Browse Category: Stories

“This was savage and brutal.”

Sabina Rose O'Donnell
My son called me from Philadelphia today. It was lunchtime. He said, “Do you want to hear how fucked up some people are in this city?” He proceeded to tell me some very sad news.


Sabina Rose O’Donnell was 21 years old. She was a pretty girl who worked as a waitress in a restaurant my son frequents. Notice I said she “was” a pretty girl. Some asshole murdered her this past Tuesday night.

I take that back. Some ASSHOLE “destroyed” her in the middle of a hot, dark, Philadelphia night. He, mostly likely a “he,” didn’t just kill her. It was a “savage and brutal” affair. He forcefully dragged her to an empty lot behind her apartment. He smashed her face with a blunt object, her pretty happy face. Police say there was evidence that he raped her. He robbed her. Contents of her purse were found strewn about the lot near her naked lifeless body. Her purse was found on the curb at the intersection nearby. Her wallet was empty. The monster strangled her with a piece of her own clothing. Some beast of an asshole slaughtered this poor woman. He is still alive somewhere.

What in God’s name possesses people to do shit like this?? I don’t understand it. It was probably some crazed crack-head whose addiction-addled brain was beyond lunacy in his selfish quest for another fix. Sabina was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sabina herself became merely one more fix for this monster’s savage and unquenchable lust. It was more than just a crime. It was hideousness in its lowest form.

Why am I writing about this murder? One of how many dozens that take place in Philadelphia? My reason: Sabina’s murder happened just two blocks from where my son lives. I have been there. My feet have walked those streets and my eyes have seen the area in which Sabina lived and, sadly, died. On her last day, she shared drinks with friends at El Camino Real, a Tex-Mex restaurant where my son and I, along with his girlfriend and my youngest daughter, not long ago shared a meal of wonderful pulled pork BBQ sandwiches, sangria and margaritas. Sabina spent some of her last moments within those very walls, among friends. Then she died alone. Neither I, nor my son, nor Sabina’s friends were there to save her. She died in the clutches of a monstrous asshole in a dark empty lot. How many are the times I have driven in that two block area late at night after driving my son home! If only it had been on one of those nights that this savage attempted to attack her. I, the same as anyone of you reading my words, would have given my all to intervene so that she would still be smiling today. Rest in peace, Sabina. Rest in peace.

Further details on Sabina’s murder can be found here: Northern Liberties waitress, 21, found slain

That brain that you gave me… was it Hans Delbruck’s?

I am on a two week medical leave from work. I had my head examined yesterday and the neurologist said, “You need some time off. Rest. Eat better. Do the things that you like and relax.” So, I started a new blog. And I’m starving as I write this, but too lazy to do anything about it.

As many of you who know me know, I suffer from migraines. “Suffer” is not quite the full picture. I get “ransacked” by migraines. Sometimes “raped, pillaged and plundered” by migraines. Occasionally “chewed up like bovine flesh through a grinder” by migraines. But it’s not so bad: I have drugs. Drugs that make you silly and stupid(er). Drugs that sometimes help you fall down.

Actually, it is so bad. Lately, migraines have descended upon me in swift succession, like criticisms from my ex-wife’s mouth, thick and fast and unrelenting and all I can do is hold my head and moan and think about murdering myself.

Instead, I took the constructive route and went to see the doctor. I also needed a new prescription for drugs. But this time the doctor was in the mood to be even more constructive. Instead of “throwing more pills at me,” his words, he ordered me to have an MRI. I believe it was the “ice pick in the top of the head” sensations I’ve been enjoying lately that made the initials “M-R-I” appear across his forehead. “Let’s rule out any brain abnormalities first, Mr. Snyder. Then we can discuss drugs.” I subconsciously giggled when he said, “brain abnormalities.” He’d better brace himself before he takes a peek into this little brain!

Time out. I really need to eat something. While I warm up some chicken soup – homemade by yours truly, think about this: A migraine is more than a headache. It’s a full-body experience. No, it’s even more than that. It’s a full-being experience. Of course, your head hurts. (“Hurts” being an understatement, you understand.) But in addition to that, your whole body feels like it’s been trampled by ogres in high heels. The fatigue is overwhelming. Or perhaps that should be “underwhelming” because you have no energy and it’s like being “under” a colossal weight. You become ultra-sensitive to light and sound. YOU FEEL LIKE PUKING. Sometimes you do puke. Even these descriptions seem inadequate to describe what a migraine is really like. So, since a picture is worth a thousand words (and a doodle is simply priceless), to get a better idea of what I’m trying to say here, why don’t you go on over to DoodleSam.com and amuse yourself with some of my migraine drawings while I finish slurping up this soup. Then we can finish the story.

So, yesterday I went for the MRI at the neurologist’s office. Thank God it was an “open” MRI because this guy is one claustrophobic cat! Even so, the “open” was not so open in my opinion and I still had rushes of irrational panic during the procedure. I was on my back. They put a cage over my head, which was a smart move on the technician’s part because the head cage was the primary thing that prevented my escape when the panic became blinding at one point. If it had been an arm cage or a leg cage, I would have gnawed off the limb and busted out of there!

The thing that calmed me the most was the MRI machine itself. “The very contraption that was causing your ridiculous fear?” you ask. Yes, the machine was loud and, interestingly enough, it had rhythm. I couldn’t help but drum along to it. If it were not for the darn head cage, I might have done some headbanging too. The trick was to keep my eyes closed and groove with the machine, become one with the machine, surrender my brain to its invasive inspection and know that the head cage is as vast as the universe.

But thank God when that shit was over!

I had an appointment with the doctor after the MRI. In the examination room, he tried to pull up my test results on his computer. He couldn’t find mine in the data for hundreds of Snyders. I began to wonder if we were all suspect to brain abnormalities and subjected to inspections as a routine. The doctor gave up and said, “Come with me back to the MRI room. We’ll look at the results together on their computer.” When got to the room where I had finished my MRI not more than five minutes before, there were two mechanics working on it! They had the hood up and were in up to their elbows. I said, “Hey Doc… I think I broke the machine. Maybe it was too dense in there and I burned the thing out.” He gave me what seemed to me a nervous laugh almost as if he was thinking the same thing I just enunciated.

There in black and white on a computer monitor was my brain. The doctor began hitting keys on the keyboard and zipping through various levels of my brain strata like a teenager on an X-Box. He pointed out a small white patch buried somewhere in the right said of my brain. “You see that?” he pointed, “Those white marks are common in people with migraines.” “Well, what exactly is it, Doc?” He rattled off a string of medical jargon, then summarized, “Basically, a mirgraine is considered a mini-stroke and they sometimes leave marks in your brain like that.” Shit! What? Stroke??

He ignored the fact that my jaw was dropping and flipped to a different image on the screen. “This is a view of the arteries and veins going through your brain… Interesting…” “What is it, Doc?” “You have an abnormality right there…” (see the white arrow in the image below)

Brain veins and arteries - not the author's

“… right about there,  a connection is missing in your brain”

Of course, when he said, “Abnormality,” I immediately thought of this:

“Doctor, is that what makes me so odd?  Is that why even my own children tell me I am ‘so weird’?”  (My daughter recently told me, “If you look up the definition of ‘normal’ in the dictionary, it says, ‘Not Sam Snyder.'”)

“No, it’s okay.”  But I know he was thinking I was weird.

Well, what the neurologist wants to do to help my situation is to have me do NOTHING.  That’s right.  Just chill out.  Not worry.  Take it easy.  It’s been one week since my last migraine.  I’ve had five in the last three weeks or so.  They suck so bad that I can’t help being anxious about the chances of getting one at any second.  I suppose that anxiety is self-defeating. The worry of getting a migraine causes stress.  Stress causes migraines.  Therefore, migraines cause migraines.

I left the neurologist’s office and saw that I had a text message from a friend.  I responded, “I was in an MRI machine when u sent that txt.”

“MRI of your head?  You okay?”

“Yeah my head.  I hope it didn’t scare the little wizard who lives in there.”

“LMAO!  You are so strange!”

And there my friends is the tag line for my new little blog.  I am Sam Snyder.  My brain has been medically certified as “Abnormal.”  Welcome to my domain.

Jenkins Malone, Monster – Episode 1: Jenkins at the Bluegrass Festival

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(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

Along about the second weekend in May, Jenkins Malone, monster, rambled on over to Califonburg in his 1973 Dodge Dart. It wasn’t much of a car, but it had character, with its fine edging of cancerous fender rust along the rear wheel wells, its sun-faded rear dash, and its drooping headliner that sat like a veil atop Jenkins’ foam-front trucker’s cap. Jenkins didn’t care, as monsters usually don’t. He was happy to be swinging into town to catch his buddy JB’s band romping through tunes at the Bluegrass Festival. It was a down home event, where a down home kind of guy like Jenkins feels downright down home, just the way he likes it.

Jenkins strode in with just a touch of monster strut in his step, lifted by cheerful bluegrass sounds, the crisp mandolin notes bouncing along the top of the music, dancing merrily and helping Jenkins to forget the demands of the day, at least temporarily.

There’s JB, Jenkins smiled to himself, Boy can he make that mandolin hop! Sure is one heck of a happy sound!

Jenkins took a seat a few rows from the stage. He nodded hello to JB who gave a nod of acknowledgement back. That’s the way it is with buddies, no grand show of emotion, no elaborateness. A nod says enough.

Jenkins allowed himself to settle into the scene. There was a guy with a cobra tattoo on his calf selling ice cream from a truck to the side of the stage. He had a tendency to ring the bell on the truck after every song he liked. Which was every song, Jenkins noticed with annoyance. There was a chubby kid selling large pretzels off to the other side. A guy with stubbly gray whiskers in dark denim overalls and an old dingy t-shirt sat with his overweight wife, who sat with her breasts in her lap like two forgotten babies swaddled within her blouse. A youngster of about six, chubby like the pretzel kid, was doing an odd head banging belly dance in a moo-moo and flip-flops in front of the stage.

Americana at its finest, mused Jenkins.

After several enjoyable tunes, including a Johnny Cash cover that would do the Man in Black honor, in Jenkins’ opinion, JB’s band wrapped it up. With a wipe of his brow on his forearm, JB pulled up a chair next to Jenkins.

“What’s up, big guy?”

“Not much,” Jenkins replied. “That was some playin’ today, bro. You never fail to get my toes tappin’ and my heart wishin’ I was still playin’”

“Hey, you still got it big guy,” encouraged JB, “You’ll be playing again. Just give it time.”

“Hey, JB, you see that little girl dancing up there?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she look like she’s got Downs or somethin’ to you?”

“Geez! You’re right! Poor thing.”

“No, man. She’s happy. Look at her. God bless her, man.”

“Hey, J, you wanna come over for dinner tonight? Me and the misses are having a couple of the guys in the band over tonight. We’re gonna get Thai food from this place by me. They got this great fake duck tofu dish, man. You wanna join us?”

“Nah, man, I can’t. Too much stuff to do, you know?”

“Alright, man. Maybe next time.”

“Yo, JB, what’s up with that girl you guys got singing in the band?”

“Oh yeah, man, that’s Alison. She can really sing, huh?”

“Yeah, she’s alright. Kinda stone faced. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, a little. But she’s cool. Really, J, she’s cool.”

“She does have nice shoes, bro.”

“Shoes?”

“Yeah, man. My girl would dig them shoes. Look at ‘em. They look all paisley or somethin’.”

“Shoes?”

The next band shambled onto the stage. The steel guitar began to cry and the singer crooned, “Tennessee Whiskey…” He was a man of Jenkins’ build with what appeared to be a medium-sized forest animal for a beard and a nest of hair in which such an animal might happily hunker down. He was shifty-eyed, wouldn’t look anyone straight in the eye while he was onstage.

Ah, thought Jenkins, wouldn’t I love to have a pint of that smooth black label Tennessee whiskey right now!

Just then HE came along. Daryl. He turned a chair around and sat facing Jenkins and JB with a big cheesy grin.

“Yo, bro! That was some wild playin’!”

“Thanks, man. That’s very kind of you,” replied JB.

“No, man I was trippin’ while you were up there.”

“Uh… and your name is…?”

“Oh! Sorry, man! I’m Daryl. But the guys I hang with called me Crazy D. You can call me Crazy D if you want to. Hey, can I get your phone number?”

Geez! Who is this kid? Jenkins thought to himself. What a clown!

“Aww, Daryl, uh, Crazy D, man, my cell phone’s busted, you know? It went through the wash and then melted in the dryer and then, uh, big Jenkins here stepped on it by accident.”

“Damn. That’s too bad. Hey, you outta get one of them pre-paid phones, man. There only like 20 bucks at Wal-Mart, you know?”

“Right.”

Oh God, I definitely need some whiskey now, Jenkins continued thinking. Look at this kid with the sleeves cut off of his Bullet for My Valentine t-shirt and his work jacket tied around his waist.

“Hey, kid. How old are you?”

“Me?”

No. Your brother, Jenkins’ mind spazzed.

“I’m seventeen. Hey, guys, check this out. Check this out. I was at this huge rock concert festival thing last weekend. There were like, I don’t know, fifty bands there! I’m not kidding. It was freakin’ awesome! The mosh pit was sooo cool! I had a blast moshin’, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, man! Look at this bruise on my arm! I got that in the pit.”

“Nice, Crazy D. It kinda looks like Kentucky,” said Jenkins with a grin.

JB snorted.

“Guys, we should start a mosh pit right now. We should just like go right up there in front of the stage and just, you know, freakin’ start slammin’ into each other and stuff.”

“Yeah, then we can start spooning and making out and crap,” said Jenkins with one of his typical absurdist comments meant to catch the intelligently challenged off guard.

JB snorted again. “Aw, don’t mind him, Daryl. He’s just yankin’ your chain.”

“No, really. Moshin’ is so much fun. Look at the scratches all over my back from last weekend,” continued Daryl, lifting his shirt. “You should have seen this one girl. She got punched right in the FACE and she DIED, man. She DIED.”

“And that’s your idea of fun?” asked JB in disbelief.

“Oh, I was alright man. I had a lot of fun in the pit there.”

“That’s because he didn’t get punched in the face and die, JB.”

“But, those guys in the pit were crazy, man. They kept running into my girl on purpose. I had to take the one guy down, you know what I mean. I had to step up for my lady, you know what I’m sayin’? Those guys were hurtin’ girls, man. They were like a bunch of monsters in that pit, man!”

“Uh, hey, Daryl, watch it.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I didn’t mean they were really monsters like you’re a monster, man. I’m sorry.”

“Here’s another thing, kid,” said Jenkins straightly. “Nobody uses the ‘M’ word who ain’t a monster. You dig? Only me and my monster bros can use the ‘M’ word with each other. Then it’s cool. But people like you, you need to refer to us as Monster-Americans. Ok?”

“Uh, yeah, man. I’m sorry. Hey guys, I’ll be back. That’s my girlfriend over there. I think she’s mad at me.” Daryl got up to leave just as suddenly as he first appeared.

“You mean the one with that little bit of beard on her chin and the army boots?” laughed Jenkins.

“Yeah, that’s her. I’ll be back.”

“Jenkins, man, you’re a hoot! The ‘M’ word! You really had that kid goin’!”

“Ha!” laughed Jenkins. “Good times! Good times! Hey, my friend, I’m headin’ out. I gotta split before ‘Crazy D’ comes back over here. But maybe you’ll get a little action with him later. He seems to really have a thing for you, man! At least maybe a little spoonin’ behind the stage! Ha!”

“I’ll text you the details later! Ha!”

“Later, bro.”

“I love ya, big J.”

“Aw, don’t let Daryl hear ya sayin’ that. You’ll break the poor kid’s heart! See ya.”

The Dodge Dart motored over the mountains toward home, Jenkins humming “Tennessee Whiskey” with the windows down.

“I gotta get a pair of them shoes for my girl. She’d like those.”

Hero

20081016jHero

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

This is a story about my grandson, told in the format of letters between his teacher and myself.

Given that he is only five years old, his real identity is being protected. (I don’t want celebrity to go to his head so soon.) I will refer to him as “The Little Guy.”

October 14, 2008

Dear Miss Kindergarten Teacher,

Since your class just learned about fire safety and using 9-1-1, I thought I would tell you about an emergency situation that The Little Guy recently experienced and handling amazingly well. He was too shy to tell you in class last week.

The Little Guy’s dad has epilepsy. He is on medication that usually controls his seizures very well. But every once in a great while, he may have a seizure. Usually they are mild.

The Little Guy has seen his father go through a seizure. It is definitely a scary thing to witness, especially for a child. Several months ago, The Little Guy noticed his dad going into a seizure and thought quickly to run downstairs and get me. He then helped me with making his dad comfortable.

On Saturday, October 4, there was a festival in the town next to ours. A friend of mine was playing at 8 PM. So, I decided to go watch for an hour. I ate dinner with The Little Guy and his dad. Everything was fine. So, I told them I would be back soon. It always makes me nervous to leave The Little Guy’s dad because we just never know when a seizure could happen. But I wasn’t going far and wasn’t going to be long. So, I drove over to the festival.

About an hour later, I missed a call from The Little Guy’s dad. I tried to call back several times and got no answer. Finally, The Little Guy answered and with a nervous voice asked, “When are you coming home? Daddy is having a seizure.” I told him I would be right there and he said, “Okay,” and hung up.

I ran to my car, away from the noise of the music, and called The Little Guy again. I told him to stay on the phone with me and I asked for more details about his dad.

At that point, I thought The Little Guy said, “Should I call 9-1-1?” I told him to wait until I got there because the seizure didn’t sound bad. Usually, his dad does not need the emergency squad when he has a mild seizure.

But The Little Guy said, “No! I called them already. I thought it was more important to call them FIRST. Then I found your phone number on Daddy’s phone because I know what letter your name starts with now.”

I was floored! Somehow, this five-year-old boy was calm enough in that emergency to think to call 9-1-1 first AND recognize letters he has just begun to learn in school!

I made it home in five minutes. A police officer arrived a few minutes later and the emergency squad right after him. The Little Guy had helped his dad to the couch. Thankfully, it was a very mild seizure.

The police officer and all the squad workers were completely amazed at how The Little Guy handled the situation. As other squad members came in and heard the story, they each said, “Wait. How old are you? Who taught you about 9-1-1?”

To which he proudly responded, “I’m five and I just knew how to call.”

Before they left, one of the squad members gave a teddy bear to The Little Guy for doing such a great job. They told him to stop by at his next football game to say hello.

He was beaming!

I couldn’t have been prouder!

Sincerely yours,

Sam Snyder

Her response:

October 16, 2008

Dear Mr. Snyder,

I want to thank you so much for sharing The Little Guy’s experience with me. I was not shocked in the least that The Little Guy handled the situation so well. He is an amazing little boy that is very smart and caring. He is very observant in the classroom and very helpful to others in school as well.

I wish he would have been able to share his story during fire safety week; it was very touching and brought tears to my eyes. I am very proud of The Little Guy for handling the situation so well and would like to recognize him in the classroom for doing so. I wanted to first ask you if that would be okay. I was hoping that maybe I could show The Little Guy how proud I am of him by getting him a special little gift. I would also like to share the letter that you sent me with the administrative staff (principal and superintendent). Please let me know if this will be okay. I think that The Little Guy did an amazing thing for his father and I want him to be recognized for his courage and “quick thinking.” I am sure that the firemen who came to school last week would have been amazed by The Little Guy’s story, just as I was.

You are very, very lucky to have such a special boy as part of your family! Please let me know if I can share his story and recognize him in the classroom for his heroic actions.

Sincerely,

Miss Kindergarten Teacher

By all means! Recognize him! There are not enough real heroes. When we find one, we should praise him.

The Great Karrsville Cornstarch Caper

20080819anthraxComic

(Originally posted on the website Heron Flight)

Tuesday, 5:22 PM

I pull into the driveway and get out of the car.

“Hey! Dad’s home!”

Hey, guys! What’s up? Ready for football practice, little guy? Hey, Pete! Hey, Tim! I see you guys got the dirt bikes out today.

“Yeah, we’re gonna ride down the road to the farm.”

Okay. Just keep an eye out for cops. You don’t want them to catch you riding on the road. Never know when they’ll be around. Joel, I’ll be out in a minute. I have a migraine. So, I’m going to drop you guys off at practice, then come home and sleep. I’ll pick you up at 8.

5:27 PM

In my own room. Can’t wait to get back here and get in bed.

What did I get in the mail today? Some health insurance mumbo jumbo… junk mail… Netflix movie. Sweet! “Coffee and Cigarettes” came today. Can’t wait to watch this. Wish my head didn’t hurt so bad. I’d watch it tonight. What else came? What’s this? Oh, it’s my art magazine. I wonder why it’s wrapped in plastic. Oh, there’s another magazine with it. Wonder what that is. I’ll open it after I drop the boys off at the field.

5:52 PM

You guys have fun! I’ll be back for you at 8. I gotta lie down. I feel like a zombie.

5:58 PM

Finally! Back in my own room. Now to get undressed and hit the sack.

This issue of the art magazine is devoted to New York City graffiti art. That’s cool. Let’s open it up and see what this other magazine that they sent is.

Looks like some kind of comic book. “The Lost Ones” Is that dude a vampire? I guess being a vampire is back in vogue. I never heard of the guy that wrote this. I wonder why they sent it. There’s no note with it. There’s nothing in the art magazine explaining it. Oh well, at least I got a free comic book.

Nice thick paper. Good artwork. I’ll have to read this when I feel better.

What’s this on page 4? What’s this dusty powder stuff ?

Oh hell! I automatically wiped it without thinking! I don’t even know what it is! What if it’s some crazy shit that some psycho put in there? Oh crap! I got it on my finger! I got it on my finger! Shit! Now it’s on my pants! Damn it! Oh hell! I got it on the wall!

And suddenly I’m having a flashback to 1969, six years old, and my mom is catching me wiping boogers on the bedroom wall.

“Sammy! That’s disgusting! Use a tissue!”

But, Mom! It’s ANTHRAX! A tissue is snot going to save me now! Aaaarrrrggghhhh! Some “comic” book! Ha ha. Jokes on me. “Surprise! A little Powdered Bubonic Plague for ya! (“Boob” being the key word.) We thought you’d enjoy it!” I fail to see the comedy in that!

Okay. Calm down. It’s probably nothing. But just set it aside on top of the TV just in case. And go wash your hands.

10 minutes later…

Hey, Sarah… Do you think this is weird? I got this comic book in the mail and there’s this white, dusty, powdery stuff inside.

“YOU DIDN’T TOUCH IT, DID YOU??!!”

Well… Uh…

“DADDY!!!! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS!”

That’s just the point! My brain hurts too much to think today. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just did. Like a reflex.

“You should call somebody… like the Poison Control people or something.”

You really think?

“YES! DO IT NOW!!”

6:10 PM

Phonebook in hand…

“Hello, Poison Control Center.”

Yes, Hi. I’m calling because I got a comic book in the mail and there’s some kind of white powder inside on one of the pages. I’m not sure what it is.

“Did you touch it?”

Uh…

“Sir, you shouldn’t have touched it. Can you describe it to me?”

Yes… white… but not pure white… kind of dusty… kind of chalky… about a three inch area… only on this one page… came sealed in plastic…

“Sir, what you need to do is call your local police. That is how these situations are handled.”

The police? I have to call the police out here? What if it turns out to be just dust or chalk or something? I’m going to feel like an idiot.

“It’s routine, sir. It’s better to be safe than sorry. Just keep the magazine where it is. Don’t let anyone else go near it. And don’t touch it.” (Probably wanting to add, “Idiot.”)

6:13 PM

Phonebook still in hand…

Just great. There is no local phone number listed for our township police. It just says 911 here. Now I have to call 911 like it’s a big emergency here. Crap.

“911! Where’s your emergency?”

Er… I don’t really have an emergency. I’m trying to get in touch with my local police and there is no other number than 911 listed for them in the phonebook.

Yes, sir. We dispatch for them. What’s going on?

Repeat the story… I don’t know, it might be nothing. But the Poison Control guy said to contact the police.

“Sir, did you touch it?”

Crap.

“Okay. Sit tight. An officer will be there shortly.”

6:26 PM

A squad car pulls into my driveway.

Hesitantly, “Uh… You Mr. Snyder?”

Yes, I touched it.

“Huh?”

Nothing.

From 10 feet away, “If you don’t mind, sir, I don’t want to get any closer than this. Just as a precaution. You understand.”

Yeah. Heh heh. No problem. Don’t worry. The wind is not blowing in your direction. Ha ha.

“Yes, I know. I already checked.”

What am I? A leper? He checked the wind direction before he approached me? Well, this is getting awkward.

“Sir, can you give me your date of birth? Is there anyone else in the house?”

Yes, my daughter. She’s upstairs.

“Has she been exposed to the substance in question?”

No.

“So, SHE didn’t touch it?”

No.

“Okay. Please tell her to remain upstairs until we are sure the area is safe. I’m going to call in some help on this… guys who know how to handle such situations. It’s going to be a while.”

Thank-you, officer.

Crap. The boys are at practice. What if this ordeal isn’t over by then? What if they want to quarantine me and everything I’ve touched after touching IT? How many things have I touched? This. That. This. That. That again. Geez! Does everybody touch this many things in such a short period of time? Do I have an abnormally high touching rate? That’s probably why I touched the stuff in the first place! I’m a hyper-toucher!

Hello, Dave? It’s Sam. I have a… uh… sort of “situation” here at home. Could you pick up the boys at 8:00 if I need you to?

Tim? You guys better not ride the dirt bikes back here. There’s a cop here because there was this powder stuff in a magazine… uh… yeah, I touched it. I know. I know. I’ll call you when it’s all over and you can ride the bikes back.

6:50 PM

Another police car, unmarked black SUVs, county health department response vehicle, and more parked all along the road… the neighbors watching…

“Hello, Mr. Snyder. I’m from the county health department. I’m not afraid of getting contaminated. So, I don’t mind standing close to you.”

Bless you, Father Theresa, for showing me kindness in this New Calcutta of Northwest Jersey. Long have I been in exile and forgotten the touch of human kindness.

“Sir, I am almost positive that the substance you have described is harmless. But we will take a look at it. What we do is we put on full-body protective gear, respirators, gloves and we go in there and put the object into a special bag and seal it. Then we bring it outside and, if we have the proper testing materials with us, we test it right here and let you know. But I need to call this friend of mine who works with a Federal agency. He’s an expert and he has a better testing kit. When he gets here, we will take a look at it. So, sit tight. It’s going to be a while.”

7:10 PM

The Township emergency squad arrives on the scene.

“Officer! You are out of your mind! You called us out here for some F***ing powder in an F***ing magazine???!! You wasted our time for THIS??”

Man, that chick is really hot! No, definitely not “cute hot.” She is pissed! This is turning into quite a show! I’ll just lean here on Sarah’s car and watch the action. I might as well play the part of the freak at the circus that everyone pays a quarter to get in and see. ‘Step right up, folks! See the Mutant Man! 9 fingers on each hand due to exposure to radioactive dust!’

“Officer, as a county health official, I don’t feel there is a need to keep the squad here. You can let them go.”

Thank God. She can take her fat dirty looks and her squad truck and get on out of here!

7:23 PM

An old guy struggling up the road on a bicycle and turning into the driveway to talk to me after seeing all the vehicles…

Man, the cop is going to yell at this guy! I can see it coming. Should I warn him? No, I’m bored.

“Hey, buddy what’s going…”

“YOU! GET OUTTA THERE! GET OUTTA THERE!”

“But I just want to talk to this fellow here.”

“NO! GET OUTTA THERE! YOU CAN’T TALK TO HIM!”

Right, instant death carrier here. One word from me and you catch it!

“GET OUT NOW! WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY GOING ON HERE!”

Ha! If so, then why did you send the fat girl away? Emergency! No one but me has even seen the so-called noxious powder! I could be making this whole thing up out of a need for attention! Emergency my left ankle! It’s been over an hour since I first called about this! Oh! I can’t breathe! Oh! My face is swelling! My spleen is quivering!

Give me a break.

7:30 PM

“Well, Mr. Snyder. I talked to my friend with the Feds. He says it’s…”

Anthrax? Heroin? Spores from the deadly Bora Bora Fungus??

“… cornstarch.”

Cornstarch? Are you serious? Cornstarch?

“Yes. Let’s go inside and have a look.”

What? No suit? No gloves? No mask? No cape?

7:35 PM

“Yes, I’m almost completely positive this is nothing to worry about. But do you mind if we take it back to our lab just to be sure? Have you read it yet?”

No, I didn’t read it yet! Wouldn’t that be like reading the label on a bomb before it falls on your head?

“Do you have a bag or something I can put it in?”

What happened to the special bag with the airtight seal?

Uh… there’s a Wal-Mart bag here.

“Oh! THAT’s perfect! Thanks! We’ll be in touch soon! Bye.”

7:45 PM

Everyone is back home. The crickets are singing once again.

“Yeah, dad, bet you feel dumb! Cornstarch!”

“Ha! We were waiting down the road all this time just because you found some ‘deadly’ powder! Ha! You need to wipe some of that on your butt to stop sweating!”

I know. I know. Whatever. What would you have done? Besides, it was Sarah’s idea to call someone.

Then, from her upstairs window…

“Well, Daddy, it IS a good thing you called. That was one DIRTY magazine! Ha!”

Yes, there’s always a comic in the house…