CHARLEYýS WORLD

CHAPTER 1 I discovered very quickly, during the first few days of my Moscow assignment that I would be on a enforced, low calorie diet. I was thrown into the reality of the situation after one visit to the supermarket. With frozen “T.V.” style dinners at $12.00, a head of lettuce at $9.00, and a bag of chips at $6.00, I realized I would not be enjoying eating with the same unencumbered gusto I have been accustomed to all of my life. In fact, my eating habits have changed from my trademark, piranha like frenzy, to more of a goldfish nibbling. However, after living for about a week on Pringles and Fanta orange soda, my body was telling me I needed a more diverse diet. I developed an unnatural desire for a bowl of corn flakes. Even though I had never even considered cold cereal as a meal in the States, I was now having dreams of Corn Pops, Cheerios and Sugar Smacks. I fantasized of wallowing in a tub of Post Toasties and had erotic thoughts which involved shredded wheat, strawberries, and Tony the Tiger. I needed roughage. My weekly trip to the supermarket was frustrating to say the least. Corn flakes were $9.00 a box, and this was the cheapest of the items reflected in my fantasies. In the end, my biological needs were suppressed by my frugal side, and I could not bring myself to pay three times in Moscow, what it would be in the U.S. In short, I was too cheap to fulfill my desires, which is the story of my life. Feeling fully depressed, I was heading to the checkout counter with my Zag-Nut bar and mineral water, tonight’s dinner, when I spotted a box of cereal for $2.50. Although the package was completely in German, it had the easily identifiable name of Mueslix, and pictured a great big ceramic dish filled with its grain, coconut and fruit components. I was ecstatic. I purchased it, and a big container of Finnish milk and raced home to indulge, and I did. For three days in a row I had my Mueslix for breakfast and dinner. It was better than sex and a lot cheaper. I reveled in the bargain I had found,....until the next morning. My driver was late in picking me up, so I had time for a second bowl of my ambrosia. I was sitting there soaking it up, when my housekeeper Olga arrived. Stereotypical of the media version of Russian woman, Olga was Hulk Hogan in drag. Already with the opinion that Americans are several stars short of a full flag, she usually never blinked an eye no matter what she saw me doing. As Olga walked by and casually looked at me eating my bounty, she stopped in her tracks, came back to the table, put on her glasses and picked up the box for a closer look. Although she spoke no English, Olga did manage with two words to convey a message to me, which struck terror into my heart. “Tweet, Tweet,” was all she said pointing to the box, “Tweet, Tweet.” For three days, seven meals, eight bowl-fulls in all, I had been shoveling birdseed into my mouth with gusto! I panicked and was petrified that I had been ingesting some chemicals which would keep my feathers shiny, and my droppings solid. After a fitful run to the American Clinic, I confirmed that there was no permanent damage, and in a week or so I did lose the impulse to hang around statues. I did however, always have a song on my lips. Shortly after this episode, my family came to Moscow to visit. I was hoping everything would go perfectly since I was trying to convince my wife what a paradise Russia was so she would move there with me. Little did I know that due to a “kidnapping” incident, this would be their one and only visit to this magic land of caviar and Cossacks. Olga, the housekeeper that had dramatically informed me that I was eating canary canapés was, in fact, also my landlord. She owned the apartment we were renting, and so it was to her we were supposed to pay our rent each and every month. (the key word here is “supposed to”) To earn extra money she also cleaned the apartment and did our laundry, a fact, which had a direct bearing on the abduction. Due to cash flow problems of my employer, Deloitte & Touche, Olga had not been paid her $4000 per month for over three months, and she was upset. She decided that to bring some attention to her plight, action must be taken. Unfortunately, the action Olga decided to take was not through the legal system, was not having some three hundred pound goon show up at my door, or not even to call me and demand her money. Olga decided to hold my family’s laundry hostage. Sweat socks, jeans and pajama tops, shorts, shirts and skirts, three different sizes of jockey shorts, and assorted woman’s paraphernalia were the victims. They were hidden in a non-descript apartment somewhere in Moscow when the ransom note arrived. The translation loosely said, “Have my money here by Friday or you will never see your undies again.” My family was leaving on Thursday, and my wife was despondent over this tragic turn of events. We went on television pleading to the public to notify the authorities if they see the bundle. I even contacted the elite “Fruit of the Loom URT” (Underwear Recovery Team), but they turned me down because our things were from K-Mart. After hours of negotiation led by a member of my company, (a former KGB agent) it was agreed half of the rent would be paid in exchange for return of my family’s clothes, with my things remaining as hostage until full payment was made. The exchange was made at the airport after a tense night of discussion and my brood was on their way home with an exciting story to tell their friends. I, on the other hand, had to wear two-week-old briefs, until the third largest accounting firm in the world could come up with $6,000 to pay the ransom. Was I surprised? Was I depressed? No, it’s just another day living in “Charley’s World.” CHAPTER 12 During the course of my career in home repair I became known as a sort of “Devil Incarnate” to the hardware store set. My photo was posted in many of the major outlets as a man to avoid if you want to escape any possibility of being a party to a lawsuit. It was explained to me once that selling me a pair of pliers would appear to a court the same as selling a 5 year old an Uzi,, based on my past history. I was thought of, in effect as the “Bob Villa” of a negative, parallel, universe. I reached the pinnacle of my reputation one morning in my garage. One Sunday morning while my family was at the mall, I decided to do some needed work around the garage. Not having a great track record with power tools, or for that matter manual tools, I pulled out my favorite "tool," my trusty tube of Super Glue. I truly believed this was the greatest accomplishment in the history of mankind and home improvement. I attacked anything I could glue instead of nailing, since I felt I could do far less damage with my tube as opposed to a hammer. I was wrong! Somehow, when I put the tube down, it must have leaked out onto the shelf, seeping onto some of the items laying there. The problem was, the next item I picked up had Super Glue all over the handle. The problem was the next item I picked up became a permanent attachment to my hand. The problem was the next item I picked up was a short handled sledgehammer. So here I stood, in the middle of my garage, all alone on a Sunday morning, with a sledgehammer glued tightly into my clenched left hand. My wife was due home soon and the one question remained, to be caught like this or to cut the hand off at the wrist, claim a chain saw accident, and be out of my misery but retain my dignity. Remembering that nail polish remover usually released the death grip of Super Glue, I raced to the medicine cabinet, opened it, smashing its mirror, and the wall behind it. I doused my hand and the handle with the polish remover, but my hand was too tightly wedged to the wood. I had no choices left. It was to the hospital or start up the chain saw. Luckily, the hammer was attached to my left hand as I had a standard