I've taken a few stabs at describing what happened last Saturday, but so far every cooing gurgling bundle of joy that's appeared on that doorstep has transmogrified into a flaming bag of poo.
And then been gingerly stomped out of existence.
I can't really call this writer's block; I mean there have been stabs... well, here: let me try again.
So Skeet and I--parked in my Morris Minor down the block from Beth's home--were monitoring her activities. I would include that we were "minding our own business," but that wouldn't be true. We were not. We were minding other people's business. For them.
Because.
Because I think they need help minding their business. Yes, I've finally had to admit this fact to myself: I am not being totally innocent here. A person has to act.
This all stems from the discussion Skeet and I were having right before the thing happened. And it is relevant.
In short, the Skeet was purposefully trying to rile me. Not necessarily insulting my manhood or manliness, whatever, but he was addressing the probity of my character. Bluntly, I said: "I don't have time for this."
"What are you talkin' about, Herb? We're just sitting here. You don't have time to not do nothin' anymore? And you keep draggin' me into this stuff. Have I told you I think you're wasting your time? And my time? Have I mentioned that?"
I think what was really bothering him was I wouldn't let him play with my notebook. My batteries were low. And I wouldn't drive to his place to retrieve his car adapter either: playing Solitaire is not reason enough to discontinue a stakeout.
So while he's sulking over this, Beth's huge canary SUV pulled out of her garage. Followed by the other woman herself toddling out the front door. The Hummer stopped, window came down, driver and Beth exchanged words, then driver--Kevin B.--climbed out and they walked indoors.
"OK," said the Skeet, "we can go now."
"Hold on. They're on the move. Something's going down."
"What? They went inside. Show's over. C'mon, let's go."
"Look at the exhaust pipe!" I yell whispered. Though we sat a good fifty yards away, the crisp chill in the air made the Hummer's puffing stand out in contrast.
"Ahh. They're keepin' the engine warm. I see what you mean."
"There he is," I said, pointing at the porch. Salsa guy emerged from the front door, and draped over his shoulder was something familiar: a 40 pound bag of dog food. Only it looked pretty heavy. A lot heavier than forty pounds. Using my binoculars I could easily tell it, too, had been taped up. He heaved it into the back, then returned indoors.
"Now's our chance, Skeet. Let's go. Just stay behind me, k? Like maybe a foot or two. Got it?"
"Jeez, Herb. We don't wanna--"
I heard my door shut, then his open. "C'mon, Skeet," I said, signaling for him to follow, swiftly walking toward the Hummer.
"Don't, Herb. Wait. What are you doing?"
"You'll see."
At this point, all I remember is that I wanted to get near the contraband. Did I intend to rip open that Kibbles 'n Bits bag in an effort to expose what surely would be something other than dog food? I don't know. Was I of a mind to even touch any door handles, let alone try them? I really don't think so.
I just wanted to get in the area. To get a closer look.
I just wanted to quit being part of what's wrong with this country! America is tired of its heroes pussy-footing around. Tiny Tim and his ukulele are passé: there are no more tulips to be tip-toed through.
Well... not so much with that last one. But you get my drift. Like I said, Skeet had been picking at me, and I was a bit... I dunno. Is "crazy" a good descriptive here? Certainly "impulsive" fits. I just felt like I'd seen too many dogs of bag food and no dogs. We, Dawn and I, have dogs. Our backyard is redolent with steaming mounds of their tell-tale evidence (i.e. land mines). And occasionally our pooches voice their opinions on this and that. But have I heard even one opinion barked, have I seen even one dropping dropped from a being that would bark if it ever visited either Kevin's or Beth's yard?
No.
Not one bark, not one yelp, not one dropping. No vet bills in their garbage cans.
They. Have no reason. To have so many. Kibbles. 'N Bits. In their lives.
Something like that was going through my mind as I approached Beth's Hummer. Fortunately, as it turned out, I didn't have to try any door handles. Kevin B. had walked out again, shouldering another huge bag of the same brand of pet food; I jogged up to him, offered my help, and reached out to assist. Or... sorta reached out. I remember my hands were out there in front of me... right before I slipped on the ice on her driveway. I fell forward and slammed into the dog food bag. Which promptly hit the concrete and busted open. And out came a few Bits. 'N some Kibbles. 'N nothing other than that came out.
I tossed salsa guy a ten, offered my semi-apology for slipping on his ice, said I was OK in response to his inquiry, and then the Skeet and I hurried back to my Minor.
Sure I was embarrassed, but slipping on the ice and nearly breaking my neck and feeling it from my big toe for the first time in over a month wasn't enough for my good friend Skeeter. Nope. Which is why I stated earlier that his ragging on me was relevant to this update.
(I finally processed this pic of what my toe looked like before the surgery.)
Because this is when he went for the jugular. Oh, he's an expert. He's just sooo smooth. Just starts in complimenting Del Monte. We're driving down the road and he's saying Del Monte.
Finally, I said: "What about Del Monte?"
"They make, ah... Kibbles 'n Bits. Do a pretty good job of it, too."
"You don't say."
"Yeah. They do."
"That's a new one on me," I said, braking for a red light.
"They don't horse around. They're top drawer. Iams they're not, but still."
"But still?" I asked. I was subdued. Still shuddering, inwardly, from my close encounter with the icy pavement.
"Well, yeah... They're a... I'd say that bag of Kibbles 'n Bits was like eighteen twenty bucks. Somethin' like that."
I pulled away from the intersection, nodding. "OK, Skeet. You're doing it again. You've caught me with my pants down. Yes, I spilled a bag of dog food. Big freaking deal. Now go ahead and rub my nose in it."
"I'm not saying anything, Herb. You gave him ten bucks. And they cost like twenty. It's quality dog food."
"Look, Skeet. This is not about me being cheap again, ok? This guy probably killed somebody. He doesn't even have any dogs, k? And she doesn't either. None of them own dogs; do you hear me? I already told you what I saw in that last one."
"Which one?" he asked.
"On my site."
"You mean your blog?"
"My website is not a blog."
"It's a blog."
"OK, it's a Herblog®. Enough." I looked in the rearview mirror. "Anyway, I told you in person and on my site about what I saw in that last bag of Kibbles 'n Bits. And it wasn't dog food. And besides: all he has to do is sweep it up and bag it and his dogs would never know the difference. I say 'would,' because for his dogs to know or not know the difference it would help if THEY CAME INTO EXISTENCE FIRST!"
"There's no need to get snippy."
"All I'm saying is in my haste to get some closure for this... for what's beginning to look more and more like a fiasco... I just wanted to get a closer look at--"
"You rammed into him and ripped at that bag of Kibbles. It's like you were trying to tackle--"
"I slipped on the ice! Who's side are you on, anyway?"
"What were you doing walking up his driveway? Aren't pedestrians s'posed to stay on the sidewalk?"
"He was struggling with his load. Didn't you see it falling?" I made a left turn.
"Nope. Can't say I did. I'm thinking he was doing fine."
"Hmm," I said.
"Right. I didn't see that. And I think there's some other stuff that you haven't seen."
"Like what?"
"Like you haven't seen any dead bodies, yet you're ripping open dog food bags and finding, um, dog food. And... and tell me again why this investigation continues? And while you're at it, why am I always painted out to be the goofy hillbilly on your..."
He stopped and waited for me to finish his thought. I didn't.
"What? What are you calling it now?"
"Just... if you wanna call it a blog, fine. I'm concentrating on the traffic here. Don't mind me."
"Look, Herb: you're my friend. You know we're friends."
Long pause.
Finally, he said: "Talk to me."
"I know. I agree. We're friends."
"You bet we are. We're pretty good friends. Have been for years. I'm just... I'm just wondering when you're gonna finish with all this peekin' around the Venetian blinds--you know, all this cloak and dagger stuff--and go back to just being Herb."
I exhaled. "I admit we've had a little setback here. I'll probably--"
"We?"
"OK, I. I've had a little setback here. I'll cool it for a while."
"For a while?"
"Don't worry, I'll scale it back. But I've still seen quite a few curious things. Way too many curious things to just give up on finding out about that guy he was--"
"I know, I know: the guy he was choking in the parking lot of your favorite Wal~Mart."
"My... my local Wal~Mart. It's the one closest to where I live."
"Whatever."
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to what happened at a particular Wal~Mart
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE
Question: how does one "gingerly stomp" a flaming bag of excrement? Answer: very carefully.