Passing the time

Since winter hit, I've been striving to squander as much of my money as I can and get my hours cut as much as possible - or at least that's how it seems. I'll spare you the painful details of my financial accounts, but I will say that I only work about twenty-five hours a week. Of course, I've been squandering the hours and whittling down the last few months in Durango as much as possible as well.
I started spending four of my idle hours a month by volunteering with a program called TAMBO. For an afternoon, I'm partnered with an awesome kid. Aren't all kids awesome? - just little bundles of kinetic and frenetic energy and optimism. Most of the kids in the program have some sort of disability, be it cognitive or physical and ranges the whole gamut of severe to mild. Caveat: the program takes place in a building with a large gymnastics facility.
There's a seventeen year old, Jack, who's a big 'ol boy. He loves Alice in Wonderland and he can quote the whole movie. Every time I sit down next to him and try to talk to him about the movie, he quotes it loudly and then peering out of the corner of his eye, I can see him looking me up and down and then attempting to mimic my posture. I taught him the "cool man handshake" a week ago. He got it down in no time.
There's Emily, who, I suppose you could say is wheelchair bound. But, as soon as she is out of the chair, she uses her strongest arm to pull herself toward the large trampoline in the back. She can't jump, so she has to be held. I cradled her in my arms and sat her in my lap. She looked at me with her one eye and stopped laughing even while I was trying to bounce her on the trampoline. A serious look came over her face and she took her arm from around my neck. Scrutinizing my face carefully, she took her hand and started petting my beard. The smile came back and I think I heard a little giggle.
At the end of the night, when the lights in the gym are switched off and the floors vacuumed, the program coordinator gives a brief speech about the importance of volunteerism and how much we matter. For four hours on a Saturday, parents with kids with disabilities can drop their child off and go have some time to themselves, take a breather, and decompress a bit. It feels great to be appreciated and know that you're helping someone and hopefully making an impact as well.
I've also managed to fill some idle hours each week by hanging out with my friend, Gam. He's from Nepal and his English is terrible, even after four years in the States. He works six days a week and during his off day he's in school, studying English, and that's where I come in. I hang out with him for an hour and we just talk about whatever he wants to talk about or whatever I feel he needs to know. I'm trying to teach him what a subject and verb is.
I've been to Gam's house twice now for lunch. Today was time number two. His wife is a stout little woman, but cooks giant and delicious meals. She scoops spoon after spoon on to my plate until I have to adamantly and politely refuse. It's some of the best home-cooked food I've had.
Today, after the meal, Gam told me a little bit about his life. I listened with a bloated and bubbling belly. He was in the Indian army in Iraq for fifteen years. He retired from that and moved back to his homeland of Nepal. He lived in a small and remote village with little electricity but a great view of the Himalayas. After that he signed on with the British army and served for a few years in Iraq. Sometimes it's difficult to understand him, so I'm not sure how, but he ended up going from Iraq to the United States.
Now he lives in a trailer in a pretty rough-looking part of town. There are only a few material items in his home and most of them look as if they've been scavenged out of dumpsters. A few holes in his trailer's wall show small bits of light coming through. He says America is a wonderful place. He never stops smiling and laughing. He always opens the door for you and then claps his hands together and with a huge smile, bows to you and comes up giggling. Namaste, my friend and best of luck to you.
And, to all of you, Namaste. Thanks for reading.

WeirdThingsGeorgeSaysAndDoes.Com Pt. 3

Let us say it's near 5 a.m. and he's already driving up and now over Wolf Creek Pass. The construction work, which will commence soon, would make it a slow-going process, but those fuzzy-looking men are just arriving at the work site with Thermoses and cigarettes. The dawn is sounding off like fireworks and setting the mountains ablaze.
He swoops down the pass and stops at a diner. Inside, he sits and orders a simple breakfast with a black coffee. He's on his way to an estate sale, where the remnants of an existence will be auctioned off with less than a hollow remembrance.
"People die and I buy their stuff. Things accumulated over a life time and it ends up in my store," he thinks. "Hopefully these bastards weren't as cheap as the last ones to kick the bucket."
Breakfast done, he steps outside the diner. Across the street he sees the pawn shop he frequents when he's in the area. It's a narrow hall full of junk with floor-to-ceiling windows at the front. A sign reading "Closed" hangs on the door and two Victorian-era nudes hang on the back wall. They're beautiful.
He walks back to the car and as he pulls on the door handle, the owner of the pawn shop pulls up.
"Hey," he yells, "I see you got two big nudes in the back there. How you want for 'em?"
She turns and stares.
"Well, a man from Pagosa's 'sposed come look at 'em today. But, I guess it wuddn't hurt for you to take a look."
She unlocks the door and he makes straight toward the pictures. They're just what he thought. Originals. Beautiful. And should catch a pretty penny if he were to sell them.
He fingers the tight wad of cash in his pocket and walks up to the desk.
"I'll give you twenty-five hundred for 'em. Cash."
And before she can bat a lash, he's slapping the bills on her desk in a lustful fashion that not even a monk could resist.
"Well, OK," she says. "I'll just close up for the rest of the day and hope he don't come knockin' too loud on my door."
He contentedly grabs the large frames and sees behind them two semi-nice-looking landscapes.
"Oh yeah, them," the lady owner says. "Take them too. Have 'em for free."
Well, damn, he thinks. Can't beat that, can ya?
With the pictures loaded, it's lunch time. He drives a few miles and stops at another diner. It's almost the same one where he ate breakfast.
He seats himself at another laminate table with saggy vinyl booths and orders a cheesburger. A few minutes later, a man walks in looking quite out of place. He fidgets uneasily at the front of the diner and removes his hat. The man makes his way toward his table.
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
"No, have a seat," he says.
They exchange pleasantries and small talk.
"Where ya from," he asks.
"I just arrived in town from Pagosa," he replies.
"Yeah, what do you do there?"
"I'm an art dealer and would like to consider myself an avid collector as well."
Oh, and there's the wrenching gut feeling of, damn, I did something I shouldn't have.
"What you doing here in town?"
"I heard of a woman here who has a couple rare Victorian era paintings. I was planning on purchasing them."
He stares across at the uneasy-looking man and mumbles something - a "hm" or "oh" or "howboutdat."
He eats the rest if his lunch in a hurry and mumbles a "nice to meet you" and off he goes.
What are the chances of that happening?, he utters to himself. Well, now for the whole reason I came up here. To the estate sale.
Perusing the deceased couple's goods yields nothing. Junk, as usual and a bunch of idiots buying it, too. Within thirty minutes, he's arrived and left. He takes a different route home to avoid the construction on the pass. It's still early afternoon. On the outskirts of town, he spies another pawn shop; one he's never been to. A man sits in a rocking chair on the porch, puffing on a cigarette. He parks close to the man, says hi, and walks in.
Junk again. Nothing. The cigarette-smoking man comes in.
"See you got some nice big flowery-lookin' paintins' out there in yer truck," the man says. "Let me show ya something."
"Well, OK," he says.
The man steps into a back rooms and emerges in a cloud of dust a moment later with a large bundle of papers.
POOOOFFFFFFFFF - and the old man blows a dragon's breath of collected dirt into the shop's atmosphere.
"Lookey here," the man says. "About a few some-odd weeks ago, some nice-lookin' fella pawned these to me."
The man presents him with a bulging portfolio of original Victorian prints. He knows it when he sees it - these are worth hundreds of dollars each. He shivers like a nervous cat and says, "These are nice. How much did you give for them?"
"Oh," the man replies, "prolly 'bout ninety dollars. Been back there for a while. Give 'em to ya for a hundred."
He gives him a bill or two from his pocket without looking and makes for the door before the man can change his mind.
The sun is nearly below the western mountains and he turns the ignition key. How can one man have so much luck? he thinks. He almost wants to return everything he's procured from today's travels. But, on second thought, no.
A few years later he sold the two Victorian paintings for twenty-thousand dollars and finally got rid of the burdensome feeling of strange luck.
True story - mostly.