Entry No. 7

Free Shipping 
by Al Tommervik


	“Got me a scheme!”
	Old Bones jumped at the sound disrupting his reverie. Mad Jack had sauntered up unnoticed behind him.
	There were few sentences in the English language that alarmed Old Bones more than Mad Jack saying, “Got me a scheme.” Whenever that sentence was uttered, the world seemed to teeter on its axis and when it righted itself things weren’t quite the same. Especially not for Mad Jack and those around him.
	That was the way it was for the homeless -- always looking for a sure-fire way to improve their lives. Mad Jack came up with the craziest ideas.
	Once he decided to get into the windshield cleaning business. He’d stand at a busy intersection and offer to clean the windshields of the drivers stopped by the red light. 
	Very few drivers accepted his offer, so he embroidered on the basic concept. He stationed Bicycle Bob down the street at another light. Bob would smear a muddy rag across the windshield of a likely looking prospect. When the drivers got to Jack at the next light, they would usually accept his offer to clean the windows and give him some change.
	Of course, something happened to thwart this scheme. Bicycle Bob chose a tiny electric vehicle as a likely target. But it was being driven by a collegiate bantamweight boxing champion, who took umbrage at his shiny new vehicle being despoiled. Bob sported a shiner and sore ribs for a couple of weeks. At the next light, Mad Jack suffered a loose tooth and the loss of his cleaning supplies.

	Another time, the county jail had hired some students from the Gastronomic Institute as cooks. It seemed like a win-win. The students would get hands-on experience preparing food in volume and the jail would save money on salaries for cooks. Everything appeared fine; the food being served at the jail started to rival some of the lesser fine dining establishments in the county.
	Mad Jack decided he needed to get arrested so he could partake of some of this fine dining. Finding no other takers among his acquaintances for his idea, he headed off to the local convenience store.
	The store was run by an industrious Indian immigrant, who had left India to get away from the last remnants of the caste system. He hated the dirty, smelly homeless people. It was like cosmic retribution. No matter how hard he tried he was beleaguered by the poor, first in India and now here in his new country. Each night he prayed that his next reincarnation would free him from such a plague.
	Mad Jack walked into the store, grabbed a candy bar, opened it and began eating. 
	The owner demanded payment. 
	Jack had no money. 
	The owner called the cops. 
	The cops came and offered to pay for the candy bar and everyone would forget it ever happened. But the store owner was incensed. He wanted justice, with a Capital J, just as Mad Jack had known he would. So off to jail went a happy Mad Jack, dreaming of having the best meal he’d had in ages.
	This would have been a fine scheme except karma had again placed one little hitch in the giddy-up. The first food bills from the student cooks had arrived on the head jailer’s desk and they were twice the amount that the jail had been spending. The cooks were called on the carpet and told they needed to scale back their menus. 
	Astounded that they would be required to do less than their best, the student cooks resigned en masse. 
	The jailer assigned a couple of his most trustworthy guards to finish cooking the evening meal that was already in preparation.
	Mad Jack got booked just in time for that evening’s repast.
	In the kitchen, the guard-cooks felt the dishes tasted a little flat. They found a huge unmarked jar that looked like salt and liberally sprinkled the contents over everything.
	The contents were dishwasher soap.
	That night the lines to the commodes were 4-5 deep.
	The road crew clean-up details were cancelled for two days for fear the inmates would be leaving behind a worse mess than they were picking up.
	The hapless guards were investigated on the grounds that they may have made the mistake on purpose. They were exonerated upon the discovery that they had both eaten their own cooking and were reluctant to venture farther than five feet from their bathrooms at home.

	So when Mad Jack said, “Got me a scheme,” Old Bones was something less than an enthusiastic listener.
	“Nuthin can go wrong. I’m gonna git me a patent.”
	“How the hell are you gonna do that? What did you invent?”
	“Well, I was hangin out near the Starbucks downtown. You know, the one where everbody hangs out and tells their buds they so important they don’t have to go to work?
	“This one dude’s goin on and on about free shipping. Everbody on the computer is doing it ... or so he sez.
	“Then it hit me! It’s perfect!”
	Sarcasm never worked with Mad Jack when he was on a scheme, but Old Bones couldn’t resist. “C’mon Jack. What you gonna do? Buy a bunch of stuff to get shipped free to your nonexistent address?” 
	“No,” giggled Mad Jack, “I’m gonna patent free shipping.”
	“That’s the nuttiest thing you ever thought of.”
	“No, really, it’s gonna work. That nice librarian looked it up on her computer and nobody’s got a patent on free shipping.
	“It’s perfect for me. All the free shipping in the world takes up no space. All I’ll need is a mail drop for them companies on the computer to send me their royalties.
	“Just think. I’ll buy me a small house ... no, a big house in one of them gated communities ... no, an estate out in the country. I’ll get me some gardeners. And a cook. You and Bicycle Bob can come live with me.”
	“Guess I’ll just cancel my takeover bid for the Gallo estate since you’re gonna have it all covered,” Old Bones responded drily. “Sounds good the way you tell it, but you’re gonna need a lawyer to file a patent. They cost money. How you gonna pay him?”
	“Don’t worry. I’ll figger it out.”
	Worry was exactly what Old Bones would be doing until this manic phase passed.

	As was his wont when Mad Jack was pursuing one of his schemes, Old Bones hid out in the library. He’d grab a few newspapers and magazines and settle down in the farthest, darkest corner away from the entrance, trying to avoid being spotted by Jack.
	One of the newspapers carried a story about a squash tournament being held outdoors at the Justin Herman Plaza. Squash people were just the kind of people Old Bones liked to scavenge after. 
	He often made the effort to scrounge around at Golden Gate Park after one of the free music concerts, but the young folks had no class. Most of them drank bad beer and ate from the hot dog stands or other catering trucks that are the mobile equivalent of fast food joints. Then there were the vegans, who brought stuff that was absolutely unidentifiable as food.
	But squash people were different. They brought catered dinners prepared by gourmet chefs. None of their wine bottles were screw tops. Old Bones was already salivating at the thought of what he would find at the end of a day at the squash tournament.

	Old Bones didn’t make it to the plaza until the semifinals. He couldn’t get on the actual grounds staked out for the tournament, but he could observe from afar. From his vantage point, the players exchanging shots in the lighted court were like miniatures, but he marveled at their grace and dexterity. He couldn’t tell who was winning, but he enjoyed watching athletes compete at the peak of their prowess.
	Once the match was finished, Old Bones quickly made his way toward the grandstand area. At an event like this, he was in a race to scavenge what he could ahead of the clean-up crew.
	He found an almost full bottle of chardonnay and a very nice cabernet with a few sips left, which he downed immediately. Someone had left a barely touched boxed lunch with a salmon entree. He almost rejected a container of mac and cheese, but decided he could give it to Bicycle Bob.
	By this time, security and the clean-up crew were chasing everyone off the premises. Old Bones ducked behind the court in hopes of one more find and stumbled over something that turned out to be a racket. Figuring it must be broken to have been left behind, he snatched it up. Maybe he could repair it and sell it.

	A couple of days later, Mad Jack showed up at the library. Old Bones couldn’t resist yanking his chain. “Hey, how’s that patent idea coming along?”
	“Great! I was down at the Starbucks again, tryin to score some butts and I heard this dude sayin that Google was tryin to buy a whole mess of patents. 
	“So there you go. I get my patent and sell it off to Google. That’s a lot simpler than havin a mail drop. That whole business of the mail drop troubled me considrably. I’d be tied down to checkin my mail regular. Pretty soon, I’d have to hire people to sort and log the mail. Then I’d have to hire a manager to oversee the mail sorters. Then I’d need an accountant to write payroll for all them employees. Who needs that responsibility?”
	“Yep. Growth can be a demanding mistress. Have you figured out how to get a lawyer yet?”
	“Turns out I don’t need one. That library lady set me up on a computer to register my idea. She sez I can now say it’s ‘Patent Pending’ and scare off anybody trying to horn in.”
	“What’re you doing now?”
	“I’m saving my bottle money for a bus ticket to go down to Google.”

	By this time, Old Bones had had the opportunity to inspect the racket he boosted at the squash tournament and he knew it was a good one. It even had been autographed by some Arab. That kind of scared him in case it was one of those militant Arabs. The current version of Mad Jack’s scheme seemed to offer Old Bones the chance to rid himself of the racket and just maybe do Jack a good turn.
	“I found this squash racket and it’s in pretty good shape. I’ll give it to you and maybe you can sell it at the Sports Authority or some other store to get some bus money.”
	Jack squinted at him. “What’s wrong with it?”
	“Nothing. It’s in a good shape. Even been autographed by some Arab.”
	Old Bones reached into his shopping cart/closet and extracted the racket. “See, it’s fine.”
	“OK. I’m headed to the mall. Maybe I can sell it ... get a burger or a bus ticket or whatever.”

	The next day Old Bones saw Mad Jack strolling down the street with a swagger like he was a man with money in his pocket and a place to go.
	“Hey Bones, lemme buy you a real breakfast.”
	“Some rich uncle die and leave you rollin in it?”
	“Naw. It’s that racket you gave me. Turns out there was a reward for it.”
	“Reward?”
	“Yeah. The racket was left behind by mistake and this rich guy’s son was all bent out of shape for losing it. Turns out that Arab was some guy named Al Sure-Baggy and he’s a big-time player. Kid’s dad offered a $500 reward, no questions asked, for its return.
	“After breakfast, I’ll be buying me some real nice duds. Then I’ll be off to Google to sell my patent to Barney.”