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Published: December 2nd 2008
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Big Brother.
Jerry the God of Fire. The sun goes down behind the smoke. Saturday 15th November to Thursday 20th November, 2008 If Peter, my first Stateside visitor of six weeks earlier had warranted renaming The Rain Man, his visit heralding the first precipitation in over four months since my arrival then big brother Jerry had to be the God of Fire.
Jerry was due a tea time landing at LAX and so on a freakishly warm and clear skied November Saturday afternoon with temperatures touching the late eighties and in an attempt to provide a welcoming fridge full of cheese and Stella Artois I nipped to the local Ralph’s for a grocery stock up and emerged half an hour later and two hundred and fifty dollars lighter (things are getting expensive out here too) to the distant smell of burning and to see that half the visible skyline to the south had been submerged under a huge blanket of thick grey smoke that was rapidly heading our way.
We’d all read in the papers and seen on TV news of the bush fires that were terrorizing Santa Barbara and the surrounding areas 100 miles to the north but such was the distance between us that they may as well have been
Big Brother.
At this stage the score was nil nil. in another continent. This one however, which had started in the early hours of the morning was just thirty miles or so away in The Anaheim Hills and was not only about to scupper any chance of taking in the last of the afternoon sun but also to ensure that before long the air was filled with tiny black spots of soot, enough to ensure all windows were immediately locked shut.
With the beach ruled out Phil and I went to the gym and were enjoying a post workout beer in the bar when his phone rang. It was big Jerry, landed and through customs an hour earlier than expected wanting to know where his chauffeur was and forty five minutes later as I arrived at the airport I spotted a forlorn and familiar figure with a case like a small house waiting patiently at the side of the road…… behind a red kerb.!
He was obviously unaware the significance of the painted kerb much as I had been when I’d received my first parking ticket way back when and that an action such as pulling to a halt adjacent to one is seen as a death row
Big Brother.
Half an hour earlier this sky was blue. offence in some of the more zealous United States. Consequently he was thus probably more than a little surprised that the first words of greeting from his long lost little brother were not welcoming words enquiring as to his well being or as to how his long journey had been, more simply something along the lines of “C’mon Jerry, hurry up, get in” as he was forced to sling his case onto the back seat whilst jogging alongside and throw himself into the front as the Jeep kept a slowly rolling much like one of those train hitching cowboys in the old westerns.
We spent his first night Stateside drinking beer and shooting pool in the world famous Reno Rooms on Broadway, at least that’s what it said on the sign. Since childhood betting with big Jon has almost meant a licence to print money, his self belief at times defying both logic and comprehension but his lifetime of living out of a suitcase has obviously given him time for practice and aided with more than his fair share of good fortune he somehow ended with a 3-1 victory and ten dollars of my hard earned cash in his
Big Brother.
No conferring please. Baz and Jerry gang up. back pocket.
Sunday continued in much the same way that Saturday had left off. At 5 to 8 I woke the slumbering giant that lay semi naked and prostrate on my crimson settee, turned on the television and watched aghast as he rose, donned his swimshorts mumbling something about Sunday morning swimming with his girls, stumbled down the three flights of stairs, crossed the road and waded without flinch into the icy water Reggie Perrin like before returning five minutes later with his torso having turned the colour of his team. His beloved Manchester City were on live TV and so I left him to it and, still attempting to open my eyes returned to my pit only to find my futile attempts at returning to the land of the fairies scuppered by the constant series of “Oohs”, “Aahs”, ”’Kin ‘Ells” and cheers that were coming from my living room.
Fortunately City managed an away draw with Hull's Tigers which was enough to avoid a sulk setting in for the day and as the full time whistle sounded we were joined by a surprisingly healthy looking Phil who suggested a walk the mile or so along the beach
Big Brother.
Sunday am and Jerry heads for the water. to Yankee Doodles for the 10am US football kick off. With temperatures again well into the eighties we were in the midst of one hell of an Indian Summer and as we walked I reflected that since my arrival this was the first time I’d walked this walk. It’s strange how a tendency to take things for granted when they’re on your doorstep works its way into your psyche.
Yankee Doodles is the Oceanside bar we’d visited on my first trip to Long Beach over twenty years ago and this was my first return since. The motel opposite that we’d resided in was now long since transformed into plush apartments but from the exterior the bar remained unchanged. It’s probably best described as a down market pool hall and Phil and I been told it was now inhabited in the main by Mexican gangsters but the beer was cold and Miami, my team, and Denver, Phil’s both won and were both showing on one of the many TV's and screens that adorned the walls so we weren’t complaining. When the games finished we took a walk up Second Street and that was Sunday; beer, football and a bit more
Big Brother.
Northgate Arena baths. beer. Just like being at home !
Returning to the flat in the early evening we settled down for the first series of UK TV classic 'Benidorm' which Jon had bought over with him but it wasn’t long before poor jet lagged Jerry could take no more and like a wounded tiger suffering the effects of the hunters dart sidled off silently to the bedroom, circled on the spot three times to find a place of comfort and crashed smack bang in the centre of my beautiful big bed. He still hadn’t moved when I went retired for the evening 5 hours later and rolling him over to one side felt like attempting to single handedly push start a truck. In the early hours of the morning I was woken by what sounded as though his engine had finally come to life as the putt putt grunt of his nasal snore woke me from my sleep but thankfully he ceased with just one tight ten second squeeze of his nostrils and having ignored all advice to get into the current time zone immediately upon arrival in the States found himself wide awake and sat on the balcony by 4.30.
Big Brother.
Made in England. Monday for me was a return to work leaving Jerry to entertain himself which he did by partaking of probably his first and only exercise since childhood other than the conceiving of Erin and Faye by taking the bike down the beach path to the Queen Mary. Needless to say I returned home to a saddle sore brother who walked with all the gait of John Wayne at The Alamo but who, like a true cowboy still returned to the saddle the following day and Tuesday I was forced to take my first 'sickie', not to keep him company but to visit the quack in seeking a remedy for the savage sore throat that had afflicted me for the past week and which had rendered me almost voiceless for too long. The rest of the week was wisely taken up by a series of quiet early nights in in front of the telly with me thankfully managing to exact some revenge on the green baize in between with a six nil thirty buck victory on Wednesday night. Our attempts at rest and recouperation which lasted all of two nights were just a lull before a storm. We were off
Big Brother.
Happy Jerry. to Vegas again.
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Curly
non-member comment
At least you found red legs asleep on the settee and not in the front garden frightenin' the shit out the neighbours Bill!!