My Left Foot, Version 2.0

More ADventures

       4 a.m. again. Why always at 4 a.m.? This time I heard a LOUD voice talking about the benefits of a product that would allow people to talk on their cell phones in their cars. OMG, I thought. Didn’t that Billy Mays die? Why are they showing his ads on TV now? Then I opened my eyes and saw that the TV was not on. Yet, Billy Mays was still screaming about the cell phone holder.

       And yes, it was coming from the same place. . . .my good old left foot.

       Then, Billy faded out. . . .

       “Hmm, how convenient,” Gordon Gecko said, and then asked: “What are you looking at Crabcakes?

Suddenly, the Eyelash lady was describing how her social life had improved dramatically after she had used a product to make her eyelashes long and sexy. So, I guessed that Crabcakes must not have been enjoying the sight of Gordon’s naked green and white body but rather the Eyelash lady’s new lash growth.

But not everybody was happy, evidently, because there was a mop complaining about being left out in the cold, a bottle of cleanser crying, and a very angry caveman. There was also a child who was upset not getting an ice cream cone at the bank. A couple of women were complaining about how their laundry smelled bad.

Suddenly, a happy shout came through. “I’m the QUEEN of LAYAWAY!”

Then: “Uh-oh, Flobot’s broken….”

       A small voice whispered: “MeepMeep.” That was answered by a somewhat puzzled “Meep? Meep?”

       So, did the new Queen of Layaway let the mop back in the house, dry the tears of the cleanser, and soothe the anger of the caveman? Now the caveman could use the mop and cleanser to clean the floor. It was so easy a caveman could do it, but I’m hoping the Queen didn’t say that to him.

       Was Flobot saying MeepMeep because she was broken? It sounded more like the naked green and white gentleman to me. Who gave the child an ice cream? I would hope the Queen did given that she must have had some money left over now that she could pay for whatever she bought in installments. They could each be an Ally to one another.

Why was Gordon meeping about? He could have a hot romance with Crabcakes or the Eyelash lady. Maybe the three of them could form a ménage a trois.

       Could Gordon and his new girlfriends get in a car and put their cellphone in a new holder so they could call up the Queen of Layaway to join the orgy? Or if he wanted more male company, he could have called up the Caveman.

       Most importantly, who would end up re-washing the ladies’ smelly laundry? Oh, wait a minute, I just found out? “That’s my Tide? What’s yours?” It must have been the people in the smelly gym after they took their blindfolds off and realized that Febreze could solve all their odor problems. I sure hoped that those people could take that product over to all the Dr. Scholl’s machines that surely must be stinking after having so many feet on them. But I haven’t heard anything about that yet.

       But the gym would be a great place for the orgy anyway. Now it smells so fresh that everybody wants to just lie on the floor and sniff it.

The Visitation

      Another 4 a.m. transmission woke Jimmy and I up the other night. But, it was not The Weather Channel. As if we needed it to tell us that the night was going to be stormy, with rain pounding, lightning stabbing, wind roaring, and thunder booming. . . .

       Nor was it our potheads on their CBs. This time it was something else: 

"Hey Doug, Do you have any signals?"
"Yeah Jerry, I have a blip at 4 o'clock, but there's nothing on the schedule."
"Maybe a flight was diverted because of the storm?"
"They usually tell us about any changes."

      Uh oh—it sounded like two fellas discussing something weird on a radar screen. Maybe the wind had blown something around to cause a radar blip. I didn't have to wake Jimmy. He was already wide-awake and actually quite alert. "Sounds like you have JFK airport this time," he said.

      "Yep. I wonder what blew over there," I replied. I was only mildly curious because, well, in weather like this, anything on earth was possible."

"Hey, Jerry, what's that light over there? Damn it. It looks like something's crashing over by the fence."

"Doug, It can't be a fire--not in this downpour. I'll ask Ray to go check it out and, when he gets back, I'll give you a call."

. . . . 

      This exchange reminded me of a plane crash that had occurred many years ago, when my sister and I had started out from our home in South Ozone Park, Queens, to go into Manhattan to a Rolling Stones concert. It was raining in that same heavy way, when the world just seems to fill up with water.

     We had heard a tremendous crack of—I thought at the time—thunder. "It's the judgment of G-d," I had joked to my sister and she had laughed. Later that night, when we had returned from the concert, we learned that there had been a plane crash out near JFK just around the time we had heard the noise. Judgment of G-d, indeed—many people had lost their lives in that crash. 

. . . .

      So, now, on this rainy night, I waited rather apprehensively, hoping to learn that something had crashed but that it was nothing with any people in it. Maybe it was a just a weather balloon or an unmanned craft of some sort or other.

      "Doug, Doug, what's on your screen now?" Jerry's voice had picked up a strong note of panic. "Got nothing," Doug replied, yawning rather loudly. "What's the matter? What did Ray see?"

       Silence. Had the transmission ended? Drat it, was I going to end up not knowing what happened until it flashed on CNN tomorrow? Then my foot started up again:

"Doug, this is Ray. I called Jerry out here and he's freaking out. He thought I was nuts, but he came out anyway, and we don't believe it. There's all this crap lying around here and it's not a weather balloon! There are these gray things around here with these big black eyes. Ya know—it looks like Roswell."

"C'mon, you guys. Stop messing with my head. Pick up one of them things and bring it to me. I'll show you what's what."

     Jimmy and I looked at each other. I was frozen with awe and fear. Could my infamous left foot have picked up some JFK personnel in the middle of an alien encounter? "OMG!" I mouthed, unable to utter a sound. "OMG, it can't be!" he responded aloud. "Gotta be a practical joke." "No," I whispered, my voice starting to come back. "The grays are there!" Jimmy shook his head despairingly at my credulence. "This ain't JFK. It's 'The Twilight Zone.'" 

      Once again, silence reigned, this time, for approximately 15 minutes, although it felt like 15 hours to me. Then, once again, we heard:

"OK, gimme this guy. Let's do an alien autopsy right now."
"Doug, you're no MD. You can't do that."
"Ray, look, turn this one over. See that little plug there? Just pull it."
"I'm not gonna touch that thing. Maybe it's got radiation."
"We got detectors for that. No radiation here. How about you Jerry? Can you give this a pull?"

     Suddenly there was a hissing sound and then bursts of laughter. "Look, you guys. Which one of you pulled this stupid stunt?" Silence. "Where'd you get these dolls. Korea? China? Roswell?"

     Then a more-professional voice intervened: 

"Douglas, did you get a blip on your radar about 20 minutes ago?"
"Yes, Ms. Gray , I did."
"Good, I've just been notified that a blimp with some inflatable alien dolls was moored nearby, and it seems to have blown away in the storm. Can you check to see if it's the blimp? It was going to go to Roswell for a stunt in a movie."
"We found them Ms. Gray. I'll get the fellas to clean up and recover as many as possible. But the blimp is all torn up."
"Thanks. Good night, Douglas."
"Good night." 

     And that was the alien invasion. The only Gray in the whole scenario was the detached and professional lady. I sure can't wait to see the movie though. . . . 

(to be continued)

My iLeft Foot or

How Fat Charlie and Spacey Lacey 

Did a Break Break...Into My Sleep

   It was 4 a.m., and both Jimmy and I were sound asleep. I was dreaming about going to a Bob Dylan concert, when, suddenly, a voice woke me:

Break, break....Fat Charlie here. Spacey Lacy, you got Smokey on your tail right off the Jackie Robinson. Shake that bandit loose and bring me Mary Jane over to my house. Over. 

    I woke up and poked Jimmy. "What the heck are you dreaming about, Hairball? On top of Old Smokey Days?"

   Jimmy woke slowly, as he always does, until he heard quite distinctly:

That's a big 10-4. I see em out of my rear view mirror. Don't worry. Everything is cool. Where there's no smoke, there's no fire....Over.

   "Huhhh?" Jimmy said. "Got Weeds on in the middle of the night? Could you lower the volume?"

   "I'm not watchin' TV! OMG, do you think it's the gray guys!? I'm scared. I hear voices. They are right in this ROOM."

   Wide awake now, Jimmy could see there were no aliens in the room, nor was the TV on. "It must be some people in the elevator."

   "NO!" I declared, hugging my corduroy pillow for dear life. "It's too LOUD! If I can hear it, the dead can hear it. It's RIGHT HERE! Maybe it's a ghost."

   "So you ain't the Ghost Whisperer—you're the Ghost Yeller now?"

   Suddenly, we heard a weird sound: Chssssh, chssssh...."

   "What the hell was THAT?!" I nearly jumped off the bed. "It wasn't one of the CATS."

   Sleep completely out of the question, the two of us wondered what was going on. Did we have a ghost? Was our neighbor watching some loud TV show? 

   "I want some ice cream, take me into the kitchen," I demanded, feeling a NEED for some comfort food.

   "Take it easy, take it EASY! I have to go get a drink first."

   "Don't leave me. Take me with you." 

"I'll be five feet away!" Jimmy wasn't being cruel. He was thirsty, sleepy, and scared, and didn't want something demanded of him! Can't say I blamed him. So, I relented.

    Leaving me in the bedroom, Jimmy went to get a cold drink.

   Suddenly, I heard a crackle and then: 

Hey Fat Charlie, Spacey Lacey back. Smokey went into the park to check out the FORRREST fires. Ha ha! Be over soon and you can baby, baby, light my fire.  

Yeah, baby, sounds like a plan. . . .

   "JIMMY! They are talking again," I screamed, totally panicked now.

   "Who's talking again?"

   "What did you say?"

   "I SAID, 'WHO'S TALKING AGAIN?'"

   "Those people. Get me out of this bedroom. It's scaring the hell out of me."

    Jimmy came in. There was silence. But he brought me into the kitchen to get me the ice cream I had wanted. I think he hoped to distract me, but just as he put the dish down in front of me, we both heard. "Spacey Lacey, you'll never guess what I got you." "Whatja get me big fella?" "Can't tell you...."

   Jimmy and I looked at each other in sheer terror. "It's coming from under the table," I said in a weak voice.

   "IT IS," Jimmy agreed emphatically and immediately ducked under the table to put his ear to the floor. Was it the neighbor below us? If so, the board was going to get one heck of a complaint.

   "Spacey Lacey's rocketing your way, Fat Charlie. Over....chussssh, chusssh...."

. . .

   "Billie, I'm going nuts. It's coming out of your FOOT. Your left one."

   "What? You crazy or something?"

   "Let's get back in bed and you can listen yourself."

    Leaving the forgotten ice cream to melt into a chocolate chip mint puddle, we went back to back to bed, and my 2 corduroy blankets, my 4 corduroy pillows, 2 cats, 1 book, one bag, 5 other pillows, various Jimmy hairs, and Jimmy...

   I got my ear as close to my foot as I could and suddenly I heard, louder than ever: "C'mon, Spacey girl, I'm waiting on ya."

   Jimmy was right! It was coming out of my left foot. Well, one guy painted with his left foot. Mine talked. How did that happen?

   It goes back to when I broke my ankle in Ohio back last June. I had 2 titanium plates and 11 screws implanted in there to fix the fracture. And now, I had a talking foot. 

    I've heard of this happening before—metal picks up signals. Some people used to get radio music in their teeth fillings. Other people would get CB signals in plates in their heads. 

   Evidently, I had picked up a couple of potheads talking on their CBs that night. I only wished that Fat Charlie and Spacey Lacey would get their bongs out and have a good smoke, so we could get a good sleep.

   After it had gotten quiet, Jimmy looked at me with a totally straight face and said that he hoped that tomorrow I might pick up The Weather Channel.

(to be continued)