Last year around this time, as we were waiting to close on our house in West Sac, we stayed nearby in an Airbnb with a guy named “Ken.” If I were writing a novel or a short story, at this point I’d make some snide reference to a “Ken doll”, because the guy does in fact look like that. You know: The bleached-blonde, plastic-counterpart-of-Barbie look. A male model type who should be on the pages of a fashion magazine or a menswear catalog or something?
Turns out, Ken’s a great guy. In fact, he’s the one who turned me on to doing Airbnb. Also turns out, Ken’s an “engineer.” When he first told me this, I thought, “Oh, okay, he’s a software engineer like me.” But I was wrong. Ken works for Amtrak. He drives a train. I kid you not, he’s actually a member of the Teamsters Union. But, rest easy, he’s nothing like Jimmy Hoffa. I mean, c’mon: Jimmy Hoffa and a Ken doll? Two different species, like night and day. Capische?
One looks says, “I’ll tear your liver out.” The other? “Drinks. My place. At 5.”
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These days in California it’s planting season, already in the mid-80’s. So yesterday I went down to Lowes – which happens to be near Ken’s house – to buy some plants to replace the ones that didn’t survive the winter. Then I headed on over to Target for my yearly supply of razor blades, toilet paper, and Old Spice deodorant. <Hey, I’m efficient – okay? – so sue me!> Anyway, Target is practically right next to Ken’s, so I decided to swing by and see how the old place was holding up. <When you do Airbnb, it always pays to keep tabs on the friendly competition, see.>
As I was driving past – yep, you guessed it – there was Ken, standing out front, trash bag in hand, wearing his “day-off, summer-time uniform.” Said “uniform” consists of tattered cutoff jeans, a pressed oxford shirt unbuttoned all the way down (the better to show off his six-pack), and flip-flop sandals. Only Ken can make taking out the trash look like a GQ photo shoot.
I stopped, said “Hi,” and we traded Airbnb war stories for a while. He’d recently had a guest with a service dog which attacked – in fact, almost killed – his cat. This caused him a great deal of ill will with the Airbnb “Dispute Resolution Team.” <Nothing kills Airbnb bookings faster than that kind of negative publicity. > I told him of the Russian pastor who came to my place for a week with his wife. They cooked me fish stew, then insisted I put up black-out curtains so they and their “flock” could hold bible studies in my living room in complete secrecy. Maybe in Russia that sort of thing’s necessary? I dunno, seems a little like overkill to me. But what do I know? I’m just the host.
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Anyway, we talked ourselves out, I went on my way, and – come sundown – I set out on my daily walk. Lately I’ve been walking the levee from 7 to 8 PM. There’s been a small trashy-looking travel trailer parked up there near the boat ramp which I’ve avoided until now. I thought maybe it was the homeless guys, moving up in the world with an upgrade from their usual army surplus tent. But I was also a little leery because it has started to smell a bit like a barnyard over there. And now I know why.
Last year when we stayed with Ken there was a big flock of goats in the field next door. They’d been brought in by a company that specializes in weed control. This is a common technique municipalities often use to keep things from getting over-grown in otherwise untended public green-space.
Well, this year those goats are all up here near me, on the river side of the levee behind a mobile electric fence. They’re accompanied by one great big white Pyrenees herding dog who sniffed and took on a slightly superior air, stately and sedate, as I walked past. There must be close to a thousand goats over there. It’s uncanny, almost surreal, that many goats (and one dog), all packed into such a small space. A few of the younger ones were butting heads and literally leaping in the air even though it was getting dark. Some of the more adventurous ones seemed to be trying to climb trees down by the river in order to get at the leaves further up – I kid you not. <And yes, that pun’s intended.>
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What are the odds I’d run into Ken – and a thousand goats – exactly one year later? Do ya think it’s greater, or less than, the odds of Jimmy Hoffa turning up with some Teamster buddies living in an army surplus tent along the river after going missing all those years ago? You be the judge… but remember this: Truth is often stranger than fiction.
And yep, you guessed it: I kid you not.