normally I would welcome him to our quarters, but our house is “chasse gardée” (private hunting ground), the exclusive preserve of Kate, our own cat. Kate, under a distinguished appearance, is fiercely territorial and throws screaming fits whenever another critter approaches our house.
She is definitely not a Good Samaritan and does not show any inclination to share our dwelling with another no-good vagabond cat. Reasoning with her has proved useless.

Calvin personal history is murky. I originally thought that he lived in the house next door, but then (through our neighborhood association) I was told that its owner moved away and left him behind. Unthinkable!
Then I was told again that its owner is alive and well but not excessively concerned about Calvin. In any case, Calvin is wearing a collar but without any identification tag.

I am wondering what could be done to make Kate like accept tolerate Calvin?
Calvin is affectionate while Kate is rather aloof. She is like a demanding mistress, taxing but rather miserly with her affection. Regardless of the situation she never purrs.
Calvin, on the other hand, is a prince of a cat, begging for love and more than willing to return it. Huge dilemma!

Kate is better looking (and she knows it) than Calvin, but Calvin is much more sociable than our beast. Kate might be willing to accept a kitten (that she could boss), but sharing her quarters with an interloper is totally out of the question.

What is a cat lover to do?

Alain

After scolding one’s cat, one looks into its face and is seized by the ugly suspicion that it understood every word. And has filed it for reference. –Charlotte Gray