Episode 14

MY V.I.

(a soap opera)

Bilge couldn't help but laugh as he stood on the corner of Park & Marine watching Olga Renderklott - mad as a wet hen - storm off down the sidewalk.

"Now come on, Olga. Don't go away mad!" he called out after her.

Turning to the other V.I. patrons out front with him, he announced, "Something's sure got her undies all in a bunch." Everyone laughed and headed back inside where their cocktails were waiting.

As they crossed through the lounge - heading for the bar - Bilge loudly continued, "Yeah, them Renderklotts and their type all wanna force the rest of us peons to pony up the bucks for something that's only important to them; I don't give a sh** if the damn wires get buried - I grew up on this island and they've always been above ground and that's where they oughta stay, by god!"

There were a few tables occupied in the lounge and in one of the booths sat Ruth Fitzparker, an attractive, older woman with her two young grandchildren. Bilge's cursing was the first thing that caught her attention; second was his feelings about underground utilities.

As Bilge got to the bar and climbed back up on his barstool one of the other bar patrons jokingly commented, "Hey, Bilge, do you even have electricity in that old shack of yours?"

This brought a roar of laughter from around the bar and Bilge flipped the guy off with his finger and with his words.

Ruth Fitzparker had heard enough. She told her grandkids to stay put as she got up out of the booth and walked over to the bar. Coming up behind Bilge, she tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me."

Bilge spun around on his barstool and came face to face with the quintessential Balboa Island grandmother. Short, sporty hair cut; wearing a nautical themed ensemble with the requisite cardigan sweater and canvas deck shoes - she was not even five feet tall - and once he turned all the way around she found herself staring right into his mammoth gut. Confused - he mumbled, "What the hell?"

Ruth extended her hand, "Pardon the interruption - I'm Ruth Fitzparker - how do you do?"

Still confused, he gently shook her petite hand and responded, "Yeah, yeah, nice to know ya."

"Well, I just wanted to mention," she turned and pointed out her grandkids sitting in the booth, "See . . my grandchildren, that's Robert - he's seven and Chelsea, his little sister, she's five and . . . . well, I just wanted to know if you could curse a little quieter. I understand that this is a bar and a restaurant - and I'm not trying to quash anyone's fun - but . . well . . the kids - you understand."

Bilge was embarassed and offered a sincere apology then asked, "What'd you say your name was, again?"

"Ruth. Ruth Fitzparker - and you are?"

Extending his hand to her this time he answered, "Bilge. Bilge Donahue."

"Well, Bilge, it's a pleasure to know you. Now did I hear you right - did you say you grew up here on the island?"

"Yep. Born and raised right here; 206 Tourmaline."

"How lovely - Tourmaline is one of my favorite streets."

"Well, where 'bouts do you live?" Bilge asked.

"I'm at 106 Carnelian . . . are you familiar with it?"

"Am I familiar with it? I know Carnelian like the back of my hand! As a kid I delivered newspapers all over this island. You bet I know Carnelian. Did you say 106?"

"Yes . . 106."

Bilge made a face that reflected distain and resentment then barked, "106 huh? Guess the world's a whole lot shinier and the air's heck of alot sweeter up there - up in the '100' block."

Ruth knew where this was heading and she refused to take the bait.

"You know, Bilge, the way I see it: 100, 200, 300 block - north or south bayfront, really doesn't matter as long as you're on the island. I'm just grateful to be able to live here; aren't you?"

Bilge turned and looked straight ahead, "Yeah . . . I guess."

"Of course you are," she continued, "We are some of most blessed people on earth."

Bilge thought for a second and turned back to face her, "O.k., Miss '106 Carnelian', what's your take on this whole underground utilities boondoggle?"

Ruth Fitzparker was a wise woman and knew she needed to choose her words carefully. After thinking for a moment she smiled and began, "Well, if you're talking about the plan that brings greater beauty, emergency access and safety to the residents of the island - I'm all for it. But, if you're talking about the plan that brings strife, faction and bitterness and places undue stress and financial strain on our retired and elderly residents - I'm against it."

Bilge let what she'd just said soak in and then burst out laughing, "Ruthie, I like you," he said as he patted her on the back, "Have you ever thought about going into politics?"

TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR ANOTHER EXCITING EPISODE OF MY V.I.!

Episode 12

MY V.I.
(a soap opera)

Storm clouds were gathering and

a crowd was forming outside the V.I.

It seems that Olga Renderklott, the haughtiest of all Balboa Island residents, had decided to appoint herself the unofficial spokesman of the "YES on underground utilites" movement.

"Wake up, fair citizens of Balboa Island. For safety sake you must vote YES for underground utilities," proclaimed Mrs. Renderklott into her bull horn.

Olga Renderklott - of the San Marino Renderklotts - was an abrasive, pretentious, long-time resident of Balboa Island. She and her husband, Raymond, resided in a shamelessly gaudy home on the south bayfront: a massive, double-lot, bastardized tudor/moroccan/moorish style concoction of her own design and - had they posessed less money - someone might have told them so but right about the time anyone came close to calling her out or questioning her bulldozing ways she would shrewdly make a substantial donation to a charity or cause close to the heart of the offended party.

She was always looking for something to promote, protest or preside over; and the underground utilities issue was right up her alley . . . so to speak.

"I'll never forget the time that a vicious wind arose and the decrepit, sagging eyesores - or power lines, as some refer to them, began to sway violently. I happened to be standing directly beneath them waiting for my driver to pull around into the alley behind my home and whisk me off to a charity dinner to benefit the Deaf & Dumb Motivational Speakers Society (their motto is 'listen & speak up!') and as I stood there, terrified, I began to watch the wires swinging madly to and fro. Soon I was hypnotized by their evil swaying motion and unable to free myself from the power of their persuasive, visual grip. This quickly lead to profound nausea and caused me to vomit all over the new John Galliano dress I was wearing which I had planned to return to Neimans the next day. Well, needless to say, my evening was ruined and I was forced to keep the dress! Now you see why we must have underground utilites."

The various people in the small but curious crowd surrounding her each reacted differently to her street corner confession. Five elderly Taiwanese tourists took several photographs of her while the handful of V.I. customers who'd stepped out front to smoke kept their own opinions about Olga and the issue of underground utilities to themselves . . . except for one.

Bilge, who'd lived his whole life on the island in the small cottage his grandfather built in the 200 block of Tourmaline, decided to speak up.

"Olga, you old bottom feeder! What are you doing out here on the corner babbling like a lunatic? You and the rest of your snooty 'SoBaFro' friends can take your 'bury the wires' crusade back down to the 100 block."

Olga glared at him and demanded to know, "WHAT did you call me, Bilge Donahue?"

"Snooty?" he replied.

"No . . after that."

"Oh! 'SoBaFro?'

"Yes . . . Soho, or whatever you said."

"It's 'So-Ba-Fro' - I called you a snooty SoBaFro . . . . South Bayfronter."

Her whole body raised up as she hissed, "WELL! I never!"

With a slight smirk on his face, Bilge stared directly in her eyes and winked, "Oh really, Olga . . . not even once?"

In an instant her face went from red to white as a ghost. Without a single word she turned and stormed off down Marine Avenue.

Bilge had managed to psychologically defeat all of her wealth, pomp and prestige by silently reminding her of her most humiliating fleshly failure which took place thirty-two years before during the Boat Parade and involved the two of them, a couple of bottles of Lancer's Rose and a chilly rendezvous on the swim deck of a neighbor's yacht . . . . . Feliz Navidad!

TUNE IN NEXT TIME FOR ANOTHER EXCITING EPISODE OF MY V.I.!