Chapter 70 – Scammed Again

A little background on me and BRC (sounds like a Kristofferson song). As I wrote before in an earlier chapter, Billy Ray Cyrus had come to my house, or so I was told since I was incapacitated with a horrible flu, dressed as Santa Claus bearing gifts for my two boys (Morgan wasn’t to come into existence for a few years later). My next association with Billy Ray was when I played pedal steel guitar on a track of his written by my friend Chas Sandford (which twenty years later became the title track of his record, The Distance). My third encounter with the King of Achy-Breaky was not so auspicious.

My son Daniel had lent his Queen CD to one of Billy Ray’s sons who had refused to return it. As I was driving my MG Midget on Thompson Station Road one extremely hot and humid day at the end of May, I realized I was behind the school bus with Daniel and Morgan inside. When the bus came to a stop to let out some of the children, my two boys exited and got into my tiny sports car (Morgan was seated in the small area behind the driver’s seat not really meant for a passenger). Since we were only a mile or so from our house, I figured it would be safe enough if I took it easy. Then I remembered that Billy Ray would be waiting by the iron gate of his palatial mansion for his son to get off the bus. I thought it would be the perfect time to finally meet BRC face to face and mention the CD and hopefully he would give his boy a good talking to.

Billy Ray seemed nice enough as we conversed, but he stayed safely behind his protective gate. He said he would let his son know that I had talked with him and the CD would be returned promptly. We then talked about music, and how I had some songs he might be interested in and he told me to drop them off someday and he would have a listen. As we were talking, I noticed him acting a little nervous, like maybe I had stepped over the line by mentioning my music. It seemed as if he was looking off to his left, as if there was a hidden camera there and he was giving signals to some unknown entity. A minute later, I saw a police car drive by heading toward my house. Then I noticed that the cop had pulled over in a driveway not more than a hundred yards from my driveway.

I got back into the Midget with Daniel in the passenger seat and Morgan in the back area, which, of course had no seatbelts. As I turned the corner past the police car, I saw the red and blue light flash on in my rear view mirror. I pretended I didn’t see them and continued on into my driveway and parked my car in its usual place. The cop, who looked like a teenager with short blond hair and a wispy moustache had followed me in, got out of his cruiser and approached me with an attitude.

“License and registration,” he demanded. I showed him my license but told him my car registration was in my office and I would go grab it and be back in two shakes of a pig’s tail. He began to write something. I knew it wasn’t his memoirs.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Writing you a ticket for neglecting to have seatbelts, no child seat and not having your car registration available.”

“I told you its in the house. It just came by mail and I forgot to put it in my car with the rest of the paperwork.” I knew that ticket could cost me five hundred dollars or more so I wanted to make sure I would find the paperwork pronto.

“Well,” said the cop, “if you can produce the registration before I finish writing this here ticket, I might let that part go.”

Here I was on my own property being made to jump through a hoop of fire for this little Nazi stormtrooper. I rushed into the house, found the registration in less than a minute and ran back out to the so called officer of the law, a man who was sworn to protect and serve.

“Sorry, you’s a tad too late,” he said smugly.

Meanwhile Morgan and Daniel stood by the front door of the house watching the scene with morbid curiosity. I said to the cop as he handed me the ticket, “Are you through?”

He nodded his head and moved back toward his cruiser. Now as I said, I was on my own property, and sometimes a man can get a false sense of security when he feels he is in the right and standing in front of his castle. I then said, “Okay then, now would you kindly get the fuck off of my property!”

That was it. He rushed toward me and threw me up against the Toyota minivan parked right in from of my side door while Morgan and Daniel and my wife, Donna who had come outside to witness the commotion, watched with shock and horror. The fascist bent my arms back behind my back and tried to handcuff me, but I wasn’t making it easy for him. Then I thought, resisting arrest would not help my case so I acquiesced. I figured I could explain things to the higher-ups when I arrived at the jail in downtown Franklin, ten miles to the north.

While lying on my side in the back of the cruiser, I heard the cop having a phone conversation with what I thought was Billy Ray Cyrus. He was verifying the story I told him about the CD and how I was only trying to get back what belonged to my son. He asked BRC if we talked about my own CD and it seemed like Billy was corroborating my story to the T.

There were two nice things about being in the holding cell that day. One, I was fortunate to be in and empty cell, and two, it felt cool to lie down on the stainless steel bench with the temperatures outside in the high nineties. The cop had written his report and handed it in to the desk sergeant, and I was waiting to see what would happen next. About an hour later the stormtrooper approach my cell. “This must be your lucky day.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“It just so happens it’s my birthday and I’m feeling a might generous. We’ve decided to let you go.” He unlocked the barred door and let me out and then said, “If you want me to give you arid back home—“

“No that’s alright,” I said. “I want to walk home and think about things if it’s all the same to you.” There was no way in the world I was going into that police car again with that asshole. A block outside the jail, I called Donna on my cell phone and she told me she was already only a mile or so away. Fifteen or twenty minutes later I was back home. No charges were ever filed, the ticket was torn up and I have never seen that cop anywhere again. I guess he got a good bawling out from his superiors, who must had told him he was out of line for harassing a home owner with no police record.

Now, after writing that letter about the song-plugger. I was hoping that Billy Ray had forgotten about the CD incident and the cop, or if he remembered, he felt guilty for being apart of it. He answered me back quickly. The email read: Hey James. Just got this. Never heard of the songs or got to hear them sorry to say. I bet they were good. Back at that time when I worked with * * * *, Disney and their A and R team handled all the material unless it was something I wrote. I'm gonna make a new record in the fall so I'll reach out then. Maybe it was meant to be until now. All the best. B R.

So there it was. He never heard it, but I wondered how long it had been since he worked with this particular representative. He sent him a follow-up email: Thanks for responding. I have the feeling this song-plugger was making things up and wrote a bunch of nonsense on his report to us. These kinds of people (if this is what he is doing I will have to confirm it with other artists and A&R people before I can know for sure) should not be allowed to exist in the music business. It has a bad enough reputation already. Any time you want to hear these songs, and they are good and perfect for you esp. "Got It Too Good" let me know and I'll send you an MP3. Or if you in town you could drop by. Thanks again Billy, I always liked you and I hoped that you were still an all right guy. You ARE! There is one more thing I forgot to ask and before I start accusing anyone I need, as Jack Webb said, “just the facts”. You intimated that you are no longer working with * * * *. Did your association with him end before Nov. 2012?

Thanks, James

He replied: Yes. Way ...like ...2008 or 2009.

It was time to tell Larry that my intuition was right and the song-plugger was pulling stats out of his ass. Larry and I constructed a letter advising this scumbag that we were going to not only sue him, but go to all the TV stations and make a public spectacle of him. He returned all the money within a week as long as we promised not to share his little secret. I’ll never know it any of the other artists were legitimate, but I highly doubt it. If it weren’t for the fact that I had a country star living right across the street from me, and was able to contact him, the ruse could have perpetuated for months . . . maybe even years. I wish I could mention his name but I don’t want to get sued for libel.

Oh yeah, a side note: Since the writing of this blog, Larry, because he felt I didn’t give him his due credit for winning a Cleo award for his musical contribution to the advertising game and not mentioning his solo Cd of instrumental music, he has not returned any of my calls and had remained completely out of touch for over a year now. C’est la vie say the old folks/ it goes to show you never can tell.

Another side note: The Queen CD was returned to Daniel the next school day after the incident.

Chapter 69 – Long Distance Production

A few years ago, while I put ideas for my record Timing is Everything together, Larry Harrison and I began to rekindle our songwriting over the phone and the internet. There was a song called After All on my first solo CD (See You Around) that I recorded in a Willie Nelson style and Larry insisted that it should be done differently. He believed in that song and told me I was one of the best songwriters he had ever had the privilege of working with. I’m not sure I believed him and wondered what he was up to.

He thought the song should be done in a contemporary ballad style a la Michael Bublé or something similar. I thought, why the hell not. He then expressed an interest in publishing that song as well as another song from that record of mine, Got it Too Good and would compensate me with some dollars. I needed the money so I did the deal. I would still retain 100% of my writer’s royalties, but Larry Harrison was now my publisher, of at least those two songs anyway. Larry had put together a state of the art recording studio in his home and had also assembled a crew of musicians at his beck and call. I told him to run with it.

The recordings came out pretty nice. He had hired a few different vocalists to sing After All to see what would work the best for the song. The first vocalist sang the song in a Tom Waits style, which I really liked but Larry thought it wasn’t commercial enough for radio. Whatever. He then got an amazing soul sister to sing it and it was so riffed out I couldn’t even recognize the melody anymore. Then it became a duet with the vocal being shared with a black dude. It was better, but I still liked the Tom Waits version better. But the ball was in his court, and since my preference didn’t amount to a hill of coffee beans, I went along with his decision (which seemed to change hour to hour). At least we had three different versions of the song and we could let the powers that be (whomever they were) decide its fate.

The second song, Got it Too Good, needed to be straight ahead country. Larry was going to use Randy, the same guy that sang the Tom Waits version of After All (he could sound like anyone from Hank Williams or Buck Owens to Merle Haggard or Alan Jackson ). I told him I knew a guy who could sing the ever-loving crap out of it, and he happens to live right here in Music City. His name’s Sean Patrick McGraw. I met Sean years ago in L.A. when we both were attending a music writing workshop. We ended up meeting up ten years later and began penning some songs together when I first came to town. My original track of Got it Too Good sounded like it could have been right off of John Lennon’s Rock and Roll record from 1975, or maybe even one of Elton John’s releases from the eighties. Now, even though I didn’t care too much for country music (at least what country music had become), the track was as country as your mom’s apple pie. Sean recorded a stunning vocal and even laid down three part harmonies and then sent them off. Larry was thrilled, and even I thought the song sounded great, and commercial to (cowboy) boot.

There was a song I had written called Running Around the World, which was published by Curt Boettcher in 1986 and ended up on Mike Love’s solo record, Looking Back With Love. Larry came up with the idea to change it from a Beach Boys style to country. The tag line at the end of the chorus was: trying to catch up with my favorite little girl. He suggested that instead of “little girl” it should be “country girl”. I was okay with that. The song was now entitled, Favorite Country Girl. The track was really great and Sean did his usual outstanding vocals. I really thought that between the three songs, at least one of them was destined to be a hit, or at least get us some action in the marketplace. Larry was on a roll and recorded five more songs from our old duo’s (Two Guys from Van Nuys) catalogue. They turned out nice, but they weren’t as commercial as the previous three. Now the question was: how in the world were we going to sell these tunes?

Larry, being so far removed from the scene since becoming a stock broker/ insurance man (even though he recorded a moody solo record of instrumentals and was recording commercials for some Fortune 500 companies), he though with me living in Nashville, I should be the one to carry the ball into the playing field. This, as most people who know me would agree, is not my strong point.

I remembered my friend Chas Sandford had told me about a song-plugger that I almost did business with when I released Timing is Everything, but I couldn’t afford his fee. When I mentioned it to Larry, he thought it might be a way to go. He said he would pay the $200 a month (the cost of promoting one song which we decided should be Favorite Country Girl). Since the cost of two songs was only and extra hundred bucks, we added Got it Too Good to the presentation. We signed the contract with this song-plugger in November of 2012 and in exchange for our money, said song-plugger would shop our tune, send us a monthly report of which artist were being “pitched”, who represented the said artist, and the status of the song (either it was “kept” or “passed”). When we got our copy of the first report it looked very promising. Out of the fourteen pitches half of them had kept either one of the two songs. We were batting five-hundred which any hitter in the major leagues would be ecstatic about.

It was a little ironic that my heart was not really into this partnership with Larry. If it would have happened a few years earlier I would have been over the moon, but now I was more interested in writing my first novel, Mulligan’s Tour, and couldn’t give the proper amount of energy and dedication needed to really get that ship launched out of the harbor. Larry would call me up two, sometimes three times a day asking me what I thought about this musical part, or this lyric change and, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t wait to get him off the phone and get back to editing my manuscript. But now that the song-plugger had the tunes in his grubby little hands, it was out of mine.

So the reports came in monthly with more of the same result. The artists or their reps were either passing or keeping the songs but nobody had made any commitments to record them. I started to have a bad feeling about this song-plugger. Deep in my gut I felt that he was pulling these statistic out of thin air. Larry thought I was being paranoid. I didn’t think so. Funny enough, one of the artists on the list was Billy Ray Cyrus, who just happens to live right across the street from me in Thompson Station. I thought it would be ironic if my neighbor (who I could have thrown the CD over his gates) would end up cutting one of my songs from a song-plugger who lived thirty miles away. Then I had an idea. Maybe I should giver old Billy Ray a call, better yet send him an email to see if he ever actually heard these songs. I got his email from Chas, who had been working the the king of Achy-Breaky off and on for a few years. Actually, BRC recorded a song of Chas’s called The Distance (I mentioned this in a previous post) which became the title track of his last record.

I sent him the email which read: Dear Billy Ray, Hi, I am your neighbor on Thompson Station Road. You might remember the time you came over dressed as Santa Claus about fifteen years ago. I have a big favor to ask of you if you could find it in your heart to help me straighten something out. You may or may not know that I write songs with my partner Larry Harrison and about six months ago we hired a local song-plugger to pitch some of our tunes for a nominal fee. It’s funny that he pitched ******* three of our songs, two of which your team had kept for more than three months, maybe four. The first song you kept was Favorite County Girl and the second was Got It Too Good. Our song-plugger sends us a spreadsheet report every month indicating who has kept or passed on the song. The frustrating thing is— we have no way of verifying his actions. What I am asking of you, Billy, is if you have ever heard these songs or if **** has even heard them? I am sure you can understand my dilemma, being a songwriter yourself and how hard it can be to break in to the community. At this point we have ceased our relationship with the song-plugger even though there are about ten different artists who have kept, and are still to my knowledge, keeping some of these songs. If you could help a neighbor out and let me know if you have any knowledge of these songs or no knowledge of them whatsoever, I would greatly appreciate it.

I didn’t hear back right away. Ten days later I sent the email out again. He replied within an hour. I was blown away with his response. To be continued.

Chapter 68 – Aileen - Part II

The animal shelter in Franklin did a thorough check of my history as a pet owner after I have filled in the adoption papers for Aileen. They knew that I had two other dogs and one surviving cat (after my favorite black cat, Mowgli passed away a year earlier). They also knew that they were delinquent in their shots and I would have to have all of their inoculations current in order to proceed with the adoption.

Although Aileen was doing much better and had been de-liced and flea bathed, she still limped badly and they though she might had been hit by a car since her right ear tilted in a funny way and her right eye seemed unresponsive. I knew nobody else was going to adopt her but still, the thought of her being put to sleep after what she had been through seemed senseless and unnecessary. I put a call out to Todd, my cohort in Aileen’s rescue. Todd, a dour man who, to this day, I don’t think I’ve had ever seen smile (if you look up dour in the dictionary I’m sure his picture would be there), and I left a message about my travails with the animal shelter. When he called back we made a deal. He would fill out the paperwork and pay for the adoption fees, but I would keep her at my house in Thompson’s Station. I knew my wife, Donna, would be too happy about it, but what else could I do? I told her I would try and find a home for Aileen but in my heart I knew she would be spending her final days in the Haymer household.

At this time, Jonathan, my oldest son, was preparing to leave for China. He had been granted a full scholarship to study in Hangzhou at the Confucius Institute and was scheduled to leave in September, in two months time. Jonathan was ecstatic about being selected (only four students had that honor at MTSU), and we were all helping him get ready for his trip with passports, shots, luggage, you know, the usual. He was going to be gone for a year and my heart was sinking, but I knew it was going to be a great opportunity for him. In a way it was payback. I had married Donna in 1990 and taken her away from her mum and dad and now it was my turn to fell the sense of estrangement. Thank God for things like FaceTime and WeChat. At least I would be able to see him as well as hearing his voice.

Ashley had agreed to lend me the cage and I placed it in the back of the house behind the mudroom where I could keep an eye on her. It was hot that summer so I kept an electric fan propped up beside her and filled a bucket with plenty of cool water. She wasn’t eating too well, so I would mix in some chicken and turkey breast along with her dog food. It seemed to have done the trick. I then erected a makeshift fence with some old chicken wire I had from before and bought some more metal fence posts so she could have an enclosed area. The first week or so she would goosestep nervously around the small area, but after a while she seemed to settle down. I felt bad about keeping her outside, especially at night, but the cage was left open and had plenty of soft blankets and the fan, which I kept running 24/7.

About a week and a half later, we had given Aileen a cool shampooing outside in her fenced area by the spigot in back and I cut all of the tightly knit clumps of hair matted together with who knows what in the downstairs bathroom. She was more agreeable to it than I had imagined she would be, but I think she trusted me as much as she could trust any human. I could tell she had been abused and after living in the wilds for so long I knew it would take the patience of a saint to bring her around.

The night of June, 26^th, Aileen was in bad shape. I thought, if she can make it through until morning it would be a miracle. I stayed up until almost three in the morning with her, playing my acoustic guitar in the adjoining room, and watching Under the Dome, a television adaptation of a book by Stephen King that was featured on demand. When she had settled a bit I finally went to bed and woke up about two hours later to check to see if she was all right. She was in a bad way. I had to wait until seven am to call Dr. Woody at Animal Health Center, and they told me the first available appointment was at three-thirty. I couldn’t wait that long—I had to bring her in. I took her outside and I could see something moving under her thick coat near her right shoulder where there was a growth of some kind. Maggots—tons of them had burrowed their way into her skin and were sucking her dry. No wonder she was so dissipated and struggling to survive. She was at her eleven and a half hour and fading fast. Ashley had come over to help me remove the parasites with a toothbrush and tweezers, and I think we picked out over a hundred of the little beasts. I even tried apple cider vinegar and Cutter bug spray (which worked better than the vinegar and didn’t make here whimper). I swore to myself if she made it through this ordeal she would stay in the mudroom from then on.

Dr. Woody gave her  some Capstar, a medication that kills the fuckers and is taken in pill form. It had done the trick and in two days time she was maggot free. As the summer turned into autumn, Aileen was not really improving. She was totally incontinent and every morning I awoke to the familiar smell of feces and urine. At least that room was closed off from the rest of the house.

By the end of November I knew things were going downhill rapidly for the poor old girl. She would whimper in the night and sometimes I would have to stay up all night by her side trying to comfort her. We took her back to Dr. Woody’s and he prescribed some medication for pain and something the help with her back legs which were practically paralyzed. I knew she wouldn’t last too much longer, but I didn’t want to give up. I figured Aileen was about twelve or thirteen, but it was really hard to determine since she was in such terrible shape. Usually you can judge by the shape their teeth are in, but she had been on survival mode for so long and could have been eating anything to stay alive and some of it would be pretty hard on the teeth.

Was this the day? It is Thursday December 5, 2013 and I was most likely going to have poor Aileen euthanized. She couldn’t walk anymore and cried all night (the nights were always worse). I knew the pain killers and anti-inflammatory meds were not really helping anymore (the night before I had give her three times the normal dose and still she cried out).  It was hard, but I had to admit that it was time. I had grown quite attached to her and I kept trying to stall the inevitable, but I reminded myself that she was not going to get any better.

It was 7:40 am and I was waiting for a call back from Animal Health Center. Maybe I’ll lose my keys like I did when Ginger had to be put to a dreamless sleep. I did that the other day when I thought it was time...but I found them. They were in the pocket of my robe. I still thought it was a sign and decided not to take her in to end her earthly struggles. I wish she could talk and tell me what she wanted me to do. I had to read it in her eyes and her whining groans. Now she was calm, but the mornings are always better for her. She still dragged her flailing back legs along and pulled herself in concentric circles. It was truly pathetic.

I removed one of the back seats from the Toyota Sienna and placed her gently on a blanket and closed the sliding door. She seemed to sense what was going on, but was still in a state of peace or calm. When I arrived at the vet’s they directed me into an examination room and they helped me place her on the metallic table. They gave me a few minutes with her to say my goodbyes. I looked around at the room with the borders with cats and dogs in play and I hoped that Aileen had experienced some joy in her life. At least the last six months, although painful for her, had been in a home with people who loved her and took good care of her. I did all that I could do and now it was in the hands of the big Dog in the sky. Dr. Woody came back with the two injections. The first was a sedative to relax her and the second, the more ominous one, would be the one to send her on her way. He injected the first shot and her breathing became shallow and she seemed to let go of her pain. I stroked her bent little ear and told her I loved her and how much I was going to miss her. Then came the second shot and at ten minutes after ten she slowly closed her eyes and was gone.

Afterwards they wrapped her in a white sheet and helped me load her body back into the can. I stopped a t a Home Depot on the way home and bought some peat moss and sand. Alone in the backyard pet cemetery, I dug a large hole next to Bailey’s grave and placed her there with her nose pointing east and then said a prayer as I shoveled the dirt and then built up a mound of peat moss and sand. It looked like a dome. I surrounded the grave with rocks and put the largest one where her head was. I will never forget her.

Chapter 67 – Morgan’s Turn - Aileen

 Now with the painting sold we had enough money to splurge on the last of the Haymer Bar Mitzvahs – Morgan’s.  It was slated for May 12, 2012, the day after his thirteenth birthday. His Torah portion was Emor, or the story of an eye for an eye, which, I thought, was diametrically opposed to his demeanor and to my own beliefs. It sound too much like revenge and what does that kind of behavior ever get you? I believe more in the laws of Karma; what you reap you will sow, and all that.

Donna and I were getting to be old hands at this Bar Mitzvah stuff and the nerves were under check. Even Morgan was his usual cool, laconic self and came off life a real pro. I was saddened that my parents, and even my Uncle Ellis (who had come to Jonathan’s  Bar Mitzvah) was not there. But I could very well imagine they were looking from wherever they were at the time, with pride and love. Of course, my sister, Susan, my brother, Robbie and his wife, Carol, and their two grown-up progeny, Max and Emily had made if over from California. Once again Donna’s parent’s, David and Olive Smollett and their youngest daughter, Heather, flew in from Scotland. They had made it to all three – a long way to go. Even my cousin Bobby Graff drove down from Detroit. He, I was happy to say, had brought his golf clubs and we played nine holes at Forrest Crossing the day he arrived.

After the service, the party was to be held at a small restaurant in Franklin called The Mercantile not far from the square. The owner told us it was their first Bar Mitzvah, and I could believe it since, when we arrived at the place, the marquee announcing the event read: Morgan Haymer’s Bar Mitsfa. We didn’t bother to correct them and when my brother saw it, he almost fell down laughing. Welcome to Tennessee, brother.

The party, even though it was pissing down rain outside, couldn’t have been warmer and toastier inside. We did the usual routine with lifting the chair high with the bar Mitzvah boy (now a man) supported by four strong shtarkers. After he got down, other brave souls took their turn in the hot seat. Since I had a recent bout with vertigo the month before, I declined the event. I never really liked all that bouncing around anyway. It was a grand event and was declared a huge success by all, but I was glad it was over and didn’t have to go through another one. The next big celebration, I knew, was going to be a wedding (but not too soon, I hoped).

Several months later in the Spring of 2013, I had been hired by the a fore mentioned golf course, Forrest Crossing, to work one day a week on a volunteer basis as an ambassador. The main perk being that I got virtually free golf. I knew that was going to save me three to four hundred dollars a month, so it was well worth the six hours a week I had to meet and greet golfers at the first tee and smile (I am not exactly the most politically correct individual in the world, as many people will attest to). I must say that although one out of ten of the golfers were extraordinary, most of them sucked. It was painful to watch.

On my third week working as an ambassador on the first hole, I noticed the morning shift starter wasn’t there. I walked into the clubhouse and asked the young kid where the guy was, and he told me he was helping Todd, (the head honcho manager of the course) trying to guide an old, crippled dog off the course on hole number five. I didn’t need to hear anymore. I was off like a lightning bolt in my golf cart with my walkie-talkie buckled to my belt. I turned up the volume as I drove to hole five , but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except golfers finishing up their putts—definitely no dog. I pushed the button on the walkie-talkie and asked where Todd and the dog were. A scratchy voice came back to me sounding like the speaker from an old drive-in movie screeching that Todd and the dog were over at hole number two, the eastern-most part of the course.

 I had seen a dog a few months back on the same hole when I was playing golf that looked to be in pretty bad shape. She was limping excessively and her hair was matted. I went back after my round, but she was gone; now five months later, I wondered if this could be the same dog. Was it possible?

When I arrived at the second hole, I didn’t see anything at first, so I drove the cart all the way to the raised green, then pulled the cart behind it. There they were. Todd was trying to coax what appeared to be a badly injured dog into his cart with a few hot dogs. It wasn’t working. When I looked closely, I saw that she had the same limp (only worse) as the dog I saw in February, and her markings were pretty much as I’d remembered.

I pulled my cart behind Todd’s and tried not to make any sudden moves that might scare the poor creature. As I got closer, I could see she was in pretty bad shape. Maybe she was hit by a car on the interstate since it bordered the hole on the east. There were workers repairing the road a few months ago, but they had finished in April. Since she didn’t look emaciated,  I figured it was possible that not only the neighbors, but one or more of those workers had been feeding or taking care of her—maybe not. I knew that dog couldn’t hunt.

I tried to help Todd guide the dog back to the clubhouse but she kept moving away from us in large circles and staying close to the two bunkers on the north side of the second green. She obviously was afraid of the human animal (who could blame her?). There was a tournament starting in less that half an hour and Todd was getting antsy because he knew the dog had to be moved as soon as possible off the field of play. Then I had an idea. I needed a rope or a leash, but since none were immediately available, I took the black strap used to secure the golf bags to the cart and removed it from its riggings. It was held in place by two plastic fasteners—the kind you might see on a Toyota or Honda used to fasten the carpets to the floor and when stretched out measured about six feet long. At first, I tied a slip knot at the end of the strap and then eased it over her head and pulled the makeshift rope gently. Not liking that one bit, she wrestled her way out of the knot in no time. I knew the only way I was going to get her into the cart was to tie a slip knot in the middle of the strap and have both hands free to pull the knot tight around her neck.

I told Todd to get his cart ready and to flank her from the left while I tried to guide her towards him. I crept up behind the dog (who was now in the bunker), and stroked her head with the loop of the strap trying to ease her worries.  When the right opportunity arose, I slipped the strap around the area between her neck and chest and then pulled. On the count of three I was going to lift her in. All Todd had to do was stay close to her to prevent the poor dog from missing her mark. One…two…three…I pulled her up in less time than it takes to say Constantinople, and she was on the floor of the passenger side of the cart. Todd drove her back to the clubhouse with me running alongside so she wouldn’t be tempted to jump out.

Todd was having trouble getting the dog,(which looked like a mix of German shepherd and Blue Heeler, or Australian Shepherd) out of the cart, but luckily someone had brought out a couple of hamburgers and had broken them up into bite sized pieces. Todd put them onto a paper plate and tried to inch it back towards him while she nibbled, but every time she got close to the edge she would freeze. I knew what I had to do. Sneaking up behind her, I gave her a gentle tap with my right foot and she took the plunge and was now on the ground. Todd said, “Jeez, Haymer, you have no second gear.” I said, “Sometimes you have to act and not dilly-dally around.”

In less than five minutes I was guiding the dog through the double doors of the clubhouse, through the pro-shop and into Todd’s office which was located in the back of the pro-shop just past the Nike and Callaway golf club displays. Todd followed us into his office and asked me if I knew anyone that had a cage. I thought for a moment and then a light bulb went on in my head. Mark and Ashley, my neighbors across the street who had a small farm with goats, donkeys and chickens (not to mention dogs), would have one. When I reached Ashley on the phone, she said she would be glad to bring the cage and a decent sized leash by the golf course. What a sweetheart!

While Todd was in his office with the dog, I went down to the first tee and assumed my post as the Starter for the tournament. While on duty, I had a good view of the parking lot and was keeping a watchful eye for Ashley to pull up in her black Ford truck. About half an hour later she arrived and I helped her unload the cage and carried it into Todd’s office.

After the golfers teed off, I had about six or seven minutes until the next group arrived at the tee giving me a few minutes to come upstairs and check in on her. She seemed to have calmed down and was drinking water and eating the remnant burgers from the clubhouse restaurant. I had never heard her growl or bark, but I could still see that she was a bit skittish. She did give me a lick on the hand after I heedfully stroked her behind her one floppy ear, Todd remarked, “She really seems to like you, James. They’re calling you ‘the Dog Whisperer’ around here now.” I smiled, thinking, if he only knew.

 Of course it was Sunday, and after calling all the animal shelters and rescue hot lines we knew she would be spending the night inside the cage in the middle of Todd’s already cluttered office. She could do a lot worse, especially after what she has been through. Don’t forget, this dog has been out there a long time; at least five months that I know of, and had survived. She needed someone to get her to a vet or the animal shelter as soon as possible. That would have to wait until Monday, though.

Monday morning arrived without incident and she was holding her own, and by noon Aileen (I had named her that because of her pronounced lean) was being transported in Mark and Ashley’s cage to the Williamson County Animal Shelter in Franklin. They said they would have to keep her there for nine days before she could be ready for adoption. At least the tested her for any diseases and de-wormed her, but they said that her injuries, although not initially fatal, were serious. I would visit her every day and take her out on a leash for walks. I knew nobody in their right mind was going to adopt Aileen, but I couldn’t let her be put to sleep. I knew one person who could save her. Who in the world do you think that was going to be?

Chapter 66 – Red Toreador – Part III – Empty Frame

I was in a bookstore in Greenwich Village. I had heard the Bob Dylan song, I Feel a Change Comin’ On, and in the song Bob talks about how he is listening to Billy Joe Shaver and reading James Joyce. Since I had already heard Billy Joe Shaver plenty of times but hadn’t ever read anything by Joyce, I decided to buy a copy of Ulysses, his powerful and banned book about one day in the life of two main characters, Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom. That day was June 16, 1904.

After reading the book I was fascinated by it, but really only understood ten, maybe twenty percent of the novel. I did a Google search on ‛Ulysses’ and found Frank Delaney’s podcast/blog called Re:Joyce at frankdelaney.com. Mr. Delaney is the utmost authority on everything Joyce. Every week he dissects one or two paragraphs in ten-minute narrative, claiming it will take twenty-two years to complete this herculean endeavor. I was immediately hooked. I still listen religiously every Wednesday. Oh, how much I have learned. Thank you so much, Mr. Delaney!

Then I got an idea: If Mr. Delaney can do it, so can I. That’s when I started my blog, jwhaymer.blogspot.com. In that blog, I wrote a chapter a week about my band, Silverspoon. Now it is called Life After Silverspoon, (this will be the 126^th chapter to date).  I found that I was enjoying the written word almost as much as I had ever enjoyed songwriting. Then I remembered I had written a screenplay called Mulligan’s Tour, which sat in a drawer, screaming to get out. I decided to adapt that screenplay into a novel, and my first book was born.

I know it may seem like a backassward way to do things, but when I gave the narrator in the book my father’s voice, it took on a whole new dimension. I liked the idea of Johnny Mulligan (my Dad) being a pro golfer who did a little acting, and the main character (Mark Mulligan) was a golfer, too,  who played a little music.  Now, I figured, if somebody wanted to adapt the book into a screenplay, they could. Maybe it will even be me someday. If you have a screenplay and it never gets made into a movie, what have you got? Bupkiss! But, on the other hand, if you have a book, even if nobody reads it, its still a viable commodity.

While all this was going on, I was doing research on the LeRoy Neiman painting that was still in my possession. When I was in New York, I had met with Phebe Carter, one of the assistants to Alex Gleason, the buyer at the Franklin Bowles gallery. She seemed very interested in the painting and wanted to know how much I wanted for it. I threw out a number off the top of my head. It was $27,500. I knew that was much more than I would ever get, but I needed to have her know that I wasn’t just some Tennessee hillbilly that just fell off the turnip truck. “I’ll pass that figure on to Mr. Gleason and get back to you,” she said, without blinking an eye. I knew then I would be going home with the painting, but I needed to be sure I really wanted to sell it.

When I got back to Tennessee with the painting still intact.

A few days later, I got a call from Alex Gleason who was in the Bowles gallery in San Francisco. He said, “I am not going to give you the 25,000 dollars which you are asking.” (I had told Phebe Carter 27,500, but I let that one slide). “I am though prepared to give you 18,000 for it.”  Hmm, that was more than I expected as a first offer. I said something like—okay or that's interesting, something not too emotional as not to give myself away. So he continued, “As you know with Neiman's the older ones have a tendency to pucker and crack and if it were a larger painting and say it was in a corner or something like that, it wouldn't be so bad. Bit in your little painting,” (I noticed how he kept saying ‘little painting’ like it was less important than a big one, a bit condescending, I thought.)  I told him I would think about it and get back to him within a few days.

 Donna and I decided it would be best to get some more appraisals. I wrote and email to Sotheby’s and a few days later I got a return email which read:

Dear Mr. Haymer,

Thank you for contacting Sotheby’s.   Your request has been forwarded to me.   Our auction estimate would be $5,000-7,000.   We would be very pleased to have your painting in one of our auctions and appreciate the time you took to send us a request.   Our auction on 5 April needs property to be at Sotheby’s by the end of this week.   You can easily ship the work through a pack and ship company such as UPS for overnight delivery.   The auction after the 5 April auction is in late September.   If you are interested in consigning to either sale please let me know.

Sincerely,

Thomas Denzler

Sotheby’s New York

Vice President, Fine Arts

1334 York Avenue

New York, New York 10021

Are you kidding me? I was pacing now and I had to call Donna. No answer on both the work and personal cell phone. I called Thomas Denzler and he answered the phone directly. I was trying to have him clarify what he meant by five thousand - seven thousand. “Oh that's the low and high end of what we predict the painting would sell for. Are you sure you know that this is a painting and not a serigraph?”

Trying to hold back the anxiety in my voice, I responded. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then I told him I already had a legitimate offer much higher than his. I lied and told him it was ten thousand. “Anything north of ten grand and I would jump on it,” he said.

My next call was to my CPA. I wanted to have an idea how much tax I would have to pay if I accepted Mr. Gleason’s offer of 18 grand. She surprised me with her answer. She told me her husband was a collector of sorts and might be interested in buying the painting for more. I was dumbfounded. I said he would have to make up his mind quickly. She said she would know something by the next day. Well, the next day came, and the day after that without a word. I was becoming restless and called her back the day after that. She then told me they were going to pass. I had wasted three days with this woman. I was pissed and knew I was going to get an new CPA after that.

Then I began to panic with the idea that the painting, the one that had been in my family for over fifty years was going bye bye. I sent a return email to Alex Gleason stating the following:

Dear Mr. Gleason,

After careful consideration of your offer I have decided to pass on it. When I came to the gallery I told Phebe that my price was $27,500 not $25,000. Although your offer of $18,000 is tempting is it the first legitimate offer we have had, but I don't think it is enough for me to part with such a fabulous work of art that has been under the radar for over 50 years, not to mention a part of my family for the entire time.

Thank you for your interest,

James Haymer

What Had I done? Did I really just pass up all that money? Two more estimates after that and it made me reconsider the offer I had just rejected. One came in at seven grand and the other a little more than that. 18,000 was starting to look pretty good. Was it too late?

I decided that my mom, even though we would probably get more for the painting  down the line if we waited until after LeRoy passed, would have wanted me to take care of my wife and family most of all. With Morgan’s Bar Mitzvah looming and not having been on a vacation with Donna in years, I decided to give Alex a call to see if he was still interested. I asked for $19,500. He offered $18,250. We  finally agreed to the tidy sum  of $18,500.

On March 20^th , I packed up the painting again and shipped it of Fed Ex. With mixed emotions. I tried to justify the sale thinking I had never really noticed it hanging on the wall until we started painting the house’s interior a few months earlier, plus we needed the money.

I was saddened by the news of LeRoy's passing in a New York hospital on June 20^th, exactly three months after I sold the Red Toreador. The world had lost such an incredible icon, but more than that, it had lost a wonderful spirit. I will never forget the hour I spent in that room with him, and. Even though I don’t have the painting,  at least I have that memory to take with me for as long as I can remember.  God bless LeRoy Neiman!

Chapter 65 – Red Toreador- Part II

The day had come at last. Just after 12 o’clock noon, I dressed warmly while rolling my carry-on valise with the painting securely locked away, I headed west on 75th and turned left on Columbus and walked the nine short blocks to number 1 67^th Street and there it was. The Hotel des Artistes was a glorious old building built in 1917, with a Gothic-style facade featuring charming gargoyles of painters, sculptors and writers. Designed by the architect George Mort Pollard, the building has been home to many of the famed and illustrious, including Noel Coward, Isadora Duncan, writer Fannie Hurst, New York City Mayor John V. Lindsay, Alexander Woollcott, and Norman Rockwell not to mention LeRoy Neiman.

As I stood in the balustrade, thoughts that maybe I should run as fast as I could ran through my head. I noticed, as a peered through the pebbled glass door that the concierge had spotted me so I opened the heavy door and walked into the lobby.

“Can I help you, sir?” The portly man in the red uniform with gold buttons as big as eggs said.

“Yes, I have an appointment with LeRoy Neiman.”

He smiled at me, but his eyes were not matching his painted on grin. “Name sir?”

“James Haymer.”

“I’ll be with you directly sir.”

He waddled over to the phone behind an ancient desk. I heard him say, “yes ma’am” and saw him nodding his head. It looked like I was going to be admitted.

“Mr. Haymer, Mr. Neiman’s personal assistant will be down momentarily. She will take you up to the third floor.”

Not more than a minute after he had uttered those words, I saw the elevator open and a tall, slender woman in her mid to late forties approached. She extended her hand and I shook it lightly.

“Mr. Haymer, if you would follow me.”

I got into the old fashioned elevator and watched her shut the iron gates. It seemed like the elevator was standing still but a minute later it had stopped, so I guessed that it had to be moving. After she reopened the iron gates, I followed her out. Walking down the exquisite hallway with hardwood oak or walnut floors, we came to room #307. She opened the door with a key and I followed her in. It seemed to be an office of some kind. There were art supplies, copy machines, paper cutters, and a large table in the center of the room with piles and piles of neatly stacked papers and pallets of some unknown material.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“The painting. Is it in there?” She said, pointing to my carry-on.

“Yes, yes,” I said nervously.

I propped the case on the corner of the table, opened it and brought out the white gift box. After carefully unwrapping the box I showed her the Red Toreador.

“Ah yes, this is something, I’m not sure what, however. Mrs. Neiman will be down in a minute to evaluate the artwork. Please have a seat.”

“Uh, thanks.”

I didn’t sit since I was too nervous. Instead, I perused the artifacts in the room. I wondered how many people had had the pleasure of being in the position I was in. How many other artists, actors, musicians, sports figures had graced this room and the room next door which, after peeking my head through the cracked doorway, I could see was the studio; the place where all the magic happened.

About ten minutes later, an attractive elderly woman, thin but not frail, walked briskly up to me with the Red Toreador in her hands.

“I’m Janet Neiman, and you must be Mr. Haymer.”

“Yes.” I took her hand and once again shook it. I was surprised at her handshake. It was firm and self-assured.

“I am sorry to put you through all this trouble, Mr. Haymer, but we have had many people come to us claiming to have original paintings by my husband and only a rare few were authenticated. But, I must say, I think this is one of his. There was a series of painting LeRoy did in the late fifties and they were featured in Playboy magazine. This seems to be one of them. How did you acquire it?”

I explained to Mrs. Neiman the story of how my mom and dad met LeRoy at a party in Manhattan back when I was a toddler and I could see she was amused.

“I see. Come let’s have a better look, shall we?”

She walked over to the table and turned the painted over. “Yes, I can see by the cut of the board, it’s definitely one of LeRoy’s. He used to be so impatient when he cut them, there was always a splinter or a rough edge to it. See?”
She showed me the right edge of the painting, how it looked a bit jagged.

“I see. So you’re saying it’s real?”

“Yes. And the signature is most definitely his. Lynn will be bringing my husband down in a minute. Now I have to warn you, Leroy has been very ill and very rarely if at all receives visitors. But, after I told him you had come all the way from Nashville, Tennessee to meet him he became excited. He loves Nashville and had always planned on painting the skyline and some country stars, but never got around to it. You will have to speak very loudly, though. He has one of those amplifier things, but hates to use it. But I always insist that he does around people. If you like you can wait in the studio.”

“Thanks, that would be great.”

I opened my carry-on and bought out one of my CD’s and some pictures of my mom and dad from the fifties. I thought maybe, if he wasn’t too far gone, he might remember them. The room was beyond belief. The floors were splattered with paint with every color imaginable. I was thinking that the floor could be sold a s a work of art for millions of dollars. There were some original paintings on the wall. One with Mohammed Ali, one with a gangster I thought could be Al Capone. On the other wall was a painting of various jazz musicians, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane to name a few. Under that painting were his art supplies and brushes. God, I felt honored and lucky to be there.

While I was staring at the jazz painting, I heard the sound of wheels rolling and then I saw him. LeRoy was in a wheelchair and I could see his right leg had been amputated at the knee. I tried not to focus on it, though.

“Mr. Haymer, this is my husband, Le Roy. LeRoy, this is Mr. James Haymer. He has come all the way from Nashville to meet you and he brought the Red Toreador.”

LeRoy had a perpetual grin on his face and I wasn’t sure if he was getting any of it. I figured he had some kind of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

Even though I tried not to look at the leg, Janet Neiman picked upon it immediately. She was a sharp as a tack, that woman. I realized how difficult that was for her, being 87 and having all of her faculties, while her husband, once so vital, was wasting away.

“LeRoy had a nasty infection in his leg and the doctors felt it was going to kill him if, you know, so he had it removed. I’m sorry if it comes to a shock to you.”

“No, no. I understand.”

“Hello, Mr. Neiman.” I pointed to the Al Capone painting. “I really love that painting. Is it Al Capone?”

“I love gangsters,” he said in a creaky voice.

“Me too,” I said with a smile I couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to hide.

I opened my folder with some pictures of my mom and dad and showed them to him thinking maybe it might spark some kind of memory. He stared at the one of my father for a bit and then said, “I see him around sometimes. I see my brother, too.”

Janet Neiman whispered in my ear, “His brother has been dead for twenty years.”

 I nodded my head knowingly. Then I brought out one of my CDs and gave it to him. He looked genuinely pleased.

“Would you like an autograph, Mr. Haymer?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

She walked over to the shelf and brought down a six by nine inch cardboard flyer announcing an art showing at the Franklin Bowles Galleries, one in San Francisco on May 12^th and the other here in New York on May 19^th. I was hoping he would still be alive to attend. On the front of the flyer was a photo of LeRoy from the sixties or seventies wearing a navy blue Pea coat and a gray scarf with his trademark cigar in his right hand. I was sure he didn’t smoke anymore. His wife gave him a pen and he signed the card, but he left off the “an” in Neiman.

“LeRoy, you didn’t finish the signature.”

“Huh?”

“The signature, LeRoy.” She then held his hand and guided the final two letters of his last name which almost matched but was slightly tilting downwards. It would have to do.

“I’m afraid my husband has had enough excitement for one day. Now if you will excuse us.I must get him back to his room. It was a pleasure meeting you. By the way, are you planning on selling the painting?”

“I’m not sure . . . maybe.”

“Well if you are, there is a gallery in the Village that handles all of LeRoy’s art. The name is on the back of that card. If you like I could put a callin and they might be able to see you while you are in town.”

“That would be great, thanks, Mrs. Neiman.”

“Oh, please call me Janet,”

“Thank you, Janet.”

A minute later Lynn was wheeling LeRoy out of the room and I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him again. What a rare and glorious honor it was. Truly blessed.

Chapter 64 – Red Toreador – Part One

In the fall of 2011, I noticed a 9 by 12 inch painting of a red toreador in the foyer I hadn't really paid attention to for some time. I can remember it hanging on the living room wall in Jericho fifty years ago, and can can still vaguely recall my parents telling me how they had met LeRoy Neiman at a party in Manhattan in the early sixties. I was eight, nine maybe. It could have been even earlier than that because it seemed like it had always been there. My mom said she never really liked that painting in the least. Even though it looked like someone had eaten a whole set of Crayola crayons and then threw them up onto a poster-board, I still liked it.

So times being what they were, rotten, financially anyway, my wife started researching the painting on the internet. Couldn't do that thirty years ago. She found LeRoy Neiman's official website and emailed a very sweet and concise letter. I was surprised that they had emailed back so quickly. They said they would like to see a picture of it, so we took two photos without a flash and tried to fix the brightness on the Kodak program. I did the best I could, and sent it off to Lynn, who is some kind of go-between to the man himself who was 90 years old at that time, if he was a day.

So then the waiting game began. A week went by without a response and I decided to check in with an inquiry email. I had heard back within a few hours. The email read:

Dear Donna,

Yes we have been studying it. There was a Toreador that Mr. Neiman painted that was reproduced in Playboy Magazine in "Man At His Leisure", Mr. Neiman feature in Playboy for over 15 years. Your painting is almost identical to this image but not as realized. Within the past few years we received an inquiry regarding a painting that was presented to us for verification. It looked very much like yours. Mr. Neiman at that time said he did not believe it was his. If you are confident it is an original LeRoy Neiman painting, we recommend you contact an appraiser to verify that this is an original work by the hand of LeRoy Neiman. We can direct you to a respected individual who is a certified appraiser and has worked with Mr. Neiman's original art for over 20 years. If you care to ship it to us Fed-Ex we will be more than happy to authenticate the painting. You can contact Jane St. Lifer at bla-bla-bla for all the details.

Sincerely,

Lynn Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman

You know how when you stick your neck out into the cosmic consciousness it always sends you little affirmations. I was just thinking about the whole painting biz, when I pressed the info button on the movie on HBO. It was called Picture Perfect. I thought, “Now that is perfect.” There was no way in the world I was going to ship that painting. What if it got lost? Even with insurance, the painting hadn't been appraised or authenticated and there was no way to tell what its true value was. I decided right then and there that I was going to NYC, and if they wanted to see the painting, they were going to have to see me, too. I sent another email explaining how I wanted to have their local people appraise the painting, and part of the deal would be, if they would be so kind, to give me a chance to meet the man himself—LeRoy Neiman! Later that week I received a follow-up email:

Dear Mr. Haymer,

We have many pressing obligations between now and the New Year. Would you be able to travel here in January or at some time convenient for you in early 2012? I understand how you feel about shipping your painting. Even though it will be in your hands, make certain that it is wrapped carefully. Let us know when you can arrange to bring the painting to the studio in New York. Once a date and time is set, we will give you the address which is very near Lincoln Center. If you don't mind using email to communicate, we prefer not using the telephone as LeRoy Neiman is 90 and his wife Janet is 87 years old. The studio shares the same telephone line and we try not to inconvenience them in case we happen to be out.

We ought to solve this mystery together.

Warm regards,

Lynn Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman

Upper West Side, Manhattan, January 11, 2012.

Seventy-three, seventy-four, At last! I turned left on seventy-fifth street and was looking for number twenty-four. There's eight. Ten. God, these numbers are so close together. There was a young woman coming out of the door on number twenty-four. It was Amy Sterling, Max's girlfriend. I think we recognized each other at the same time and she gave me a hug which I returned quickly because I had to piss like a racehorse. I saw Max standing on the wooden floors in the living room of this small but nice apartment. We hugged for a sufficient amount of time and I asked to use the bathroom. Thank God it was just to the left of the front door as you were walking in. Oh relief is such a good thing.

I sat down on the black vinyl love-seat. Max sat next to me with Amy on the chair next to the console Story and Clark piano that he had purchased for four hundred dollars because of a broken leg that was an easy fix. He still had the broken piece taped to the scarred leg. I laid out the photos I had taken with me of my mom and dad. There were two shots of Robbie an Dad in St. Louis back in the early eighties. They did a show together called Tribute about a father and son. Excellent casting. I showed Max and Amy the copies of the Woody Allen skits I had also brought with me. Woody Allen had written some material for my dad, who was a stand-up comedian in the late fifties in Tamament, a Jewish resort up in northern Pennsylvania. There was a body of water called Scroon Lake. It must have been a pleasant enough day, so Woody and his first wife, Harleen, had decided to take my sister and me out on a rowboat. Well, as the story was relayed to me, since I was too young to remember, the boat sprang a leak and was sinking. It was soon spotted by the Coast Guard and we were eventually rescued. I can just imagine Woody ranting and raving and pulling out his ginger hair (which he had a lot more of at the time), and then screaming to his wife about how he was going to drown, or worse, be responsible for the deaths of two kids under the age of five.

“Let's see the Neiman,” Max and Amy said in unison. I unpacked my case an unzipped the special compartment and was happy to see the white 12 x 14 inch gift box looking no worse for wear. I placed the box on the glass coffee table carefully removed the Scotch tape on the corners. I opened the box. Off with the bubble wrap, off with the tissue paper and there it was, back in the same city where my parents first laid there hands on it. It looked vibrant in the soft track lighting and I was overcome by a sense of guilt and remorse. Maybe I should keep it after all? It's funny how something you had looked at all your life and mostly taken for granted all of a sudden takes on new beauty. I was connecting more and more to the small work of art and dreaded having to part with it; I knew that, in the end, I probably would.

When I woke up around five the next morning, I tried to be as quiet as possible. Even though the bedroom downstairs had its own bathroom, it didn't have a door. I ground the coffee quickly in their souped up grinder and tried to figure out how the coffee machine worked, but I couldn't, so I decided I would brave the elements a little later and go looking for a Starbucks. I went into the bathroom, took a quick bath to clean up, shave and pass the time. I did a nice number two in the toilet and flushed. Not going down. Uh oh. I flushed again, this time water had overflowed and was spilling out all over the floor. I wiped up most of it with the bland guest towel they had given me to use, and then searched for a toilet plunger. Unfortunately, there wasn't one in this bathroom. I checked the front closet, but nothing but coats and woman's shoes in a plastic rack attached to the inside of the door. I said to myself, “I'll bet its in the downstairs bathroom, but I can't disturb my nephew and his girlfriend. Damn. I'll just have to go out and find one.”

I had been given a set of three keys, one for the front door of the building and two for the apartment's front door. I locked the door of their apartment and ventured out into the crisp Manhattan morning. The sun was starting to peek through the buildings on the upper east side with rays of light illuminating the tower of the Chrysler building, one of my favorite edifices. Walking at quick pace, I saw a Starbucks on Broadway and 72nd. It was starting to rain pretty heavily now so it was a good place to seek shelter. I took my coffee to go and went looking for a place that might sell a cheap toilet plunger. I new Max and Amy weren't going to be up for awhile, so I had time to peruse the area.

I found a pharmacy of some kind that had all sorts of do-dads and whatnot’s, but there weren't any toilet plungers. I asked the African/American gentleman at the counter where I might find one so he suggested someplace on Broadway past 73rd where I might be lucky enough to find one. It was pouring now and I got caught at the center island in the middle of Broadway trying to cross the street. Cars speeding by and a classic thing happened. It was like the scene in The Mask, where Jim Carrey's character is waiting to get into the Cocoa Bongo to meet up with Cameron Diaz, but gets splashed by a speeding car near the curb. That's exactly what happened to me, except for the Cameron Diaz part. I went off on a mission to find a trusty toilet plunger.

The store I was heading to looked closed, so I traveled north on Columbus to the Upper West side. Great, another Starbucks! Waiting outside the locked door of the single occupancy restroom, a big African Queen exited and I rushed in. During my pee I noticed, yes, it was a toilet plunger behind my left foot. What else could I do but hide the grungy thing under my gray overcoat and walk out. It must have looked like a rifle or something to anyone passing by. Thank God it was early in the morning and raining so the streets were relatively empty. This would be something that would happen to Larry David in the show Curb Your Enthusiasm, except he would probably get busted trying to return it. It was a good fifteen blocks to the apartment and I began walking at a furious pace. Upon entering the building and into their flat, it was still as quiet as when I had left, so I knew they were still asleep. I plunged and plunged again. Success! I later told Max and Amy the story and the toilet was snaked the very next day by the landlord. In two days time I would have my meeting with the master.

To be continued.