Desperately Seeking Harry

It was a day when the news was so bad I had to read about George Michael.

Right—I better explain. Yesterday had been fiendishly hot. I had come home, written a post—hey, and gotten my first comment! Thanks, Anonymous!—and sent it to Harry. I had a brainstorm—Los Choferes Unidos de Ponce! Surely the united drivers of Ponce could—singularly or collectively—find a way to get me from the biggest city in Puerto Rico to the second biggest city. I mean, come on!

I sent Harry the post, and also the news about the UDOP (United etc.). “At precisely 8AM I will be in my car, driving to San Juan,” responded the good Harry. He apparently thinks less of UDOP than I.

Great! Woke up at seven, had my coffee, looked outside, and saw the cold front move in.

Cold I can use….

Rain is another story. Because very quickly, we were in a chubasco.

It’s a word I love, and was curious about. Why did I think it was Puerto Rican slang? So I looked it up, or was about to when…

Drip drip drip drip drip drip…..

You get the picture. Or rather, you don’t.

OK, a chubasco is a strong, sudden, heavy rain. Not a problem—we need rain (actually, apparently everybody except—who else?—the British needs rain).

What I didn’t need was a stream of water pouring into the apartment. I raced to get the two buckets and two pots necessary to collect the water. Also the mop…

…passing Loquito, who was busy pissing on the floor of the living room.

Snarled at him, grabbed the buckets / pots, positioned them and then my cell phone went off.

Harry, informing me that it was precisely 8AM, and he was on the expressway. I did the only thing I could think off.

Held the phone to the rim of the metal pot.

What to do? Rather, how to do it? How can I cancel a SECOND time on my dear friend, who spent all last week in bed in agony (gory details omitted), and now was jumping up to drive 65 miles to get me?

OK—check out the weather situation. Shout at Raf, who is nowhere to be found. The radio alarm, however, is on—as it has been since 6:30. Great, so Raf should know something about the weather, right? I mean, they do talk about the weather on morning radio.

Mr. Fernández, however, had been sleeping soundly in the preceding hour and a half.

Great—a chubasco situation. Pissing cat, sleeping husband, half of Niagara Falls flowing through the apartment.

OK, flip on the computer, check El Nuevo Día. It’s the local rag, though how it can be—electronically—is a mystery.

Chubascos, said The New…and increasingly terrible…Day. 

Thanks, New Day! But I must be fair. The New Day did tell me that Harry was heading for disaster—a truck had jackknifed on the expressway.

I call Harry and tell him all this. Of course he understands.

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving my house if it were leaking like that,” he says.

Spend ten minutes deciding whether to kill the cat….

And decide to check out the news.

Something I rarely do. I mean look, does it make sense to take anti-depressants AND read the news? That’s pretty much like combining Antabuse with vodka. 

With pretty much the same results….

Well, it’s not pretty, our world. The guy who predicted the 2008 meltdown thinks it’s gonna happen again, just worse. Watched that for ninety seconds. Bank of America reported second quarter profits. Great—nobody has a job, but the banks are making money! Greece says it can’t make the austerity cuts that the European Union is demanding.

The situation in Syria is unspeakable.

Think it can’t get worse?

Think again, because in a world besieged with every imaginable problem, George Michael comes up with a new one!

Well, new to me, at least.

ForeignAccent Syndrome.

Well, God knows, I should know about this. Number one, I have one (a foreign accent, that is). Two, I’m an English teacher—thus working every day with accents.

Well, here’s the deal. George was singing away on a tour last year, and then fell sick.  Pneumonia. Bad pneumonia. Progressing to a coma. The he woke up.

Speaking with a foreign accent.

Here’s AP news:

Michael said that as he opened his eyes, doctors asked him if he knew who he was—to which he replied, "King of the world?" in the distinctive West Country burr.

It was almost the last straw. The goat that calms the cup (la gota que—oh, forget it). But those seven sturdy years of unrelenting optimism gave me the tools I need.

Another problem?

NO!

An opportunity. So here’s what I’m gonna do. People got a problem with my accent? I’m really Puerto Rican!

I woke up from MY coma sounding like a gringo!
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Etymological note—chubasco is from the Portuguese chuva, rain.
Meteorological note—been sunny all day!