Just a short post here to reaffirm my masculinity. I don’t expect women to understand this but I’m sure a male reader will understand. In my previous post, I mentioned a character named ‘Tinker’, to refer, jokingly, to my ‘wild-thing’. I took a shower after my jog and couldn’t help rehashing the reference in my mind. When I said the word ‘Tinker’ in my mind, I heard ‘Tinker-Bell’. This made me nervous and I figured I’d better employ a little machismo insurance by explaining who, and what, Tinker is.
When I was in my later twenties, I worked as a whitewater river guide on the Upper-Hudson River, north of Lake George, in New York State’s Adirondack National Park. The cook, Kenny, was a karate-chopping Jewish man from Brooklyn, who looked exactly like Bono of U-2. Kenny is another story. This story is about his mutt-terrier, named Tinker.
Tinker was a city dog, trained not to cross the street until commanded to do so. Tinker was everybody’s dog. Our rafting center was located outside of town and we all lived there. Whenever anyone went into town, they would take Tinker. Tinker was a chick magnet in a sea of non-ferrous metals but we all held out hope we’d strike iron one day. Nobody goes to the Adirondacks looking to pick up chicks and river guides had a name for the place. We called it 'The Monastery'. Every now and then, someone would realize Tinker was missing and they would take the truck into town and find Tinker, sitting on a curb with a sad look on his face, waiting for the command to cross the street.
Tinker was also the name of one of our bus drivers. He was an old guy, in his sixties. I was hot for his daughter but she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I was not as cultured then as I am now!LOL!
Here is a little taste of the Kenny story:
At the end of the day, after rafting one of the best whitewater rivers in the country, you’d think the river guides would generate some charisma amongst the single/available women on the trip. They did, but once we arrived back at the base, where Kenny was cooking steaks, baking potatoes and tossing salad, all that charisma in our bank accounts went to $0.00.
Bono was at the peak of his fame and Ken looked just like him. When women spied him, they got this look in their eyes like that of a cat that has spied a bird. Girls would tackle him right there on the picnic tables. Many times, a group would leave and a lone car would come back, thirty minutes later. We all knew who it was and who she was looking for: Kenny!
I feel better now and a little more secure in my manhood. This piece may seem unnecessary but it helps me maintain an open conduit between what I'm thinking and the keyboard. 'Nuf said.
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