Cliché Encounters of the Inter-Species Kind

“Ya know, they say that reading in poor light is bad for your eyes.”

          “It’s an old wives tale,” I answered with a dismissive shrug.

          “Where does that come from?” he continued.

          “What?”

          “Old wives tale.”

          For a bartender, what he lacked in customer service he made up for in the occasional curious conversation. It had been the first semi-intelligent thing I had heard since stepping inside the dimly lit tavern. Turning to the next empty page in my tattered memo pad, I jotted down the three words and said sans interest – lest he think there might be a generous gratuity later – “It’s just an old saying.”

          “But where’d it come from?”

          That was something I had intended to find out. There were many old sayings out there that defied explanation. I may not be from the old school, but based on the lore of the past, old wives had no time for telling tales. Spinning yarns, yes, but storytelling? They were too busy doing whatever it was they did with yarn, like darning socks for instance.

          I felt the onset of writer’s cramp as my hand worked furiously to keep up with the influx of phrases in overdrive. For medicinal purposes only, I ordered a shot of Jack Daniels, tossed it back and tossed down the Bic pen. It had been months since my last case and I was desperately grabbing at straws to find another one. Shaking off what could soon be writer’s cramp, I wrote that one down, slid a couple of coins across the bar and decided to make tracks, pausing just long enough to record that chestnut too. At this rate, there would be quite a few additional nonsensical clichés before I reached the door.

          Just shy of noon, the thought to hit the beach seemed like the perfect remedy to calm my restless mind. The unexpected blast of bright sunlight in my eyes upon stepping outside suggested a quick pit stop for a much needed pair of shades. I briefly considered going out of my way to visit the local mom and pop drugstore – do my part to keep ‘em in business – however the desire to smell the salty air and feel warm sand between my toes was overwhelming. I opted for the always-inconvenient big box chain store instead and made a beeline across the street pausing briefly to reach again for my accoutrements, the word beeline nagging at my frontal lobe.

I waited at the back of the checkout line in CVS, or maybe it was Walgreens or Duane Reade, my thoughts turning briefly to the life of the everyday traveling salesman who wakes up each morning uncertain whether he had laid his head down the night before in a Marriott or Hampton Inn or Day’s Inn. Irritably, I scanned the tag on the overpriced Foster Grant’s in my hand, while at the coveted checkout counter the cashier slid a box of pampers back and forth across a scanner that scanned nothing. I eyed the perplexed look on her face and wondered if this were to go on much longer that I might require purchasing a pair of night-vision goggles instead. Finally, with no answer coming from her part-time brain, she turned to a co-worker for assistance.

          “Can you help me with the help button?”

          “Help, with the Help button,” I bellowed in exasperation.  “We already gave you a Change button. Wasn’t that help enough? Quick,” I continued. “The total is $2.68. I give you a five-dollar bill. How much do I get in return?”

          The calming effect of the ocean breeze provided pause for reflection. I had not intended to make her cry. Chalk it up to empty-case syndrome. A quick dip in the warm Atlantic would do wonders. Heading towards the shoreline, my inquisitive intellect immediately registered the lack of beachgoers taking in the natural healing properties the ocean purportedly provides.

          Another old wives tale I wondered?

          “I wouldn’t go in there, mister,” a small voice warned.

          “Why not, son?”

          “Jellyfish.”

          My disappointment was twofold. Jellyfish did not only spoil the fun for ocean lovers, but living on Long Island where summer is long awaited and too short-lived, their arrival seemingly signifies the end of the carefree season. I beat a hasty retreat for the snack bar where a cool frosty beverage would help to dull the pain.  Equipped with a flat, tepid micro-brew and a day old dry pretzel, I searched in vain for a vacant table on the sun-scorched sand, glaring at the multitude of disillusioned tanned hard bodies gorging themselves on fried and fatty foods.

It began with a quick hit and fade from above, a brazen gull swooping in and absconding with a large piece of my salted treat, laughing loudly, boasting proudly like a playground bully in dire need of detention. Before I had time to utter an expletive, startled screams arose all around me. Like fighter jets in tight formation, Seagulls swarmed down in a coordinated attack upon the unsuspecting crowd, filling their beaks with culinary beach fare. I absorbed the scene in slow motion, my mind whirling with the realization that these birds harbored intelligence far beyond any everyday human preconceptions. My senses keenly attuned, circuits sizzled and synapses connected forming a ghastly conclusion too horrific to bear. I extracted the pen and pad from my silky stretched Speedo’s. The seagulls were in complete collusion with the jellyfish! During the winter months, they would head south like most birds do, but while their feathered friends were soaking up the sun; the seagulls were divulging vital jet-stream information to the vile, yet oddly beautiful sea creatures, devising a timeline for their Northeast incursion. Upon arrival, the ethereally undulating jellyfish wielding their featherlike feelers would force swimmers out of the water and straight to concession stands where the seagulls lay in wait. It was pure evil at its most rudimentary level, a fowl proof plan! What the jellyfish receive in return, I have yet to comprehend but am determined to decipher. In the interim, I must put on the back burner my investigation of absurd idioms, axioms and phrases, grab the bull by the horns and work my fingers to the bone to save the free world from what could become total inter-species annihilation!
                     Or something like that. 

No more rest for the weary. I’m on the case.

Tom M.

August 2019