When I'm Calling You ... Part I

To borrow a famous line from the film Cool Hand Luke, what my sweetie and I often have is a failure to communicate. Now, I'm not talking about things like expressing one's feelings, understanding emotions, being supportive, and all that touchy feely junk the women's magazines are always writing about. That's not an issue, because our dialogue is pretty much one-way. She tells me what to do and I say, "Yes, mommy." In fact, our conversations fall into one of two categories: She's either telling me what to do or berating me for not doing it correctly. What I'm talking about is being physically unable to communicate because we can't locate one another, which happens all the time when we're in Las Vegas. We'll be in a casino and she'll say, "Stand right here and don't move, I'll be right back." Then, she runs into some friend and starts yakking for a half-hour, and I'll get bored and wander off looking for a nickel deuces wild video poker machine, or maybe a $1 blackjack table where I can use my two-for-one coupon, and I'll forget what time it is, and then she'll have me paged, and I won't hear it because it's so noisy in the casino and I don't hear that well in the best of circumstances, and then I'll get panicky when I can't find her, and when we finally locate each other, she'll dry my tears and give me a reassuring smack in the face.

She tried to solve the problem by getting me a cell phone, but I never could master all those tiny little buttons and thingies on the phone, and when I did manage to make or receive a call, I'd neglect to end the call properly and shut down the phone. The result was that the first month's bill was something like $900. And then, on one of the sorriest days of my life, she suddenly had a brainstorm and brought home two black devices that had antennae, knobs, buttons, and a screen.

"More cell phones?" I moaned. "You know I can't figure out those things."

"No, dummy, these are called walkie-talkies. Even you can work it. All you do is press this button to talk into it, and then release it so I can talk to you."

I examined the instrument. "What about this button here that says 'call'? Do I press that when I want to call you?"

"Don't worry about that button!" my sweetie snapped. "You don't call me. I'll call you when I need you for something."

"Oh, yeah? You think that no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you can just call me and I'll drop everything and come trotting back to run errands for you? Well, you can just forget it. I'm not your little doggie."

Pow!

"Woof, woof," I said, rubbing my chin. "Show me how it works."

Simple as it was, it still took me a week to get the hang of it. The first couple of times, I forgot to leave it turned on. The next time, I couldn't hear it ring because it was in my pocket.

"Wear it on your belt the way it's designed to be worn!" she screamed at me.

"Wear a walkie-talkie on my belt? I'll look like a dork."

"You are a dork. Just do as I tell you."

After I finally more or less figured out what to do, we decided to run a test in the garden. We have a community space in a place called Wattles Gardens just a couple of blocks away from us in Hollywood. It's really cool. We have a 15-by-15 plot where we can grow anything we want that's legal. We've grown tomatoes, peppers, kale, collard greens, blackberries, strawberries, corn, and other things. My sweetie loved to watch the adorable little squirrels scampering around the garden. "Oh, how cute," she would gush. "Here, squirrel, squirrel." Then, one day she caught one gobbling our corn, and what she called that poor squirrel would get her about two hours' worth of penalty time at a tournament.

They also have a rattlesnake warning posted, but I figure that after years of playing in Ralph the Rattler's home game, I'm immune to venom.

Actually, the big problem with the garden is that everyone is obligated to put in an hour and a half of community work once a month. We're away so much with her playing tournaments and me doing write-ups for various casinos that I'm always falling behind, and our plot is always getting weeded up and looking neglected when people who promise to tend it fail to do so, and a mean lady named Toby, who's the administrator or something, is always threatening to hang me from an avocado tree and take away the plot.

Anyway, that's where we decided to test the range of the devices. I was busy weeding and digging when the walkie-talkie rang. "Hello, who is this?" I asked.

"Who is it? This isn't a cell phone, you idiot! And when you're through talking, you're supposed to say, 'Over.'"

"Over what?" I asked in confusion.

"I told you, you moron. That's shortwave radio talk. It means over to you, so the other person can talk."

"Oh, yeah, like those John Wayne war movies. Then when I'm through, I say, 'Over and out,' right?"

"You never say, 'Over and out.' I'll say 'Over and out' when I decide the conversation is over. Anyway, what are you doing? Over."

"I'm working like a slave," I replied petulantly. "Over."

"Get me some loquats," my sweetie demanded. "Over."

"I can't," I whined. "You know it's illegal to pick stuff from community areas without permission. And there's all kind of people here. They'll report me. Over."

"Get me some loquats, you worm! Over and out!"

Reluctantly, I got a bag, sneaked over to a loquat tree, and began picking the fruit. Suddenly there was a shout: "There he is, boys! Get him!"

People started yelling and running toward me. As I beat a hasty retreat, there was a shotgun blast and birdshot peppered my rump while at the same time a guard dog bit my ankle. In a panic, I scrambled over a barbed wire fence and bolted for home.

Sweating and bloody, my clothes torn to tatters, I proudly handed my sweetie the sack. "Here's your loquats," I panted.

She looked in the bag. "Is that all?" she sneered.

Now, very little of this is made up, I assure you, and there's lots more to come when we give the walkie-talkies the acid test in Vegas. But since I get paid by the column, not by the word, I will cleverly break these into segments, and you will just have to wait two weeks, faithful reader, to hear more about my ordeal.

To be continued …