"I believe my subject is bewilderment. But I could be wrong." Donald E. Westlake 1933-2008Yesterday, while doing time in the seasonally long checkout line at the supermarket, Christmas muzak forced itself in my ears: It’s the MOST wonderFUL TIME of the YEAR….  Ha. More like, over-rated. No, over-advertised.  

What’s a synonym for advertise?  Hypnotize. Via TV, radio, facebook, google, twitter, tablets, phones, you name it, vendors use it to do it. From Black Friday through New Year’s Eve, everywhere you go, eddying masses of shopping-bag-encrusted people with glazed eyes at half-mast get in the way. Especially in parking lots. Oh joy.

From behind me in the queue, a woman’s voice broke up these festive thoughts, “Did you get the croutons?”

A second female voice answered, “Capons? I thought we were going with turkey. Do they even carry capons here? Awfully fancy.”

The first voice said, impatiently, “Croutons!”

The second, “Coupons?”

The soundtrack changed to Rudolph, The Red Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose, and if you ever saw it and I was at the OJ Bar & Grill, standing at the bar with Dortmunder, my favorite thief, waiting for Rollo, the meaty, blue-jawed bartender to notice us. Meanwhile, the regulars at the bar talked amongst themselves. Oh joy!

Overhearing the regulars at the OJ is the best of all possible interludes in this best of all possible worlds: a Dortmunder caper by Donald Westlake. (Also in this, the real world.)

As you know, Westlake is my favorite author.  The reasons are many, and here’s another. In every stream of action there are lulls, during which people around us talk, and who listens? Westlake. Master alchemist, he takes this dross and makes comedic gold.

At some point in every Dortmunder caper— Oh, when? The anticipation!— the gang meets in the back room of the OJ. Which means passing by the bar where the regulars take sloshy slugs at life’s pressing conundrums. And miss.

Let's listen. We gotta wait for Rollo anyway.

When Dortmunder walked into the O.J. Bar & Grill on Amsterdam Avenue at four minutes before six that evening, Rollo, the bulky, balding bartender, was painting MERY XM on the extremely dusty mirror over the back bar, using some kind of white foam from a spray can, possibly shaving cream, while the regulars, clustered at one end of the bar, were discussing the names of Santa’s reindeer. “I know it starts,” the first regular said, “’Now, Flasher, now Lancer, now—‘”

“Now, now, wait a second,” the second regular said.  “One of those is wrong.”

For Terry

I call my mom, aged 86, every week to ten days. I know I should call more, but that’s all I can stand. 

First Week June: Let The Games Begin

“Hi Mom. How are you?”

She carps, “Baby Sis still hasn’t printed out your blogs for me to read. I don’t know what her problem is.” 

Baby Sis works a sixty+ hour week as a high-powered criminal defense attorney for the feds, and puts in another forty between home and parenting two young children with her equally busy architect hubby.  Maybe she sleeps. She and Mom live in the same megatropolis.

“A blog is an online magazine, Mom. I’ll be glad to send you the pieces I’ve published to mine.”

“I know what a blog is! No, don’t bother. Baby Sis will do it.” 

Mom doesn’t “need” a computer, e-mail or the Internet. Her time is too valuable to waste on learning such nonsense. Besides, she knows everything already. 

I print off and mail Mom the year’s collection of posts.

***

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***

Back to the arena, where Mature D is interviewing Little D. 

Mature D:  So little girl, you threw down the gauntlet! Will Mom dish up some approval, do you think? 

Little D: I hope so!

Mature D: Knowing Mom, not likely.

Little D: Really?

For maximum joy and cheer, fly between December 24 and January 1. The strip search and pat down by security kicks off the festivities.

Each seat in the plane has been sold to two people. Snickers and knowing looks go round the waiting area with the free ticket offer (good for one year) in exchange for taking a later flight. All the later flights will also be double booked.  Music wafts by…. I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams….