Trash Talk

by Robert Gussin

  Chuck told her he started cooking about ten years earlier. He had never cooked before that. He felt that he had eaten out so much and in so many places that he developed a feel for what would taste good and what ingedients went well together. He said he considered himself the “Monet” of the kitchen — a food impressionist, not a cook. When Leona had asked him if he might cook — or create as he considered it — for her someday, he said absolutely. But warned her, “Since I never use a recipe, I can’t promise that I can repeat anything that I have prepared to be just the same the next time, and every meal is an experiment, so we could end up at a restaurant.”

  134 robert gussin

  Leona told him that he couldn’t frighten her off so easily and some day she would be there to collect her meal – or work of art. She guessed that the questionable reputation of many pro athletes must be very exaggerated. She had certainly become a fan of Chuck Barkey. She decided that his reputation as a very eigible bachelor was well deserved.

  After dropping Joe and Don off at the Hyatt, Arnie and Jordy took another swing through the city and up and down a few miles of Route 41, and were relieved to find nothing unusual. They saw some small groups of meeting attendees that they recognized walking casually back toward the hotels. Probably coming from late dinners or one of the bars, but seemingly enjoying themselves. With a sigh of relief, Arnie dropped Jordy at his car in the Hyatt parking lot and took off for home. C h a

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  On Tuesday morning a strange phenomenon occurred. A sizeable number of local residents showed up and requested single-day registration. They had read a small article on the front page of the Sarasota Herald Tribune that morning describing the meeting and the misunderstanding. It read in part,

  It appears the meeting of the National Environmentalist Society being held at our city’s Hyatt Hotel drew some unexpected attendees. The theme, “Trash Talk,” was misinterpreted, and a sizable number of very large people — professional athletes — showed up to fulfill their newly imposed educational requirement. When they found out the trash being talked about was real, sloppy, soggy garbage and not the art of insult, they were not happy. But it seems that a compromise has been reached between organizers and athletes and a new, imaginative program was worked out. This meeting could be worth the price of admission.

  The locals that came to observe boosted the daily attendance by another seventy-three, and the organizers happily accepted their fees, gave them programs, and squeezed more chairs into the back of the auditorium. This meeting was becoming a real money maker. Arnie began to hope that they might all still have jobs afterward. But he wasn’t ready to bet on it.

  The general session of the meeting opened with a talk by Professor Sue Greber of Harvard. Greber grew up in Pennsylvania, where she loved to ski, hike, ride bicycles and even a motorcycle, but had to take a break from these activities when she went off to school. She had impressive academic credentials. Undergraduate degree from Wellesley, doctorate in environmental science from UCLA, and a three-year post-doctoral stint at Yale, where she studied environmental ethics. She was hired at Harvard as an assistant professor of environmental studies, and had been promoted to associate professor after four years, which put her on the tenure-track.

  Now five years later, she was a full professor, with tenure, at Harvard and was able to renew some of her old interests. Of course she had never stopped skiing, but found more time for it in the last five years. She also bought a motorcycle and rode with several groups, even an occasional outing with the Hells Angels.

  Professor Greber, a small, frail-looking darkhaired woman, was a legend on the ski slopes of New England. She was so incensed by the degree of littering on ski mountains, she had become a one-woman police force of the ski resorts and punisher of the litterers. Professor Greber, an excellent skier, dressed in a Harvard crimson ski outfit and her white ski cap with a red ‘H’ on the front would scour the slopes looking for litterers. When she spotted someone dropping a tissue or a candy or chewing gum wrapper or other waste on the snow, she would veer off her course, and careening up behind the perpetrator, the wiry little avenger would whack the misbehaver with her ski pole on the back of their calf just above their ski boot.

  This caused the environmental criminal to drop in his or her tracks, clutching at the back of their leg and writhing around with the stinging pain.

  Professor Greber would continue on her way shouting, “Don’t be a litterbug,” and, as she quickly skied away, the sorrowful victim would see the large white ‘H’ on the back of her crimson outfit. The injury she imposed was temporary, and left the skier with a black-and-blue welt, but able to finish their ski day. They left with no lasting effect other than a paranoia about ever dropping another bit of anything on a ski slope. Although there had been periodic reports to the ski resort managers about Dr. Greber, who had come to be referred to as the “Crimson Scourge,” nothing was ever done, since the noticeably cleaner slopes were a real benefit. Periodically you would hear groups of skiers talking about the “red and white flash,” the “red and white slasher,” the “midget marauder,” or the “cleanliness nut.” And most skiers on the slopes of Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine were reluctant to throw away trash anywhere but in a container for fear the little lady in crimson with ski pole flailing would come out of nowhere and punish them.

  Professor Greber was chairing a session on “Recreational Trash,” and was acting as the lead-off speaker with the topic, “Problems of Trash on the Ski Slopes.” In her presentation, she discussed the most common types of ski slope litter: tissue papers, paper coffee cups, soft drink and beer cans, cigarette butts, an occasional condom, and other odds and ends. She described some accidents caused by skiers running over these types of items, such as the skier who went out of control, hit a tree, and broke his arm when an old condom stuck to the bottom of his ski. Professor Greber also alluded to some of her corrective actions aimed at the perpetrators, and encouraged environmentalist skiers to take up the cause in similar fashion.

  Dr. Greber’s presentation was quite well received and she was particularly praised by some of the hockey players in the audience who thought that the “calf whack” was a great weapon for the skiing environmentalist.

  Through the remainder of the day, the meeting seemed to proceed smoothly. Major speakers, panel participants, and workshop debaters all seemed to get into the rhythm of the mixedaudience requirements. Athletes started to ask questions about environmental issues and comment on issues related to environmental causes that bothered them. Whereas they could understand and support to some extent concerns such as excess chemical use on golf courses and the potential runoff into streams, lakes, and oceans, they had little sympathy for extremists who argued that killing real grass on football and baseball fields and cutting down trees to supply wood for basketball courts and baseball bats was immoral. Many of the environmentalists who had not previously had much interest in professional sports found themselves gaining interest as they talked with the athletes at breaks and at the social events.

  At the end of the day’s sessions, most participants left the lecture hall and drifted into the adjoining convention lobby to explore the exhibits. Some of the fitness-oriented attendees went off to change into workout clothes and then to the fitness center or out into the fresh air for a jog. A few who were not interested in more business or in fitness headed to the bar for an early start.

  Randy Wilson and Bill Gladly were looking around the exhibit hall when they saw a group gathered near a line of portable toilets that were on display. There was a lot of cheering and laughing, and so they decided to go and see what was going on. When they got to the group they heard some shouting and arguing.

  “What’s going on?” asked Bill of two men at the back edge of the crowd.

  One of the men explained. “Oh, these guys who are the manufacturers’ representatives for these different porta toilets, or whatever they’re called, have gotten into a debate as to which product has
the best name. They started out arguing about who had the best product, but I think they realized that there’s really no difference so now they’re onto the names.”

  “Sounds wild,” said Wilson with a bit of sarcasm in his tone, as they edged closer to the combatants.

  “Mr. John! That’s a shit name,” said one of the debaters.

  “That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. A shit name,” said the man in front of the Mr. John. “At least it doesn’t look like a piece of shit like your Johnny Boy!”

  “My Johnny Boy looks great. Red, white, and blue is a great color scheme. Easy to find and patriotic,” said the Johnny Boy representative.

  “Yeah,” said Mr. John, “People don’t know whether to shit in it or salute it!”

  “Hey guys,” said a third person. “My product, Porta Pottie, is the best. It’s name is self-explanatory. No one will mistake it for a phone booth.”

  “Jesus,” said Johnny Boy. “Who uses these, twoyear-olds? Porta Pottie? Why not make it adult, like Porta Crapper, then it would be self-explanatory.” “Wait, wait,” cried a fourth man with a pronounced British accent. “Our Porta Loo has been the classiest product, but for the American market, we are launching a product with a more appropriate name but still with an English presence. We’re calling it the Poop Palace!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  Someone hollered, “Let’s go to the Poop Palace,” and the crowd started a chant. “Poop Palace, Poop Palace, let’s go to the Poop Palace and we’ll have a jolly good time.”

  Gladly looked at Wilson. “Man, these environmental people are weird. Let’s go get a beer.”

  “I’m with you,” said Wilson. “Off to the Poop Palace! You can sit on the Queen’s throne!” And off they went chuckling.

  Billy Barnes found Professor Greber at the Boat House bar having a beer after the sessions ended. “Hi, Professor Greber,” said Billy. “I’m Billy Barnes. I’m a hockey player with Toronto. I really enjoyed your presentation today. With that calf whack you oughta think of playing hockey. You could be tough.”

  Professor Greber chuckled. “Call me Sue or Grebs. That professor crap is for the classroom. You want a beer, Billy? Grab a stool.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll take a Molson,” said Billy. “One Molson for my buddy here and another

  Sam Adams for me,” Greber called to the bartender. “So, what do you think of the meeting, Billy? A

  little strange, huh?”

  “Yeah, I was sort of pissed, er, upset rather, excuse me, when it started, with all the mix-up and

  all, but it’s actually gotten pretty interesting and

  sort of fun. I never thought that much about all

  the shit, er, junk I mean, excuse me, that gets

  tossed on the ski runs. Its bad enough with what

  those assholes, er, excuse me, fans, throw on the

  ice at our hockey games. I almost busted my ass, er,

  almost took a bad fall, excuse me, the other night

  when I ran over a fuckin’, I mean a damn, excuse

  me, belt that somebody threw on the ice.” “Hey, Billy,” said Greber. “Let’s make a deal.

  You use whatever language you want and don’t litter our conversation with all those fucking ‘excuse

  me’s.’ Okay?”

  “Hey, I like that, doc, er, Sue, Grebs. Oh shit,

  excuse me”

  They both broke up with laughter.

  “I really like you, Grebs.”

  “I like you too, Billy. Let’s get the hell out of

  here and go get some dinner. I’m starved. Maybe

  we can figure out how to clean up the world over

  some food. By the way, do you ski?”

  And with that she slid off the stool, put a

  twenty dollar bill on the bar, slid her arm into

  Billy’s, and off they went to find a restaurant.

  Ginnie Chester, an environmental scientist working for General Motors with an interest in reducing auto emissions, went to dinner Tuesday with Andre Webster, the all-pro wide receiver from the Cleveland Browns. Andre had been questioning Ginnie at an earlier coffee break about what she did at General Motors. He was fascinated at her approaches to studying auto emissions. Andre had grown up in Birmingham, Alabama, in a house that was next door to an auto repair shop. He was good friends with the son of the shop’s owner and spent a lot of time watching the boy’s father and the other employees repairing cars. Andre had learned quite a bit and impressed Ginnie with his knowledge of automobile engines. She was even more impressed when she learned that he had graduated from Georgia Tech with a degree in mechanical engineering, and accomplished that while starting at wide receiver for the Tech football team for four years. Although football dominated his life these days, he was certain that in the future when his football career ended he would get to his other love, engineering. Ginnie grew up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, with four brothers so she had more than a passing knowledge of football. During her years at the University of Michigan, where she got her engineering degree, she was an avid football fan and continued to attend a couple of Michigan games every year since graduation.

  The two hit it off so well at the coffee break that Andre had asked Ginnie to have dinner at Café L’Europa, a restaurant that Andre was told by the hotel concierge was one of the best in the area. The two took a taxi to the restaurant, which was about two miles from the hotel in a popular tourist area, St. Armand’s Circle. The dinner was outstanding, and Ginnie and Andre immensely enjoyed each others’ company. By the time they returned to the hotel, they had exchanged addresses and phone numbers and Andre invited Ginnie to a couple of Browns home games in Cleveland, as well as to their game against the Lions in Detroit. Ginny was thrilled. Andre even offered to send her extra tickets for her brothers who lived in the Detroit area.

  ***

  Tony DiNardo and Bernie McCann went to dinner on Tuesday at Zaks, a relatively new steakhouse in Sarasota. They were joined by four environmentalists, two men and two women. Too Fat had the group totally entertained with his description of his parasailing experience. They were laughing so hard they were afraid of disturbing the other patrons in the rather small restaurant. However, many of the others overheard Too Fat’s story and were laughing too. Bill Radcliffe, one of the environmentalists at the table then informed the group that his hobby was flying ultralights, the little paper-winged aircraft with a motor about the size of a lawnmower engine. He described the beauty of soaring around alone several hundred feet in the air with great views of the countryside.

  Everyone looked at Too Fat, whose eyes were as wide as saucers, and as they started to laugh, DiNardo said, “McCann, don’t even think about it. You would need a jet engine, and even with that you would probably hit the ground like a big meteor.”

  The group was in tears with laughter. “Hey,” replied Too Fat, “you don’t have no worries about me. I ain’t leavin’ Mother Earth for nothin’ except to fly in a plane with four engines and two pilots, and even then only when I absolutely have to do it.”

  Everyone howled.

  Seriously though,” said Radcliffe, “the important thing about ultralights is that they are a step in the direction of less-polluting travel, and they also can relieve some of the traffic congestion.”

  The group all agreed with that aspect of ultralight flight, but also insisted that a safer solution was required. Individual transporters that are less or non-polluting and don’t crowd the roads as much certainly could be an attractive approach.

  This idea fascinated Too Fat. “Hey guys, maybe I could get one of them new things that look like the front end of a scooter and are balanced when you stand on them.”

  “You mean a Segway,” said Radcliffe. “That’s exactly the type of transporter that I’m talking about.

  “Yeah,” said McCann. “A Segway. It goes on the ground, not in the water or up in the air.”

  “Yeah,” said DiNardo, “but if you tried
it, they’d have to put eighteen-wheeler tires on it and call it ‘Gangway’ or ‘Get Outta the Way’!”

  Everyone laughed, even Too Fat.

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  Arnie, Melissa, Jordy, and Pam were between relief and pure joy by Wednesday as they saw the relationship among the attendees become friendlier and the interactions more spontaneous.

  “Just two more evening functions and we’ll be home free,” said Melissa. “I’m not worried anymore about the meeting itself. We got another forty-two locals today. Our attendance is incredible. Everyone seems to be getting along. But I still get goose bumps as we approach the social functions. Once the group gets into cocktails, things seem to change.”

  “Yeah,” said Jordy, “after a few cocktails the environmental folks only differ from the athletes in size, not in behavior.”

  “Are you kidding?” chimed in Pam. “The athletes are better behaved. These environmentalists are going crazy. They drink more, and seem like they want to experience the life of a pro athlete.”

  “You’re right,” said Arnie. “At least the sports guys seem to be able to handle the liquor. Some of our folks are experiencing hangovers for the first time in their life. I’ve been thinking that the influence of those hangovers may be the only thing that keeps them from going totally nuts when they get out on the town.”

  “Well, as I said, only two more nights,” repeated Melissa. “Even old Mundhill seems to be all right. At least he hasn’t said anything more.”

  “Maybe he will even crack a smile, but that’s not likely,” said Arnie. “Only two more nights, but I would hate to be known as the leader of the group that destroyed the Van Wezel or the Hyatt.”

  “You know, Arnie,” said Jordy, “I’m not too worried about the closing banquet Thursday here at the hotel. At least many of the folks only need to make it upstairs to their room afterward. And the hotel has reasonable security.”