Holy Hell, One Thing After Another

Chapter 7 (1st part) of 25 -- Head Hunters of the Amazon

Hunger

When Up de Graff was at the deserted shack, abandoned by the Yumbos, he concluded that the people of the Amazon country are full of surprises, in this case the old disappearing trick. He told Jack, but all the complaining in the world wouldn't help them. They took action instead, packing and heading back to the canoe. By evening they'd arrived and weren't surprised to see the canoe gone. Come on, Yumbos, sometimes life calls for a little consideration!

They thought it over in the morning, the penalties there for stealing canoes, and found it wisely abandoned not too far downstream. Up de Graff considered this a period of suffering, with too much dependence on the Yumbos, and except for a stroke of fortune they might not have saved themselves. They headed back upstream in search of them. But they didn't make the same rapid progress as they'd made with them, although they learned bit by bit how to pick up speed. My brother taught me a lesson like this once on how to ice skate faster, "Run on your tippy tip toes!" Which is great till you crash and burn.

Suddenly they noticed a dead alligator, which meant something bigger was near. Jack called out, "Let's get out of here!" That's when they saw the biggest anaconda they'd ever imagined. The estimated length was between 50 and 60 feet. Up de Graff, in the stern and out of reach of the rifles, called to Jack to shoot. The noise of getting to his gun alarmed the snake, and as it twisted in the water and quickly vanished, the boat was nearly wrecked in the waves. Snakes like that, what can you say, they're too big for their britches. Like trying to put an 18-wheeler in the downtown parking garage.

One other night they'd tied the canoe to an overhanging branch. After supper they put their things back in it. It was close by as they slept, but something bad was about to happen. Up de Graff writes, "Hour after hour the water fell away, hour after hour the rope tightened. For a long time the stores must have resisted the gradually increasing pull of gravity as the canoe little by little approached the perpendicular, having long since reached the rope's limit." Then, early in the morning, everything they had except two machetes and some molasses slipped "in a fateful avalanche" into the water. No one likes "I told you so," but I would've insisted on fitting anything in the tent we couldn't afford to lose.

They were now 60 days up river from the nearest post without food or the means of getting it. Jack muttered, "Holy Hell." That's right, Holy Hell. I would've cussed a blue streak worse than that -- all the usual words -- for whatever good it might've done. It steels your resolve, I think. It brings your emotion to the fore and you feel your determination mount. That's the answer to any do-gooder who gets on your case for cussing.

The Pink Professor -- Rabble At The Door

Don't you just despise the rabble of mankind? Yes, yes, thank you, me, too; they can be the worst! And it seems like it always goes something like this: A benevolent patron blesses their lives a few times, then they get spoiled, then he's out of sight for a while, and when they find him, they're right back, clamoring, begging for favors.

It's so awful because the Pink Professor lives his life for service. He really does. That's one of the things that drove us sort-of halfway apart. He has a hard time staying home. The guys at the Roadhog Roadhouse always need him. Most of the time they want to burden him with their halfwit problems, like how to scrounge up enough dough to drink themselves into a stupor, or worse, women problems. It’s pathetic that that's such a problem for these guys; those women are robbing you blind; stay sober and you might notice it!

Pink and I were out for Thanksgiving and there the rabble was. We dropped by DQ for a taste of their divine ice milk creations and there they were. And later we were at his pad/compound for a little R&R and catching up, and, damned right, there they were. In honor of Thanksgiving, get a life, turkeys!

Pink and I tried to stay in good humor as they pounded at the doors and windows, clamoring for his attention. Which got old fast. The rattling of the gates, the pitchforks, the burning torches. We get the point! You have needs! Still, we tried to cuddle and take in some well-deserved "me time," till finally I erupted, “If I hear one more of those awful bar and grill creatures shouting ‘PINK PROFESSOR!’, I’m liable to explode! And I don’t mean in a good way!...”

Maybe my crying out toned them down. The racket died down. But most of them had retired to the park across the street to strategize. When Pink said, “Could I ask you a professional question, not on the clock?”

ME: “Shoot, darling ... anything.” PP: “As the King of Group Dynamics, what do you think is the best way to fend off a clamoring mob?” This brought me to a whole different mindset. Involving the many nuances contained in my Three R's of Group Dynamics: aRrange, Reconnoiter, and Ruminate.

ME: “Hmm. My mind’s still a little flush after ... our exertions ... but let me think, darling. Well, the verdict is not 100% bad, but damn near. Let’s apply the 3 R’s of Group Dynamics. It’s tough to (1) aRrange, because we’re locked in the compound — albeit cuddled up snugly in this warm bed, a feather bed if the sensors of my nude supple body have kept their suppleness, and at 65 and half dead that’s not a given... We also have limits aRranging, because they’re a mad clamoring mob, different from my controlled seminars. We can do (2) Reconnoitering well enough, within limits, patching into the compound’s video system, also outfitted with a live audio feed, giving us the ability to both see and hear, with the luxury of not needing the encumbrance of clothing or the inconvenience of climbing out of this comfy, sumptuous bed. And, naturally, (3) Ruminating follows easily enough. What are they saying? What is their tone? How sharp are those mattocks they’re waving? Should we release the hounds? By the way, you fed the dogs last night? Right?

Pink jumped up and ran to the pen where the dogs were — some vicious breed, the exact name of which I forget, but they might be related to rabid dingoes (dingoes aren’t susceptible to rabies, but with reverse engineering, some natural immunities are overcome.) As PP hied it out of that warm moist bed, I thought of the Tom Jones album, What was it, “If You Got ‘Em, Swing ‘Em”? "Hung Like Iron?" "All Pendulum, No Clock?” Let me Google it, oh yeah, “The Lead and How to Swing It.” Take your pick, it’s all verrrry good, dahling.

He came back with a guilty look of responsibility on his finely chiseled face, practically a rock jaw in motion, pleasant to a fault. “I slipped on the pee mop [used for the dingo creatures] and hit the switch, and the dogs lunged through the aperture, the swinging door, and ... and ...” I waited, afraid for what he might say, “and we won’t need dog food for a while.” Great news all around!

I brought us back to our conversation on Group Dynamics. "In this case, our aRranging took care of the problem, however brief the respite may be." Because having that particular breed of animal running the streets en masse could have further consequences. But let's say they ran for the country, hunters will get them. I certainly wasn't going out to Reconnoiter them, I Ruminated.

The compound back on lock-down, we locked-down ... in the chamber of privacy ... a feather bed whose origin was surely a serious blow to numerous bird species ... And pulled the curtains ... tightly ... around that bed of wonders ... And that’s all she wrote, all she dared share when putting quill to parchment.