He had just finished working the week-long Las Vegas Health Expo. It seemed an oxymoron; having a health expo in a seedy city like Vegas. It was a city that never sleeps—rampant with drugs, alcohol and prostitution. The dogma of Sin City conflicted with Nick’s own healthy Christian values.
This weekend he had a mission to sell as much of the Green Juice Protocol to as many vendors as possible. He realized quickly the last thing people wanted to talk about while high, drunk, and gambling, was making healthy life choices. Reaching partyers the following morning proved easier, with people rethinking their previous night’s poor decisions.
“Would you like to taste the Green Juice Protocol pick-me-up?” Nick would offer free samples to people walking past his booth from 8am to 8pm.
He enjoyed spreading the healthy living lifestyle. However, his dream was to live in the mountains and ride mountain bikes every day. Instead, he lived on a concrete slab metropolis, Los Angeles, California, so he could be near the Green Juice Protocol company headquarters. He had earned gold-level status as a salesperson for the multi-level marketing company.
Sweating to Kings of Leon, U2, Lifehouse, and a mix of other Christian bands, he would push the pedals of his carbon-composite frame, full-suspension mountain bike, propped on a stationary bike stand that faced a white wall in the guest/workout room of his apartment. Exercise was how he maintained his perfect physique and how he released the pent-up frustrations from the demands of maintaining the L.A. lifestyle.
He wouldn’t be mountain biking while in Miami. The only rise in elevation was the foul-smelling Mount Trashmore: a two-hundred-and-eighty-foot mountain of trash looming over the south Florida Turnpike.
Nick understood the importance of keeping up his health regimen when he was traveling by airplane. This morning, like every morning, he began with a strict checklist of vitamins and mineral supplements; in the correct ratio to the food menu plan he had personally designed for optimum energy retention and muscle building proteins.
“My body is a temple,” Nick would tell people, as he peered down to admire his flexed arm muscles. “A gift from God can only be treated with total consciousness.”
This regimen started with the list of vitamins A-Z: vitamin A for healthy eyes, B for energy production, vitamin C for skin elasticity, consumed with his daily fruit.
“Cantaloupe should never be eaten after ANYTHING else or it putrefies in the gut, causing slowdown in digestion, and discomfort,” he would enthusiastically expel the information onto his clients. “I only eat it in the morning on an empty stomach.”
Vitamin D for strong bones, E for blood circulation, K from the kale and spinach in his fiber filled shake, along with calcium and magnesium supplements to help with sleep and depression. He limited dairy, because of lactose intolerance, instead enjoying a high protein diet, full of high-grade, grass-fed, pasture-raised meats, providing plenty of iron.
Nick had already prepared a week’s worth of meals, each individually packed into reusable plastic Tupperware, labeled with the date; grilled chicken, broccoli, salad with a lemon wedge, little snack pouches, hard boiled eggs, and nuts packaged for easy grab and go snacks.
Growing up, Nick’s parents fed him mostly sugar filled packaged foods. He tried to hold back the resentment he felt towards them for making him suffer as a fat redheaded adolescent. He was made aware of his appearance by the school kids merciless taunts that “gingers would take over the world,” and “What’s the difference between a shoe and a ginger...a shoe has a soul!”
When he was a teenager, the bullies dubbed him “fire crotch.” After a long day of endless torment, his pockmarked face turned bright red, and with a cracking voice he screamed back at the aggressors, “My pubic hairs are black...not red!”
Then Nick, his neck and face flush from the heat of the moment, pulled down the elastic waistband of sweatpants, flashing the taunting teens his fuzzy black-haired balls. They laughed. Then they reported him to the office. He was expelled that same day. Having just turned eighteen, the police charged Nick with public lewdness against minors. He was assigned community service and the sexual charge was placed on his permanent record.
He would return home after cleaning the community center’s bathrooms; penance for his actions. In desperate need of comfort foods, he would gorge on processed junk. His chunky fingers gripping the spoon, as he breathed heavily over numerous bowls of Fruity Pebbles, chomping down snack cakes, and guzzling liters of Mountain Dew. Watching reruns of Jerry Springer, Master Chef and Judge Judy to numb his mind from the daily persecution by his peers.
After “the incident,” Nick found himself at a nadir of lows. He was looking for something or someone to believe in—for a community. Scrolling Facebook with only thirteen friends, half of whom were family, he discovered Drew Rizzo. He was a health food prophet and online infomercial guru for Green Juice Protocol. The man was truly electrifying—inspirational. Nick emailed, inquiring on how he might join the health conversation.
Dear Drew Rizzo,
I have watched your YouTube videos and want to be part of something as amazing as the ‘Green Juice Protocol’ project. Sometimes I feel like I can’t get out of bed, I’m so tired and overweight, ugly with pimples, and my hair is thinning. I feel so rejected. I’m always the underdog, Drew. What can I do to make the first step in becoming more like you?
Yours truly,
Nick Samson
He responded personally.
Dear Nick,
We are going to make you feel good again, with your promise and dedication to the ‘Green Juice Protocol’ lifestyle. We will have you on the right track in no time. I would like for you to purchase a case of the green drink, to take the first step towards a new invigorating lifestyle. You will feel more energy, with radiant glowing skin, and weight loss in your future. If you look good you feel good!
P.S. Have you thought about getting a dog? Or you could join a local therapy group, or church, to meet people in the community and talk about these problems.
Namaste,
Drew Rizzo
Nick went out the same day he received the return correspondence and put down a deposit on a beautiful fawn boxer puppy; she had a white chest and little white mitten paws. He named her Lola. The following day Nick joined the Los Angeles Christ First Church.
A stocky silver dog was sitting several rows behind Nick, on the other side of the aisle. He had first observed the dog in the airport terminal, as it sashayed past him to join the queue to board. It had the same smooshed, dark velvet snout as Lola. White fur began at its chin, running down the inside of its neck and chest. The pit also had white paws like his Lola, but he was silver and about sixty pounds heavier.
Glancing back over his shoulder for another look, Nick could see the dog observing the cabin intently. As the dog studied the tight enclosure, its amber gaze locked with Nick’s.
Teeth.
The service dog revealed its pointed pearl whites smiling from ear to ear. It was the same contagious grin as Lola’s.
Nick darted his eyes several times to dissect the misshapen face of the man sitting in his row, across the aisle.
“Hi der,” the ponytailed man caught him red handed staring at his face deformity.
“Uh…hi,” Nick awkwardly looked away.
“What awe you ooing in Miami?” The man asked Nick.
Nick couldn’t understand him through his slurred speech. He hoped the man didn’t just say, “What are you looking at?”
“Excuse me?” Nick asked.
The man repeated the question. Nick answered with a question.
“Have you heard of the Green Juice Protocol? It’s changed my life. My name is Nick…and you are?”
“I’m Max,” the man answered with a half grin. “I’m always intewested in hearing about heawthy alternatives.”
CAN’T TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS
16 Aunt June
It was several hours into the flight, and Aunt June was still feeling
anxious over the messy haired woman who sat across the aisle from her and Buster, before being escorted from the airplane for having a dog allergy. Aunt June felt guilty having the dog on the airplane. She and Buster should have had to wait, instead.
“When did dogs become more important than people?” Her voice quivered, speaking to Buster. She continuously patted him on the neck with her wrinkled hand.
She was glad Buster wasn’t flying in the cargo hold with the other dogs. She had read a story recently about a Jagdterrier chewing its way out of its cage in the cargo hold and then breaking into the cages of several other dogs and killing the animals while their owners sat above. It was overwhelming for her to think of the fear those poor dogs must have felt trapped in a tight space with such a ferocious animal. And then she read that the owners claimed the dog to be the “nicest dog in the world.”
Now the allergic young lady’s seat across the aisle from her sat empty. A blond woman was sitting next to the window in the row in front of the empty seat. Aunt June hadn’t seen the lady move an inch in the last two hours. She must be a deep sleeper.
Aunt June cocked her head to see how far the beverage cart had progressed. She was thirsty for a Diet Coke. The cart was still several rows ahead. The pretty young stewardess, Carmen, handed a V8 Juice to the muscular, redheaded man in a red shirt. Aunt June turned her head, looking towards the back of the plane, making eye contact with a tall man, his eyes shaded by a white cowboy hat. He was seated behind her on the opposite side. She smiled. He nodded his head in greeting and returned the friendly gesture.
Yip…yip…yip! The agitated little dog, two rows ahead, began barking again.
The truth was she treated Buster as good, if not better, than a human being. He fit in nicely at the trailer park. He would walk with her at a turtle’s pace around one of the park loops, twice daily. The walker she used had a seat, so she could pause for a break when she became too winded. He never tugged at her, instead he waited patiently when she stopped for a rest. Buster ignored all the trailer park’s barking dogs. Random strangers and park tenants were always walking up to them to make remarks about Buster.
“I got me a red-nose pit, but this dog takes mine to the cleaners,” the nephew of a neighbor told her. “Biggest damn Blue Nose Pitbull I ever saw.”
Neighborhood children would ask to pet Buster. They really weren’t supposed to, because Buster was a service dog. Cindy had cautioned her against letting strangers approach the working animal.
Aunt June could tell that children were the dog’s weakness. He loved them. When a child would approach, he could hardly maintain his cool working dog demeanor. The big dog would start to fidget his feet; tap dancing back and forth with his white paws clicking. Thrilled for the opportunity to touch, to smell, and to taste them. She again wondered about his life before Cindy had adopted him from the shelter.
He had terrible dreams, and would let out small whimpers, as he kicked and pawed at the empty air. Buster’s upper lip would pull back into a twitching snarl, snapping his menacing fangs, as his legs ran from or towards something in these nap terrors. She had Buster take Wilbur’s spot on the bed next to her, so she could help keep him calm when he had the bad dreams. It was comforting for her also to feel the warmth of his body against hers. At breakfast she would make double portions, passing Buster bacon and eggs from the table. They were partners.
Wilbur and Aunt June had had a Miniature Schnauzer named Oscar when they moved to Albuquerque. The scruffy small dog was nearly ten years old at the time and followed Wilbur everywhere.
“Oscar has the energy and the curiosity of a puppy,” Wilbur used to tell her.
Wilbur had been unpacking the van after they returned from their road trip to Carlsbad Caverns in southeast New Mexico. It had become tricky traveling with the dog when they realized the state park wouldn’t allow the animal into the humid underground caves. She and Wilbur had to take turns caring for Oscar, while the other person discovered stalagmites and the stalactites solo below the earth. Wilbur was exhausted from the desert heat and the long drive. He hurriedly unloaded the last of the items from the van, while June placed the leftover sandwich fixings in the refrigerator and started a load of laundry.
Wilbur went to lie down in the bedroom. June turned the television to Wheel of Fortune and started preparing Hamburger Helper. After they finished supper, they both sat watching 60 minutes. When Andy Rooney concluded the program, Wilbur turned to June.
“Where’s Oscar?”
“That’s funny,” she said. “I haven’t seen him in hours.”
They searched the length of the trailer and then went outside calling for him into the warm starry night.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Wilbur asked June.
“I guess this afternoon when we got back from the trip.”
Getting ready for bed that night the room felt empty without Oscar. Every night he would pack down the blanket placed at the foot of the bed. The little mutt would turn in twenty circles before snuggling in between their feet.
“I’m worried about Oscar,” June fretted, clicking off the bedside lamp.
They lay in the dark room side-by-side, listening to each other's lumbering breaths.
“Did you check the van?”
Wilbur shot out of bed, wearing only his boxer shorts, his hard, round gut protruded over the top of the elastic waistband. He hobbled quickly towards the van, guided by the light of a full moon.
Wilbur died, one month to the day, after he found Oscar smothered in the hot vehicle. Aunt June had kept the story a secret from Buster. She knew he could smell Wilbur and Oscar in the house. They had both been through enough, she figured.
Her nephew Kyle had purchased her the airplane ticket to Miami as a birthday gift. She had been too afraid to fly before getting Buster, and was desperate to visit her sister Angela, Kyle’s mother, who was passing time in a nursing home in Fort Lauderdale. Kyle had planned to accompany her on the trip to see his mother, but the Kellogg’s factory he managed developed a malfunction with the Fruit Loops machine. He was forced to cancel the trip, now having to deal with large amounts of plastic that had been ground into the brightly colored sugared flour—contaminating the batch—resulting in a recall.
Buster had been acting skittish since boarding the airplane. When the plane was getting ready for take-off the high-pitched whine of the engine made him stand alert in his seat. He began panting profusely from his open mouth. This was strange behavior for him. He was usually so calm and collected. What would Cindy think? She wondered. Cindy had told her he would be fine to fly. Buster seemed to regain his composure after they were at cruising altitude and even lay his head in her lap. She felt his soft even breathing against her legs, where his sizable velvet head now rested.
17 Buster
I can smell the stranger’s fear—his pheromones penetrate my nose. I am alert to his accelerated breathing pattern. I smell the perspiration produced under his arms. He’s nervous. I don’t like it. Bang! Phreeeeeet! My ears begin ringing from gunshots—and the nagging whistle—gunpowder irritates my nose. I’m running outside into the sunshine, snarling, the metallic flavor of blood has filled my mouth. The gas odor from the low-rider’s exhaust lingers in the air, choking my lungs. The car’s engine fades away, leaving the sound of my heavy breathing, and the clicking of my nails against melting asphalt. My paws are on fire, tracking bloody prints down the roadway. I run faster.
“Buster wake up,” I can hear Aunt June’s soothing voice, stirring me from the recurring dream.
My one leg continued to kick softly, as she gently brushed my hackle down with her warm hands. She had already removed my service vest when I was panting earlier. Now, my one amber eye opened cautiously to connect with her crystal blue ones, blurred behind her thick glasses.
The bright fluorescent cabin lights felt like a cat’s claws scratching my eyeballs. The feeling of immense sadness had overcome me after waking from the distressing dream. It had
been a long day. I must have drifted off with the drone of the plane’s engine. Leaving me confused about how long we had been trapped in our seats. I was having difficulty keeping track of time.
Breath in, I told myself. Breath out.
“Sweet thing...you were having a bad dream.”
She rubbed behind my ears. I continued to rest my head in her lap. Inhaling her scent; the familiar powdery smell comforted me from the obscene jumble of odors that enveloped the loud rumbling machine. The plastic chemical outgassing from the interior walls and the cushioned seats of the plane, was the predominant odor, making it harder to detect where the other flavors' exact locations were. Plus, Aunt June had told me to remain in my place. I wanted so badly to personally sniff every passenger and their luggage. Sitting in my seat, the fragrances were blending together, forming a perfume of confusing chaos.
Jasmine flowers filled the air. The woman who had helped us to our seats earlier was pulling the cart past. She stopped next to Aunt June.
“What can I get you to drink?”
I sat up to let Aunt June lower her tray table from the seat in front of her, turning my attention to the flight attendant, who was filling a plastic cup with ice. She popped the tab on the can of Diet Coke Aunt June had requested. I could hear it fizzing and bubbling, as she handed over. The sweetness made me want to sneeze.
Sitting upright, I took a deep drag from the cabin’s circulated air. I whiffed the little dog a few seats in front of me. I hadn’t seen the dog when it boarded the plane, but I had sensed it right away. The mini wolf had been belting out three rapid barks in succession about every hour. I wished I could greet the tail-wagger. If I could just sniff his rear end, I’d be able to know how old he was and what he ate for breakfast. Taking a deep breath to inhale the human stink all around me, I smelled the deliciously nasty human armpit. It produces the most profound source of odor by any animal. Human genitals reek more than a dog’s butthole. Their skin emits odorous fluids, oils, and sweat, giving each person a signature scent. At that moment, I could smell cancer on the man a few seats in front of me—the human master of the mini wolf.
Beware of Flight Attendant Page 10
