I MEET SANTA BOB

(Long post, but so was the walk…)

You’ve never eaten an avocado nearly as good as the one I’m eating right now.

This is not a boast.

Even in Bakersfield, the ol’ hometown, I was something of an Avocado Afficionado. Used to think those nice big ones at Trader Joe’s or Costco were the pinnacle of frog pear perfection.

But Jungle Dave recently showed Ignoramus Dave why he considers him an ignoramus; it turns out the avocados ON OUR PROPERTY are far better than Bakersfield’s best!

Not kidding. These out-butter butter.

I used to pound down two at a time after a trip to Trader Joe’s, but ours here are so dense, rich and flavorful that it is impossible to eat more than half of one at a time, and making guacamole with them is a spiritual experience!

If the Catholic Church served these instead of those dry little wafers at communion, I would seriously consider re-joining.

The entire Fern Acres development is home to a nice array of varieties, too, so in the spirit of adventure and the hope that some of my neighbor’s specimens had dropped roadside, me and Smokey the Rescue Dog took to the streets to seek our fortunes in green gold.

A dog’s fortune, of course, is a bit easier to come upon, as he will sniff happily at a single stanky spot for hours at a time, depending on the quality of urine located therein.

But I had my sights set a bit higher, so after about a dozen of these ‘motherlodes’, I dragged him into the middle of the road so we could cover some decent ground.

The first tree we found had a few on the ground that the birds and bugs had already decimated; looking up in the branches revealed several more, not…quite…ready…but still, these were literally almost a foot long!

They resembled a frog-green Japanese eggplant, and are of a variety not seen in Bakersfield or anywhere else I’ve been on the mainland. In a couple of days I’ll know if they are worth their salt, and will report back to gloat if they are…

My avo greed whetted by this early success, I dragged Smokey about a mile down the lava road to a street named Orchid, a name which you could safely give any street around here, because orchids make up the preponderance of flowers in Fern Acres.

Ferns run a close second, though.

I was busy looking over a neighbor’s fence when Smokey jerked hard on his leash, as if something made him want to hightail it. The baying of hounds began, and I looked down the street to see if we were about to be eaten or licked to death.

And that’s when I first lay eyes on Santa Bob, as I have named him.

There seems to be a lot of Bobs on the island; I wrote about meeting Alaska Bob the other day as well.

But Santa Bob is definitely unmistakeable for anyone else, and was girded by a motley crew of six dogs of varying breeds and sizes, most of whom were wagging their tails in friendly fashion, but were led by a big mutt who didn’t look too sure that we should pass unmolested.

At fifty feet away Santa Bob looked like an anorexic scarecrow garbed like Santa Claus, in a red Hawaiian shirt, white long-john bottoms complete with ‘trap door’, and thick, black rubber boots that seemed to weight him to the ground with every step, and which he slowly and deliberately lifted with conscious effort to continue his way forward.

Santa Bob also sported a lovely head of long, white, unkempt hair and a flowing white beard that reached his belly button.

And he was stinkin’, undeniably 100% juiced.

That in itself seems par for the course in these here parts.

He waved at us and called lyrically over the hounds: ‘I’m drunk!’

He seemed kinda proud of this too, as though he’d been unsuccessful at it in the past. But he had certainly triumphed in the endeavor THIS time…

Well, before we knew it, Smokey and I were surrounded by the pack of dogs, and sure enough, the biggest one, Top Dog, thought he better prove who was in charge and tried to take a hunk out of Smokey.

He was a bit shocked to feel my foot in his ribs, and backed off speedily. I don’t take any shit from dogs.

Santa Bob wobbled up and eyed us as carefully as a besotted Santa possibly could.

‘Name’s Bob (hic); who the <expletive> are you and what the <expletive> are you doing on my <expletive> street?’ he slurred pleasantly.

I’m kind of used to this from homeowners in Fern Acres, who are wary and weary of frequent break-ins in this deeply rural area; you can’t even safely park a car on a jungle road overnight unless you leave a dog in it, but even then thieves’ll still get the tires, if not the stereo…

So I ID’d myself as Jungle Dave, avocado hunter extraordinaire, and gave a little background as to how I came to Hawaii and ended up on his road. He listened unsteadily, then lit up with a coherent thought.

‘Beautiful <expletive> day, but ain’t they all? Hey, ya wanna see my place? Been on it…(he stopped to foggily consider)…27 <expletive> years! Here, take my hand..I’m <expletive> drunk!’ he happily reminded himself.

I steadied him, taking a firm grip on his thin, long hand, and we led the pack of hounds down towards towards a pleasantly landscaped drive that opened onto a beautiful parcel of land. Bob may like his adult beverages, but he kept a nice homestead too.

We were an odd consortium, the many dogs, yours truly, and the anorexic Santa figure with boots that made him move like a deep-sea diver; and Bob kept up a lively stream of liquid chatter, including all my favorite cuss words, as the small mutts darted between his bone-thin, long-johned legs, making my tight grip on him a must, to avert disaster.

‘Hey, is Smokey a water-dog? I gots a nice li’l pond I done built in the yard, the <expletive> dogs just love it! Bring him on in fer a dip…’

But at this statement, Top Dog, who had tried to eat Smokey earlier, decided to try again, and the two were rolling on the ground in a doggie deathmatch, slinging fur and saliva across the lava and terrifying the little dogs present.

Smokey was definitely getting the worst of it; he’s a worrier, not a fighter.

Another well-placed kick to the big dog’s jaw made him loosen his grip on Smokey’s throat, and I yanked the leash hard enough to pull the Smokester from under the tangle and away from the bully.

I kicked Top Dog again as he tried to bully me; he quickly found he would lose and cowered off.

But Smokey had broken from his leash and sheepishly ran forty yards back in the direction of home, stopping occasionally to see if I was willing to accompany him.

‘Damn, Bob, I can’t leave Smokey on his own – he’s not my dog so I can’t lose him in the jungle!’ I sputtered, a little breathless because the fight had happened so quickly and ferociously. Bob hadn’t even seemed to notice.

‘Oh! Well, what the <expletive>! Hey, come by any <expletive> old time! You seem like a good feller…’

‘I sure will! Hey Bob, do you like avocados?’ I queried, one eye on the weaving Bob, one eye on the retreating Smokey.

‘I sure the <expletive> do!’ Bob positively beamed at the thought; obviously another Avocado Afficionado. We always find each other, even in impossible circumstances…

‘I’m going to bring you a dozen of the most delicious avos you have EVER put in your mouth, then,’ I said, and this sent Bob into a state of bliss.

Before I knew it, I was embraced in the biggest bear-hug I’ve ever had from one so skinny, as if I had just offered a big chest of diamonds and gold dubloons. It was somewhat like being tackled by empty laundry.

Santa Bob smiled toothily at me, delighted as a kid at Christmas himself.

‘I’m drunk!’ he shouted again, joyously, as he plonked deliberately back to the yard in his big black boots.

‘See you soon, Bob!’ I yelled as I ran down the road to retrieve my anxious animal. Top Dog made a brief advance, but turned tail in fright at my own lunge towards him, beating Bob and the little dogs into the yard by a mile. Bullies always seem to be cowards at heart, don’t they?

But Santa Bob is a cool old dude, and is going to get 12 of the finest avocados on our tree; maybe that will help fatten him back up a little.

I get the feeling that he can stand some company, too, which may be the root of the problem anyway.

Hopefully Top Dog will mind his manners next we meet. And who knows, maybe one day he’ll understand that friendliness pays, in doggie treats. Beats a kick in the chops any day.

As for Smokey, he finally let me leash him again after skulking far ahead of me most of the way home, unhurt but for his vanity.

But as I mentioned earlier…good gawd awmighty…this is the BEST <expletive> avocado I have EVER eaten.

Here! Try some…it’s even better as guacamole…