I Haff Connection

Across from a health club and behind a used car dealership, a rusting motor home sits in all its glory. Much of the exterior is warped and brown, and looks as though it might be stripped away with the next wisp of air. The windows are lined with scraps of cardboard. The tires are so flat the rims are dug several inches into the gravel. The gas cap is missing, not that it matters. At $3.15 a gallon we are all hard-pressed to move our cars one block, let alone move a house.

Unfortunately for him, the current occupant has been asked to do exactly that by the end of the day. He must somehow move his home one block to the east, behind the health club, and each day from here on out he will be asked to move again.

A lengthy conversation with this feisty old Russian gentleman, Mr. E.--a proud Communist spy who stubbornly wears his hat and wool sweater in 80-degree weather "just like at home"--revealed that he is not the owner of this eyesore among eyesores. It is owned by a methadone addict who rented it out for the month to pay for a few hits of the good stuff. Mr. E. does not approve of this habit, nor does he appreciate that his landlord is too sleepy to answer his phone. He didn't anticipate that an addict would vanish after two days. Imagine that.

The police are the true instigators of this "international incident". They are the "evil-doers" who would have this "poor old immigrant" relocate without the aid of the ignition keys, money, permits and fuel. Mr. E. feels persecuted and deprived like he was during the Cold War. Who am I to argue? I was either an ovum, a child or downright oblivious during the entire length of that tiff among nations; though I do recall it was hard for Soviet citizens to find toilet paper.

At any rate, my new confidant declared war against the police. Puffing his 5'2" frame into a perfect, woolen sphere, he whispered, "I haff connection. Zay vill hchchchelp to fix dis prohblem wiff dee police."

I can't wait to watch this tense conflict unfold as this short, round, dangerous man is slowly driven back to his motherland one block at a time. Meanwhile, I think I'm out of toilet paper.