Month: August 2022

Time for the weather folk to get out their raincoats.

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8/31/22

I anxiously watched the weather channel this morning. Last night, every station was talking about Invest 91-L. (“Invest” stands for investigative area, “91” is the assigned number between 90 and 99, and “L” means North Atlantic region.) I have a cruise coming up, and I don’t like how excited the weather people are right now. They’re happier than my dog Pete gets when you ask him if he wants to go for a walk.

You know why they’re happy? It’s because hurricane season has been a dud so far, and they haven’t had a chance to put on their heavy-duty raincoats, go down to the beach, and stand in one foot of water while they tell us we should run for our lives. It’s been 59 days since a tropical cyclone formed in the Atlantic, and we’ve only had three name storms this season (all of them remained weak and disorganized). We had 21 name storms last year. So, up comes Invest 91-L, which they say has an 80 percent chance of “development.” They won’t even say what it has a chance of developing “into” (because they’re superstitious like that). They’re like fantasy football owners, hoping for big numbers from their number one pick, but they don’t want to jinx themselves by talking about him because he’s not doing so well in training camp. In fact, Invest 91-L is struggling to get its $#@t together. I mean, it’s struggling to organize. The air around it is dry, and as soon as thunderstorms flare up, they collapse.

But the weather folk are still clinging to that magic number. The storm still has an 80 percent chance of forming. It’s a solid B student, and it’s moving west/northwest toward the Lower Antilles at 6 mph with winds at a measly 35 mph. (I think my blow dryer has higher winds.) But the weather reporters remain hopeful that they’ll be shaking the dust off their galoshes soon.

So, what exactly is the worst that a cruiser has to fear? I’ll be providing some tips and insights about cruise life in the upcoming week. I’ll cover the storm for you from the inside while wearing my cabana wear on the outside (no rain gear for me). We’ve cruised the Caribbean while storms were present. It’s not the suicide mission you might envision. As long as your captain sails away from the tall, dark mean-looking clouds, you should be okay. You may notice slightly rougher waters, but it’s rare for a Caribbean cruise to be canceled during hurricane season. The worst that we’ve experienced was a change in itinerary. So, you skip one sunny island and stop at the next one instead. There are worst traumas (see my Only Murders On My Street blog posts).

As long as the storm doesn’t impact your home port, your cruise won’t even be delayed. And once you’re onboard, there are just so many distracting activities, you won’t even care what’s happening somewhere else in the Caribbean. Just don’t watch the news, especially if you hear the weather people screaming and pointing at gigantic swirly things on their screens. Most likely it has nothing to do with you. Most likely your home port will still be there when you get back.

Just remember what the cruise ship captain said to the nervous passengers when they asked how often ships sink: “This one will only sink once.”

#ThePerfectStormisabadmovietoseebeforeacruise  

A story about the Sunset Limited.

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8/30/22

So, I have a real hard time talking to people about retirement. In fact, I don’t bring it up. But, invariably, someone with good intentions asks, “How’s retirement?” I get it. They’re making an effort to be social. It’s like asking how your favorite sports team is doing. They don’t really want to know, and you don’t really want to tell, not because you don’t like them but because it’s just so much effort to put it into words.

If I were being really honest, my response would be something like this: “Listen, I know you’re trying to be nice, and that’s very sweet of you. But explaining what retirement feels like would be like trying to explain nuclear physics to you. You’re just not gonna’ get it.”

But that sounds rude, so I just say, “Great! I spend a lot of time watching Turner Classic Movies.” But explaining TCM is also like explaining nuclear physics, so I just grin and nod, giving the impression that my mind has turned to mush since I stopped working, which is the furthest thing from the truth. I do have a problem remembering what day it is, but doesn’t everyone?

Since I retired I will admit to watching more TV. For example, I was watching TCM last night. It’s a great station for catching up on movies you always said you would watch if you had the time. You were lying back then, just like when you told people you were going to read the entire Harry Potter series just as soon as you had some time. You’re not. But TCM might be more your speed.

Anyway, I loved the opening scene of last night’s movie, “After the Thin Man” (by the way, the Thin Man movies are great, but explaining why they’re so enjoyable would be like…you know…the nuclear physics thing again). The black-and-white photo above comes from the movie. It shows a railroad conductor with his feet up above a sign that says Sunset Limited.

Boy, that brings back good memories. No, I wasn’t around in the 1930s when that scene was filmed. I’m talking about the train, the Sunset Limited. Leah, Bradley, Darren, Donna, and I rode Amtrak’s Sunset Limited from Florida to California in 2004. The next year, Hurricane Katrina rocked the U.S. and damaged the part of the track that connects with Florida. Now you can only catch the Sunset Limited from New Orleans to Los Angeles, which were the original start and end points when the train was inaugurated in 1894 to serve the vast reaches of the system. 

It took us three days to get from Florida to Arizona. Why so long, you ask? Well, first of all , it takes a full day just to cross Texas. Texas is that big, and the Sunset Limited is that slow. All kinds of delays contributed to the snail pace. For example, every time train personnel spotted a snake on the tracks, they stopped to either let the snake pass or to remove it (I’d like to see that job description on someone’s resume). A bored voice on the PA system announced, “Snake on the tracks.” But we never actually saw any. (Might’ve been code for smoke break.)

And what if there were a snake? Was the train afraid of getting bitten? I never got to the bottom of it. I know that timber rattlesnakes are a protected species in Texas. So, if you see a hobo on the tracks you keep going, but if a snake shows up you stop?

But we stopped for other reasons too. The bored train announcer voice frequently told us that commercial trains, which took precedence over passenger trains, were crossing in front of us. Amtrak may own the Sunset Limited, but they don’t own the tracks. The delays gave us lots of time to enjoy the train’s observation deck. We saw lots of scenery while we waited…and crawled…and stalled. I’ve never seen so much desert in my life.

But we had a cooler full of beverages and snacks and a head full of optimism. As we walked up and down the aisles, making purchases from the onboard store, we talked to other passengers. We were surprised to discover how many of them were Europeans. They loved the Sunset Limited. It made our great big adventure even more exotic. We were even a little sad when it was time to get off the train.

But not all of us had the same experience. Darren, who remained on the train to visit friends and family in California, called us minutes after we go off the train. He was frantic. He told us that the engineer, the motorman, the conductor, the ticket-taker, the snake-handler, and whomever else was employed on that train, had all walked off. The train had taken so long to cross the country that the train crew had “timed out.” Since they weren’t allowed to work beyond their schedule shifts, they just went home.

We saw Darren’s face pressed against the window signaling us for help as we drove past in our car rental. He and a few other passengers were stranded on the train for much of the day, without food, water, toilet paper, or any way to get off. We heard Darren eventually crawled out a window. By then I think he’d gone mad from being trapped so long. He said the rattlesnakes were everywhere.

As for the rest of our journey, we continued onward, making a visit to the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. On the way we learned what a big, beautiful country we live in. Donna even got to dip her toes in the Pacific Ocean. It would’ve made for a great TCM movie.

#don’twaittoretiretotaketheSunsetLimited

Anyone know a good therapist?

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8/29/22

Welcome to “Only Murders On My Street Part 2.” In a recent conversation I had with my good friend Edwin Perez, I tried to describe my writing process. to him. I told him that I like to write in the mornings, every day, and that the topics just naturally come to me. But what’s natural about writing about a suicide? What does it say about me that I find myself on that same dark street again?

Immediately after I published the story of Pedro Juan’s death, readers of my blog post asked, “Is it true? Is that how it really happened?” The more I thought about it, the more I questioned myself. I was a kid at the time, so how reliable were my memories? I searched a New York Daily News database with no results. (It’s difficult to search for someone if you don’t even know their full name.) Did Pedro Juan really exist as I’ve described him? I’m almost certain of it. In fact, I can still see him in that leather cap he used to wear. So what was the best way to confirm what happened to him? I wasn’t the only one who saw Pedro Juan die. It seemed to me that all I’d have to do is talk to another witness. So I did.

That’s where my siblings come in. My older brother Nelson, my younger brother Carlos, and my sister Naomi were all present on that fateful day. We would’ve been less than 10 years old, except for Nelson, who would’ve been around 15. I had high hopes that they’d remember things I was unsure about. For all I know, I was walking around in a state of shock that day.

Shock seems to be a pretty good way to describe how I felt about Pedro Juan’s death. But I also felt an odd kind of excitement. I think it had to do with the blood. I don’t know if I’d ever seen that much blood. Pedro Juan had a dark complexion, and the blood that leaked from his extremities was dark too. I think the sight of it did something to my brain because I don’t remember what happened to Pedro Juan after the men carried him into the street. I don’t remember an ambulance. I don’t remember police. I just remember Pedro Juan’s broken body, his arms and legs jutting in all directions. My mom may have taken me and my siblings home at that point.

Leaving the scene of the crime may have saved us from further trauma. You have to remember that we didn’t live on 100th Street. We were only there on the weekends. If Pedro Juan died on a Sunday, for example, that means we wouldn’t have returned to 100^th Street until almost a week later. By then his death would’ve been old news. Because I lived in another neighborhood, none of my friends would’ve known (or cared) about Pedro Juan. So, I don’t think I talked about it, which may have made it easier for me to close the book on him.

But how did Pedro Juan’s death impact my siblings? It turns out that each had a different reaction to the event, based on their memories and their relationship with the man. Carlos remembered him as I did, a devout drunk. For that reason, we probably kept our distance from him. When I spoke to Carlos, he recounted how Pedro Juan had been carried from the backyard through the building on onto the street in front of the store. “They carried him by his arms and legs” he said. “And I remember them giving him chest compressions. I think they tried to do CPR on him.”

Carlos was right. I had forgotten that. That was why I remembered his face covered in so much blood. It pumped from his mouth with every compression. Carlos went on to describe the backyard, how a group of us went back there to see what we could see. We found a depression in the ground where Pedro Juan’s body had hit the soft dirt. The more Carlos spoke, the more the story came back to me. How could I have forgotten walking into the backyard and looking up to where he’d fallen from?

But there were more revelations to come. When I spoke to Naomi, I was surprised about how kindly she remembered Pedro Juan. She confirmed that he was a drunk, but she remembered times when he was sober. He used to play with her (in front of my mother’s watchful eye). They had this game where she removed and replaced the cap on his head. She said he didn’t have much hair. When he died, she said she felt broken. She had a hard time pushing the memories away—she hadn’t been able to forget Pedro Juan the way I thought I had.

But my conversation with Nelson provided the most details by far. He worked behind the counter of the store with my father, so he had regular interactions with Pedro Juan. Like my sister, he saw the nondrunk side of Pedro Juan, the side that Carlos and I missed. Pedro Juan had thick hands, he said, with a thumb and middle finger that were fat like sausages. Nelson also knew the name of the hospital (Metropolitan Hospital) where Pedro Juan died.

He remembered the ambulance arriving and taking Pedro Juan away. He said that after the death, Pedro Juan’s father came into the store and told my father that his son was delusional, and that when he drank it made his condition worse. Nelson also confirmed how hard Naomi had taken the death. On the day Pedro Juan died, my sister was listening to “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Diana Ross. She told Nelson afterward that she didn’t want to hear the song anymore because she was afraid she’d see Pedro Juan’s bloody face every time she heard it.

Wow. After those conversations, I saw the story in a whole new light. I was so focused on how shaken I was by Pedro Juan’s death that I hadn’t stopped to consider how it had affected my siblings. Of all of us, maybe I was the one least traumatized. That was a real eye-opener. I’m glad I have a wider view of the story now.

And all it took was this blog, and reaching back deep into my subconscious, and hearing what my siblings had to say. I can’t help but think that if a kid today had seen what we’d seen, they’d still be in therapy. But we were left to navigate troubled waters on our own. New Yorkers are tough like that, I guess. I’m grateful that I was able to talk it through with my siblings. And I’m grateful to you, dear audience, for letting me talk it through with you.

#maybeI’llsleepbetternow

I think Pete has all of them.

READ THE BLOG POST OF “ONLY MURDERS ON MY STREET” OR LISTEN TO THE AUDIO BY CLICKING THE START ARROW BELOW

8/28/22

Today is Pete’s birthday. He’s officially nine years old, but he doesn’t like us to make a big fuss about it. In fact, he’s pretty cranky today. But when I offer to let him outside, he gets really happy. Pete’s an up-and-down kind of dog. He’s got a full range of emotional ability. We knew that from the first day we rescued him. That was the day he peed on Darren. That was the day he fell in love with Donna. See? I told you. Full range of emotions.

But science says that dogs only have the basic emotions: joy, fear, anger, disgust, and love. They don’t experience the more complex emotions, like guilt, pride, and shame. When I told that to Pete, he proudly lifted his leg to pee on the sofa, then felt a little guilty about it, and then a little ashamed, before shrugging the whole thing off and walking away to do it again somewhere else in the house.

Don’t worry, I’m not cleaning up urine as I write this. Pete’s been wearing a diaper for years, since the day we gave up on trying to train him. He simply refused to go along with the program. He’s not a bad dog. In fact, we have no other complaints about him. He’s a great watchdog. If something’s amiss in the house or outside, he’s the first to let us know, ready to go to war in a heartbeat. He’s a lean, mean, 10-pound fighting machine.

But somewhere in his distant past, he just got it into his head that marking his territory with urine was important. We got Pete when he was two years old, so we’re not exactly sure what his life was like before he came into our lives. But we’re sure it involved whipping it out and announcing to everyone, “Hey, back off! Let me draw you a picture. If you cross this line, you gotta’ deal with me!”

We’re big on adopting pets. So, Pete’s rarely experienced a day when he didn’t have another dog or cat he had to share space with (and protect his food against). He was the lone wolf in our house for about a month after Abbey died. But I think he understood that we just couldn’t sit on the sidelines while other dogs were suffering without their forever homes. We talked it over with Pete before we adopted Sophie.

Pete gave us a long, soulful look, walked away, then lifted his leg at the sofa. I think that was his way of saying, “Okay, bring her on.” He’s been a good big brother to her ever since, even though she’s a big bully to him. But he gets her back whenever he sees that she’s afraid of something. He’ll jump right into her face and say, “Oh, you’re not so bad now! Revenge is a dish best served cold!”

Pete loves revenge. Like I said, he’s got a full range of emotions. Happy birthday, Pete!

#maybePetewasapamperedsupermodel

But don’t tell the frogs and rattlesnakes.

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8/27/22

I climbed onto my roof the other day, you know, so I can have some alone time with nature as I meditate about the many roads I’ve taken on this journey called life. Come on, who does that?  I was actually just installing some mesh coverings over our vent pipes. When we had our roof reshingled last week, the roofers removed the mesh coverings from our vent pipes. Why is it important that the pipes are covered? You’ve obviously never had a frog in your toilet. I kid you not. It’s a thing. I didn’t even know that was a possibility until long after I moved to Florida.

Here’s what happens: Mr. Frog climbs up on your roof, you know, to meditate about the many roads it’s taken on its journey called life. But the temperature starts to get a little warm, so Mr. Frog hops over to one of your vent pipes. This one, unfortunately for you, happens to be the one that leads to your toilet. But Mr. Frog doesn’t know that. He’s not trying to get up close and personal with you. He just kinda’ gets lost…until the screaming starts. And then he gets found and kicked out of the house. (All true events. If you ask for details, I’ll have to charge you the pay-per-view story rate.)

But as I was on my roof, looking out across my domain like I was the master of the house, I remembered another time we were invaded. It was 2009 on an early spring day when the grass had only started to grow back after a long winter’s sleep. Time to mow the lawn. But as I opened my shed door and pulled the lawnmower toward me, I heard a rattle. That’s not a good noise, I thought.

The rattlesnake looking up at me wasn’t pleased either. My mind raced. Okay, okay. What was it you’re supposed to do when you encounter a poisonous snake? Should I scream? Should I raise my arms in the air to achieve maximum height? Should I start singing some melodious tune and hope to sway it into submission with my snake-charming ways?

Here’s what the experts say you should do if you encounter a rattler:

• Remain calm and do not panic. Stay at least 5 feet from the snake. Make sure to give it plenty of space.
• Do not try to kill the snake. Doing so is illegal and greatly increases the chance the snake will bite you.
• Do not throw anything at the snake, like rocks or sticks. Rattlesnakes may respond to this by moving toward the person doing the throwing, rather than away from them.
• Alert other people to the snake’s location. Advise them to use caution and to respect the snake. Keep children and pets away from the area.

I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, my journalistic instincts kicked in. I took out my phone to take a photo. The rattler, who was of a specious known as the pygmy rattler, obliged me by holding still and not sinking his fangs into my ankles. With phone still in hand, I placed a call to the real master of the house.

Me: Um, honey. Quick question. When facing off against a rattler, do you remember what you’re supposed to do?

Master: Where are you?

Me: The backyard.

Master (peeking out the window blinds): I see you. What’s wrong? Why are you shaking like a leaf and calling me from the backyard?

Me: Because I’m afraid to move.

Master: And why is that?

Me: Because the rattler may not like it.

Master: Oh, f@#$! Get out of there RIGHT NOW!

Donna quickly called Animal Control, who sent out a guy with a sweat spot for snakes.

“Ooh,” he said. “You’ve got a beauty. You know why he’s in here, don’t you?”

I wanted to say something snarky like the snake wanted to surprise me by fixing my lawnmower. The snake guy told me that the snake was hunting. It turns out that pygmy rattlesnakes are ambush predators. They coil in a spot and wait for prey to come to them, sometimes remaining in the same spot for two to three weeks. Their best defense is to remain motionless (their color pattern makes them hard to see). They stay that way until someone steps on or over them (like I would’ve if it hadn’t rattled).

“You’ve got something in here it wants to eat.”

Sure enough, after the snake guy used one of those As-Seen-On-TV grabbers to put the snake in a sack, we found a nest of newborn rats hidden behind some junk a few feet away. Saved from being a snack. Then the snake guy asked if he could have the rats to feed to the snakes at the lab. Oh, well. Back to being a snack again.

Yes, I know. That’s what I get for having such a messy shed. But I learned my lesson that day. I changed my ways. No, I don’t mean that I cleaned my shed. I demolished it. That’s one way to make a problem go away. But don’t try that if you’ve got a frog in the toilet.

#justcallmethesnakecharmer

I’m still waiting for another opportunity.

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8/26/22

When I lived in New York City, I lived in dread of being summoned for jury duty. Every time I started a new job, I received a notice. It never failed. Since missing work was not an attractive prospect, I made every excuse not to serve. “Why, yes, your honor, I do believe am I biased, and I have been a victim of a crime, and I do have vision and hearing impediments. Oh, you just asked me what my name was? It’s Diz Koalafied.”

I mailed back so many notices, I created a stamp listing the reasons I couldn’t serve. However, secretly, I was a little curious. I’d watch those Perry Mason shows and think, “Well, that doesn’t look so bad.”

But in my mind, I wasn’t playing the part of the juror. I was the prosecutor. I was solving crimes. Maybe I could serve if I pretended I was there for another reason. One day a coworker stopped by the office during a break from jury duty. He was all flustered and shocked. The jury duty experience was freaking him out. He described the case he was sitting on, where a single mom had allowed her boyfriend to talk her into being his getaway driver during a robbery. She was poor and just wanted to feed her baby, but she agreed to participate in the robbery. “Of course, they were caught,” my coworker said. “Now she’s facing hard time because there was a gun in the car. She’s going to lose her baby and she’s going to jail. Some people live miserable lives.”

That statement has stayed with me for over 30 years. It was the way he said it, like he just couldn’t believe someone would do something so stupid. My coworker was an affluent man, and, if I can make a generalization about his life’s experiences, he probably never had to decide between stealing and surviving. Yet he and his fellow jurors had decided that woman’s fate. Yeah, some people do live miserable lives. I knew I couldn’t change that. I also knew I didn’t want to face it. When the jury duty notices stopped coming, I was glad.

Then one day, years later, a very different looking envelope arrived. Grand jury duty? What was that all about? And how is it different from jury duty? It didn’t matter. I was tired of running away from my duty. I was in a better position to serve (my job could spare me), so my mindset changed. I checked off the box that said “Yes.”

Here’s a quick summary of the differences between a grand jury and a regular jury:

• Grand juries view evidence only to determine whether to file charges; a regular jury decides the guilt of a defendant.
• Grand juries typically have more than the 6-12 members associated with a regular jury.
• Grand juries don’t require unanimous decisions, only a majority; a regular jury requires a unanimous decision.
• Grand juries meet in private; a regular jury is part of a public trial.

So, off I went to change the world. They told me that I’d be required to serve six weeks. Yikes! Could I do it? It turned out to be easier than I thought, probably because I didn’t have to look into the eyes of anyone being charged. We simply voted yay or nay to indict based on the prosecution’s evidence presented. They call it a true bill. But what was also true was that the prosecutors didn’t present all the evidence they had. They seemed to be playing a game with us, generalizing about things the defendant may have done. I think they wanted to test the strength of their case by seeing if we would vote to indict based on partial evidence. They knew how much trouble the defendant was really in. We didn’t.

One case we heard went something like this (I will describe it first using the prosecutor’s vague descriptions, then I will describe what actually happened):

One day John Doe, who doesn’t own a phone, meets a lady. She is a very friendly lady. John Doe invites her back to his apartment so they can share friendship. After they have shared friendship, John Doe takes a shower. He steps out of the shower to find that his lady friend has let someone into the apartment. This gentleman is carrying something that convinces John Doe he should let this gentleman borrow his wallet. The gentleman decides John Doe would probably enjoy playing a game that involves stripping down to his underwear and allowing himself to be bound and gagged. He tells John Doe to step into the closet and count to 1,001. The lady and her new friend leave. John Doe fails to play the game according to the instructions he received. Instead, he leaves the apartment after only a few seconds and runs downstairs to tell people about his adventures (and maybe to show off his underwear). In the lobby of his building, he runs into the lady and the gentleman who gave him explicit instructions on how to play the game. They give him new instructions: Go back upstairs and count to 1,0001. If they see him again, they will perhaps not be so friendly to him. John Doe agrees to repeat the game. But on his way back upstairs, he becomes impatient. He counts to 10 and returns to the lobby. The lady and the gentleman are exactly where they were before. They tell John Doe they will give him one last opportunity to play the game correctly. John Doe complies this time. Question: Should the lady and the gentleman be indicted for playing such a mean game with John Doe?

We cast a quick vote. True bill. Prosecute their asses for unlawful meanness. Off the record, the prosecutor hipped us to the facts: “The dope let a sex worker into his place. She let her pimp in. He let his gun out. Then they proceeded to play this dumbest game of tag you’ve ever seen. It’s a miracle the dope wasn’t shot.”

Three weeks into grand jury duty, near Christmastime, they dismissed us. I was a little disappointed. By then I’d gotten used to being in that room, hearing cases described in the vaguest terms possible, and using my Perry Mason skills to solve the crime.

I’m retired now, but I think back to those days all the time. My jury duty experience turned out okay. Today I’m haunted by only one question: How come they don’t send me jury duty notices anymore?

#somepeoplelivemiserablelives

It’s a big deal in my house.

READ THE BLOG POST OF “ONLY MURDERS ON MY STREET” OR LISTEN TO THE AUDIO BY CLICKING THE START ARROW BELOW

8/25/22

We celebrate lots of holidays in the U.S. But holidays like Presidents Day, Memorial Day, and Labor Day don’t have that extra pizzazz that comes with celebrating an international holiday. International Waffle Day falls on March 23, 2023, but we like to celebrate early to beat the lines. National Waffle Day was yesterday, but that’s a made-up day the Eggo marketing people created. International Waffle Day is the day the whole world comes together to honor the anniversary of the 1869 patent of the first waffle iron, which was invented by Cornelius Swarthout of Troy, New York. With a name like Cornelius Swarthout, I’m sure he was destined to be a genius inventor (because I can’t see him having much of a social life).

I’m a big fan of waffles. In fact, I’m a member of the Waffle House Regulars Club. I used to be in the Irregulars Club, but I earned enough points to move up to the next tier. In fact, they sent me a free waffle coupon for subscribing to their blog post, “Only Murders in a Waffle House.” But that’s only part of the reason we’ve been faithful customers of Waffle House for over 20 years. The truth is I can’t trust a restaurant to make my breakfast if it doesn’t have that lived-in look. The Waffle House on Deltona Boulevard is my favorite because it features a rack of vintage waffle irons that add that extra special burnt edge to every waffle. Hmm-mmm. I can still taste the added vitamins.

And the ambience of Waffle House just can’t be beat. The staff calls everyone “honey,” or “sugar baby,” or “lover lips.” It’s a real cozy setup. We like to sit at the counter right next to the jukebox. But this isn’t your run-of-the-mill jukebox that plays your standard hits. This one’s got favorites that only Waffle House Regulars Club members know, like “Scramble My Eggs, But Don’t’ Scramble My Heart.” And who wouldn’t be moved by the classic love song, “I’ll Never Waffle Over You.” Of course, my favorite is “You Butter Not Be Leavin’ Me.” It had the whole place feeling nostalgic.

So, thank you Waffle House for celebrating International Waffle Day with us and for making the restaurant look so spiffy (don’t think we didn’t notice the freshly laminated menus). I was especially touched when the cook took time out from his grill duties to wash the floor. That really brought a tear to my eye. But bleach and “You Butter Not Be Leavin’ Me” always does that to me.

FYI: I hear that Reddit founder Alexis Ohanian and his daughter Olympia are also big Waffle House fans. He took her there, he said, to show her “the greatness of Waffle House,” but I’m guessing the coupons had something to do with it.

#AlexisOhaniansaysthatWaffleHousechangedhislife

My real-life murder-mystery blogcast.

READ THE BLOG POST OF “ONLY MURDERS ON MY STREET” OR LISTEN TO THE AUDIO BY CLICKING THE START ARROW BELOW

8/24/22

Ever see the Hulu show Only Murders in the Building? It stars Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Selena Gomez as a set of crime-solving sleuths who never fail to get blood on their hands (they should really move out of that building), even though we don’t doubt for a second that they’re innocent bystanders. They do a podcast as they try to solve the crime, which creates a very intimate vibe. Steve Martin’s smooth announcer voice details the mystery, and we are left to wonder: Who did it?

I watched two seasons of the show and said to myself, “I can do that.”

I’ll release my blogcast in an upcoming blog post. For the time being, sit back, relax, and imagine the dulcet tones of my voice as I tell my tragic tale of a lost soul, a voice that cried out for help, and a man murdered.

He had a smile that could light up the room. Too bad no one ever wanted him in the room. His name was Pedro Juan, and he was a boracho (which means he was a drunk). I was in the 4^th grade when I made his acquaintance, and by made his acquaintance I mean when I saw him stagger into my father’s establishment asking for change to buy some liquid sustenance. My father ran a convenience store near the corner of 100^th Street and Third Avenue in Manhattan’s Spanish Harlem. I hung out in that store with my siblings when I wasn’t running around in the streets. So many summers were spent running up and down that block at all hours, playing every wild, adventurous game imaginable. When summer was over, I’d go back to my straitlaced life attending one of the best schools in the city and regale my classmates with tales from 100^th Street. (I’m wearing red in the photo below.)

It was the coolest thing to say those words. Not 99^th Street or 101^st Street but 100th Street. My father’s store sat across from a cluster of apartment buildings that dominated the landscape. And I imagined people watching from behind the curtained windows of those buildings, sort of like vultures—always watching, waiting to feed on a tragedy. I wonder if they witnessed the last moments of Pedro Juan’s life. I certainly did.

Pedro Juan was a fixture at my father’s store. He’d come in near sober, beg for money, return hours later less sober, beg for money again, and make his last visit of the night sometime around closing. He was like Norm from Cheers, except instead of complaining about his wife, he complained about his life. He threatened to kill himself constantly, which was no small matter, but he received as many threats on his life from the people he encountered. He was just so aggressive in his panhandling. He took a lot of abuse.

“If you don’t get away from me, Pedro Juan, I’m going to bash your head in.”

“You want to kill yourself? Go ahead. Why don’t you go to the roof. I’ll hold the door open for you.”

And many a night, he threatened to take them up on that offer.

“Then, come on,” he would cry. “Kill me. I don’t care anymore. I’ll go up there and jump.”

But every night he would punctually stumble back into my father’s store. He would tell us tales of woe. My father would take pity on him and give him food and a bit of money. I suppose that’s why he always came back. The store was located in a four-story building. The entrance was adjacent to the store. Me and my friends played tag in the hallway of that building. Me and my friends played stickball behind that building. Me and my friends climbed the stairs of that building and looked out across the roof’s edge at the curtained windows across the way. Me and my friends watched Pedro Juan die.

No, I can’t say that. I’ve only imagined it, so many times that it feels like I witnessed it. He was in the store that night, despondent as usual, threatening to end it all. His detractors were there too, egging him on. It became a running joke. “You going to jump today?” Even I laughed.

Shortly after, screams filled the night. I heard a horrible thud from behind the building, or my mind created the effect years later. Men shouted in the street. “It’s Pedro Juan…!” Everyone ran out of the store. I did too. But there was no getting past the throng that blocked the doorway of the building.

“Did someone call an ambulance? Oh, my God! Did you see him? We gotta’ get him out of there.”

I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Get him out of where? Had Pedro Juan jumped? If so, wasn’t he dead? What was left to do? The worst had come to pass. And then, to my horror, I realized it hadn’t. Even in the 4^th grade, I’m sure I knew that if you got hurt you called an ambulance, remained immobile, and waited for them to come to you. Pedro Juan had miraculously survived a four-story fall. But he hadn’t remained immobile. He was in the backyard. But, the men, they’d dragged him through the building, down the hall where I used to play, out to the front, clutching his arms and legs like they were a rescue brigade. They’d carried him outside, perhaps prepared to drive him to a hospital, maybe to make up for all the ills that they’d wished on him. But he’d wished the greatest ill on himself.

I saw his face. I saw the blood. Then I shut the world out.

Pedro Juan died that day. I don’t know who, if anyone, was on the roof with him when he jumped. Did they try to talk him down? Did they egg him on? And the vultures across the street, did they witness it all? So much blame to go around.

Pedro Juan was murdered by at least one person that day—himself. But his accomplices remain free. I saw them in the store the next day. I saw them in the streets. I saw one up close in the mirror. My summers on 100^th Street were at an end. Turn down the lights. Draw the curtains. Move on. There’s nothing to see here, folks, unless you’ve already seen it. In which case, good luck unseeing it. Goodnight, dear audience.

#restinpeacePedroJuan

Not the whole world. Just my world.

Imagine if the news was only about what happened at your house. It wouldn’t be boring, would it? But what would that look like? Well, I don’t have to imagine. The people I spend my days with provide me with enough news headlines to fill several blogs. Here’s just a sample:

HERE ARE THIS WEEK’S TOP HEADLINES:

In Economic News: Inflation is still inflating. But in DeLand the shortage of single dollar bills in the local economy continues to cause pandemonium. Volusia County businesses point a finger at Family Game Night in Victoria Trails. “They’re taking all our singles and won’t even let us play.”

In Environmental News: The sandhill cranes, which are endangered in Florida, have been replaced at one home in Deltona. This rare photo of a new species of bird (perhaps equally endangered) was taken by a local resident. “I just looked out on my lawn and there they were. Six of them, strutting and stomping on my grass. All showing off their….you know, their upper parts.” The birds are reported to be related to the bare-chested booby.

In Archeological News: While doing some spring cleaning, friend and contributor to this blog, John Ardizzone uncovered a piece of technology assumed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Dating back to the early Mesozoic or the late Dot-Matrix era, this piece of technology was said to have been used to communicate urgent information to the wearer. When asked what he intended to do with it, Mr. Ardizzone replied, “Oh, shit. I got a lot of messages to respond to. I gotta’ go…”

In Arts and Entertainment News: NFT sales continue to skyrocket, with many of the most famous NFTs bringing in millions of dollars at auction houses like Sotheby’s. But when it comes to expensive NFTs, just how high can the numbers get? This one here is presumed to be an original Banksy. Can we start the auction off at a sawbuck? You get to destroy it afterward if you want. Please.

In Technology News: Readers of this blog continue to report having difficulty reading the text. I suspect Russian hackers are involved, but in the event that they aren’t, here’s one solution you can try. Step 1: Look for the Dark Mode setting in the right bottom corner of your screen. Step 2: Click it so that Dark Mode: Off shows (which means that you’re viewing it in Dark Mode). Step 3. Now go back and read the 48,000 blog posts you’ve missed. If all steps fail, call me and I’ll read you each blog post, kinda’ like a bedtime story. Or maybe I’ll just change the background color. Goodnight, dear audience.

#inlegalnewsPhilHelmuthsuesFamilyGameNightforexcludinghim

It’s flashback time.

Before I launch into today’s post, I want to catch up on some unfinished business. In the blog post, “PF Chang’s Daytona Beach,” I asked if anyone knew what PF stands for. The answer is Paul Fleming, one of the founders (the other was Philip Chiang). If you got the answer right, hit my subscribe button for a free subscription. If you got the answer wrong, hit my subscribe button for a free subscription. Now, onto my story.

Today’s tales is one of passion, unrequited love, and going after what you want. We’ve been to New Orleans three times, if memory serves me right. The first time was just a quick stop with Brad and Leah about 2003. We stopped in Biloxi on the way back home. The second time we went by train in 2004. New Orleans wasn’t our specific destination, just a by-chance stop on the Sunset Limited. The train used to run from Florida to California (but after Hurricane Katrina damaged some of the tracks, the train route was shortened from Louisiana to California). We didn’t see much of New Orleans on that trip, just a lot of above-ground mausoleums. Then Hurricane Katrina hit in 2005 and we understood the significance of the above-ground mausoleums. We waited patiently for New Orleans to dry out before planning our next trip.

Years went by. When we finally returned in 2016 (just Donna and I), we were shocked by the sight of so many homes in disrepair. It was like New Orleans looked around after the storm and said, “Screw that. I’m not fixing that part of town. That’s not where we keep the beignets.”

The trouble is you can’t overlook all the overlooked neighborhoods. You can see them from the highway, houses with trees growing through the middle of them. Nothing you’d like to have as a photo magnet on your refrigerator.

But we made the best of our trip. We saw Bourbon Street, we saw Canal Street, we saw the homeless people at Bourbon and Canal streets, and then we remembered something.

“Hey, we haven’t been to Café Du Monde yet.”

We felt dumb that we’d almost forgotten to visit the famous coffee stand, known for its beignets, those fried dough treats that tourists can’t live without. We grew restless thinking about those beignets. We wanted them—bad. We pictured ourselves sitting in the shade, gently fanning ourselves like genteel Southerners while we sipped on cool sweet tea, servers waiting on us hand and food.

“I do declare. I think I will have another beignet.”

It was going to be fantabulous!

The Café Du Monde has several locations in Louisiana, but the original one was established in 1862 in the New Orleans French Market on Decatur Street. That’s where we headed to the next day. It was a stifling hot day on a holiday weekend, but we were willing to put up with some inconveniences. When we saw the open-air establishment, however, we were a little miffed by the line. But it wasn’t too long. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the line to ask where the line was. The actual line was unrecognizable because it snaked around so many times. The patrons on the line looked annoyed, the staff looked bored, and the line looked like it would take forever. Where was the magic? Were they keeping it in the back somewhere?

The line crawled. The sweat dripped down our backs. This wasn’t our fantasy. I shuffled my feet like a little kid who wants to ask his mom if he can home but is too embarrassed to ask because he’s made such a big deal about coming. Donna grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. Then she slapped some sense into me. She didn’t actually slap me. But she did take command of the situation.

“Snap out of it! We’ve come too far to give up so easily. You got that? Now we’re going to do whatever it takes to get seated.”

“But I don’t see any tables.”

“Just follow my lead.”

We left the line and marched past all the tables toward the front. Donna stopped at a table stacked with dirty dishes. The servers were using it as an overflow station for all the bussed tables. It didn’t even have chairs. Donna flagged down a server.

“Mind if we sit at that table?”

The server stared at the table as if seeing it for the first time, like she’d just assumed all those dirty dishes were floating in midair. “I guess,” she said with a shrug before speeding off.

Donna directed me to start moving the trays of dishes off the table. We stacked them off to the side. Then Donna tracked down two chairs and we sat. I felt guilty.

“But didn’t we just cut the line.”

“No, those people are ordering to-go.”

Once again, Donna flagged down the same server we’d talked to before, this time moving in the other direction.

“Do we place our order with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

I don’t remember what we ordered, besides the beignets. But I’m sure we ordered the works, maybe the deluxe special, or whatever the mayor of New Orleans orders whenever they stop by. I remember having a lot of powder on my face afterward and thinking I might be on the verge of a stomachache. The moral of the story is to be careful what you wish for, especially if you’re going to spend years wishing for it. The next time we go to New Orleans, we’re going to skip the desserts and stick to the bars.

See the YouTube clip below for the trailer of HBO’s Katrina Babies, a film executive produced by my brother-in-law Loren Hammonds for TIME Studios.

#neverforgetKatrina