On Saturday, I decided to just drive around for awhile, roaming up and down the strip and letting my mind wander. I drove south past the legendary Las Vegas sign and spotted the South Point Hotel. There was a great deal of commotion going on there in preparation for the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon. Hate to say it, but I didn't even know Jerry Lewis was still alive. I only have vague memories of the telethon from when I was a kid and the cable channels were more limited than they are today. There was this man with greasy hair in a tuxedo alternately acting like an ass and then yelling at the audience because they weren't sending him enough money. That's about all I could remember.
Since I felt some new, direct connection to it being in Vegas and all, I decided to catch a few minutes of telethon. It's kinda sad. Jerry was old and wheezing and befuddled and, despite promises of great entertainment, I didn't recognize any of the performers on the show. I sorta recall there being people like Mr. T on when I was little, but there were just lame comedians and lounge singers now. It all seemed so pathetic, I felt like I had to donate. They had a thing where I could text them and they were charge $10 on my phone bill, so I did that.
The rest of the time, I thought I'd get some use out of my new Word program and do some writing on my laptop. It felt good to unload some of the haunting memories from my encounter with my crazy old neighbor at my apartment building. Everything had been a blur for several weeks despite my efforts to sort through it all, but only now have I been able to put things into any kind of perspective. Funny what you can dredge up from your memory when you give it a good spanking. Some of the things the old lady said that night make me wonder if she was somehow connected with the white van that was hanging around the trailer park. There's a bigger picture here I'm only now starting to piece together.
So the weekend came and went. Mom called me on Tuesday to talk about her weekend with Mr. Huggins. After his anxiety attack, he decided to open up more to Mom about his feelings for his dead wife and his trepidations about dating again. She said he started crying in her arms and couldn't get a hold of himself for at least an hour. I can't picture gruff Mr. Huggins crying like a baby. Not the same high school principal who would threaten Eddie Tunsten with lame expressions like, "Make my day, Tunsten!" or "Do you smell what I'm cookin'?"
Just for laughs, Mom e-mailed me this photo of Mr. Huggins from my high school yearbook:
She says he's heavier now and the graying at the temples has spread to his whole head. God, I wish I could be back home to witness all this. I feel so detached from my life here. This isn't really life, but some play of which I am a mere player, to swipe ol' Bill Shakespeare. Speaking of playing, Mr. Hommecornee contacted me Wednesday night and wanted to arrange a more intimate conversation via Skype. I was worried about "breaking the third wall" as it were, but I needed to do whatever it took to get face-time with him and/or his boss. As is usually the case, my image of him in my head did not match his actual appearance. He was quite large, like a body builder, and rather stern looking. The conversation was all business, and by that I mean of a non-sexual nature. He just wanted to firm up plans for me to meet with his boss at their suite. Operating on his turf was not ideal for me, but Hommecornee was insistent, "for security reasons" he claimed. I agreed.
My next step was to formulate a plan by which I could apprehend his boss, the arms dealer, as surreptitiously as I could. Unfortunately, this is not a strong point for me, so I contacted The Colonel. He told me to make contact with Stephen again. After the last debacle, I didn't want to go there, but The Colonel made it an order. Obviously, he doesn't trust me to pull off such an operation alone. For me, Stephen's the untrustworthy one.
Anyway, we met yesterday for lunch at a noisy buffet to discuss a possible sting operation. I have to give Stephen credit, he's an imaginative guy. He rattled off at least a half dozen possible scenarios we could play. Frankly, I think the guy would make a better screenwriter than a federal agent. Stephen told me he would investigate the feasibility of each plan and get back to me with what he thought was the best way to go.
So here I sit, waiting in limbo until the plan can be implemented. The waiting is the hardest part - damn, now I'm swiping Tom Petty!
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