Category art

The gatekeeper has returned after a bitter winter

I ran into the gatekeeper this weekend. This is no where near as dramatic as that might sound. First, in my neighborhood it remains freezing cold and sometimes it snows. That said, Saturday was the first real taste of Spring we have had and my incredible partner decided that instead of spending the day watching basketball and kissing our dog on the forehead, we decided to break ground.
Around here the frozen tundra looks more like dead grass and frozen dog poop, but organic gardeners are serious people and we are nothing if not dedicated city plant growers. At some point I decided I would need a couple more bricks to finish off a tiny retaining wall I had been working on and I walked down to the community garden. As far as I can tell, whatever is there is for the taking, that is, if you can make it past the gatekeeper.
I had no clue who the gatekeeper was until last summer. It was sometime in July and again I found myself in need of something, maybe a red tomato or some garlic, but as far as I knew, the community garden was an open paradise to find fresh vegetables for free. So I walked down. There was a newly installed wooden gate, made out of obviously salvaged and decrepit wood and in front of it sat an elderly Jewish man who stopped me as I opened it and said, “where you going?”
I met the gatekeeper and learned some valuable lessons that day. First, other people growing vegetables in a community garden are not doing so for my personal nutrition. I also learned that a gatekeeper is a serious job for silly old men. That first time, as he allowed me entry, he quietly put his wrinkled old hand out in search of a tip, or a poll. I only had a ten dollar bill on me and when I told him that, he replied, “that will be sufficient.”
The rest of the summer, when I did venture down to the community garden, I made sure never to have anything larger than a quarter in my pocket. The gatekeeper did not seem to notice or care. He was always there, always opened the gate and every single time he held up his hand in search of a tip, or payoff or something. I would hand over the change in my pocket and enter.
It was getting to be bitterly cold this past saturday afternoon when I went to the community garden in search of some bricks and I was shocked to see the elderly Jewish gatekeeper sitting on an old aluminum fold out chair. He was wearing a nice vintage suit and a battered overcoat and as I approached he asked if I had any business in the community garden and I told him I needed a few bricks to finish a retaining wall. He opened the gate and ever so peacefully his right hand came out of his pocket and he held it flat, awaiting payment.
Now, it had been months since I had ventured to the community garden and I had only a 20 dollar bill in my picket, which I realized when I dug my hand into my pocket and retrieved it. I looked at it, as did the gatekeeper, and he snatched it before I could clasp my hand shut. We made stern eye contact and he said, “that should make up for last summer.” Then he sat back down on his old chair, pulled his wool beamy down over his ears, thrust his hands back into his pockets and closed his eyes, like an elderly Jewish Buddha.

At the top of the stairs

I closed my eyes and all I could think of was how angry I was at my best friend, a chipmunk. Sure, I am positive that at some point a friend or spiritual advisor warned me not to fall in love with a chipmunk, but I was much younger when I met Billy Bob Chipmunk and now we are just stuck with one another.
Chipmunks age differently than humans, so when I found Billy Bob living on the bumper of my old Ford truck and I asked him what he was doing there and all he could muster was a smile, I knew he could end up being trouble. Of course, at the time, I had no clue what sort of trouble I would end up getting into.
He was young then, but that was eons ago and now he is old and cranky and sometimes cynical and brutish. I forgive everything because sometimes I am the same way.
Billy Bob has long been known for his dancing.
I’m not quite sure how this came about, because at the time we met, I was a professional dancer and he was, well, a chipmunk. Soon enough we were doing double bills at Carnegie Hall and “Shake and Bake,” the first a professional theater in New York City, the second, a strip club for stoners in Denver.
As Billy Bobs knees began to give out and his racist diatribes became even more offensive, I had to give up the stage to dedicate my life to my first love, medicine. Sure, I flunked out of med school long ago, but like most doctors working in America, I just faked it. Looking back on my decades as a surgeon I can honestly say that a decent percentage of my patients did not die painfully.
So imagine my shock this week when I found out that Billy Bob Chipmunk had secretly been keeping detailed notes on not only my illegal medical activities, but also my moonshining business. I think I did what any professional surgeon/moonshine provider would do, I brought Billy Bob to the circus and sold him for five dollars.
When I was talking to my shrink yesterday, Dr. Fivingstook, I mentioned that Billy Bob was no longer with me and the good doctor dropped his maniacal on the floor and said, “why that can’t be, I saw him just yesterday, performing at “Spangles” which is one of our cities grimiest and disgusting pool hall and frenzy dancing palaces. A lot of people don’t even know what a Frenzy Dance Palace is, but then again, we are not in Europe anymore.
That said, life without Billy Bob Chipmunk has been a lot nicer than I could have imagined. My super smart lawyer told me that while my recent chipmunk removal was highly immoral, it was also super legal, which in the end is almost all that matters.
That said, I got a call from a mormon missionary this morning who told me he had spent the majority of the evening drinking illegal moonshine and “talking shit” with a very verbal and racist chipmunk and it was then that I knew, at some point, our paths would again cross.