Cuyahoga Jones' visit to England.
After several hours of wandering the streets, I began to give up hope. But then, I spotted a sign which read, "Scotland Yard." I figured that, over in London, if they called an elevator a "lift," and they called an apartment a "flat," they just MIGHT call a garden a "yard." I decided to go in. . . .
A most perplexing place, that Scotland Yard. I never found the back door to any garden, or even to a back yard. I never found so much as a window overlooking anything green whatsoever! The windows I was able to see were of thick, grimy glass, and they overlooked some sort of galleries. I saw a group of men behind the glass. I guessed that they were members of a sports team, as they were all dressed alike in grey jumpsuits. They must have been waiting for their coach to arrive, because all they were doing was pacing aimlessly about the room. They acted like they didn't see me when I waved. (Perhaps waving is an American custom not recognized in England?)
Behind another window was a women's team. They, too, were milling about, seemingly bored, until one of them noticed my fascination and came over to the glass. She waved her friends over, and they also came to greet me through the glass. (It now seemed that waving WAS recognized in England, at least among women!)
The glass prevented almost all sound from getting through, but we were able to communicate by hand signals. The appearance of an American tourist must have been a rare thing in London, because I seemed to cause quite a stir. The women laughed and slapped each other on the back and hooted each time we got the meaning of a message across. I asked about gardens. After a while, the meaning of one word got through. "Yes, BUSHES!" I shouted, "how do I get there?"
As the laughter in the gallery picked up anew, one nice lady flashed her tooth in a big smile, lifted her hand and rubbed her first two fingers against her thumb, as if to indicate "money." She must have been trying to find out if I had enough cab fare to get to the gardens. Such a kind soul. She was concerned that an American tourist would get cheated by the cabbies!
I hadn't planned to use a cab today, so I tried to indicate that I didn't plan to spend any money, and I made some steps back towards where I had come from, to indicate that I could easily walk anywhere in London. She must have mis-understood my meaning, because she turned around pressed her backside against the glass. I didn't understand this English gesture, and I blushed. The other women laughed all the harder. Now I saw that our communication had broken down completely. I decided to move on, and seek the gardens alone.
As I was leaving Scotland Yard's women's section, I met a man called Bobby. He seemed to take quite an interest in my search. He introduced me to another man named Bobby who was dressed just like the first. There must have been some sort of club meeting there, because all-in-all, I met about 20 or so men named Bobby, all dressed in the same odd blue clothing, each one asking more and more questions about my search, and my communication attempts in the women's area regarding my search for bushes.
The English they spoke was too "English" for me, I guess. We seemed to communicate even more poorly than the silent gesture-language I'd had with the women. They all seemd to think that my name was Hank, though they pronounced it "Yank." No matter how many times I told them my name was Cuy, it always came back "Yank"!
At one point, I spent several hours accidentally locked in a bathroom. It wasn't so bad, really, because there was a small cot next to the toilet, and I was able to lie down while waiting for someone to come and open the door. When I did knock on the door and ask someone to help me get out, they seemed very concerned for my privacy, saying, "Keep yer pants on, Yank! You'll be out soon enough!" I was greatly relieved when one of the men named Bobby found the key and let me out. They were so anxious to help me find my gardens that they actually PUSHED me out the front door!
It was dark when my visit to London ended, so I never did visit a real English garden. But I'll always treasure the friends I made at Scotland Yard. As I look back on my visit, all the guys there seem to run together in my mind. Perhaps because they all were named Bobby. Perhaps it's because they were all dressed alike. I easily remembered every detail about their clothes, however. When I worked for Cuyahoga Heights Police Department, I changed their uniforms just a little bit, to honor the Englishmen named Bobby that I had befriended.
Unfortunately, the uniforms I designed are no longer in service. The politicians complained that they caused too much chafing under the helmets.