Conclusion: The Goblin Under The Palm Tree

The bright sun shot splinters into my brain as I crossed the driveway and headed across the street. That was when I noticed another of the creatures. And another. I stopped in the middle of the street and counted six of them. All were old and wrinkled. They went about their business, ignoring me while I stood in the middle of the road. Some were gardening. Others sat on their front porches reading the morning paper.

A car approached and honked. I jumped out of the way like Wile E. Coyote avoiding a falling anvil. The vehicle pulled into the driveway of an apartment building several yards away. When the car door opened another of these creatures got out with a sack of groceries. The car must have been rigged to accommodate a tiny driver.

The little fellow pushing the lawnmower finally yelled, “Yous be foolish to be standing in zenter of street.” His voice was brittle with age and thick with a mysterious accent.

The sparse strands of white hair sprouting from his head failed to cover the numerous liver spots. He was wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that must have been intended for a child. His teeth were few and yellowed with age but when he smiled he looked pleasant enough.

“Deed you joust move een?”

“Y—yes,” I stammered. “With my roommate, Mel.”

“I zee. Yous be college keeds, yes?” I nodded as he wiped sweat from his egg shaped head with the back of his hand. The tiny hand was covered in loose skin, but it had five fingers and looked human enough. The day wasn’t particularly hot but it must have taken effort for someone so tiny to mow even a small lawn. “I zink I zeem strange to yous, yes?”

I nodded and shook his hand when it was offered, as did Mel who’d crossed the street to join us. The little man introduce himself. “I called Yabba, like cartoon wiff zee Flintstonez. Yabba Dabba Doo. No Dabba Doo, just Yabba. This no real name but do jez fine.”

“Nice to meet you, Yabba. Excuse me, but are you a midget?” I asked.

His forehead creased like a fan and he looked like he’d just sucked on a pickle. “Once part of Zinger midgets, but Yabba and others (he indicated the others like him with a tilt of his head) no more like to be called midget. Now we like be called ‘Little Peeple.’”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Have you lived here long?”

“Come here in ’38 for zee big moovie. Me work on zee big movie zeven weeks and no want to go home later. Many stay at Culver Hootel til need leave. We moove here and stay. Be happy here.”

“What big movie are you talking about?” Mel asked.

Yabba looked at him like he had a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “What you mean what big moovie? Only one big moovie known by everyone. Weezard oof Oz, oof course!”

The fog was starting to clear. These tiny folks must have been part of the famous Singer Midgets, recruited from around the world to play the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz, filmed back in 1938 at MGM Studios right here in Culver City. I’d learned about them in a UCLA film class. I wondered where this little guy was born—his voice was high-pitched but the accent reminded me of Bela Lugosi. The Balkans?

“I mow lawn in front your apartment and owner zay okay use pool, but long time zince Yabba take plunge.”

I hadn’t noticed the manicured strip of grass in front of our apartment, but the thought of seeing this little gnome in a wet swimsuit made me shiver.

In weeks to come I discovered that the other neighborhood munchkins weren’t as outgoing as Yabba and kept to themselves. Yabba explained why he’d been watching us that night. “Me hav zee insomnia. Like zound oof young peoples having fun.”

Our friendship was sealed when Yabba arrived during one of our late-night pool parties and pulled a fat joint from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt. He lit it, inhaled deeply, then passed it around.

“Most of we little peeple be straight arrowz,” he informed us, “but Yabba be a partying munchkin.”

Note: On the slim chance that the Statute of Limitations has not expired on my youthful indiscretions, the author wants it known that he would never endorse or promote the use of recreational drugs of any kind.

The Goblin Under The Palm Tree

In 1973 Mel Sweggert and I were college roommates at UCLA, but we decided to move out of the dorm for our final year of college. We found an old two-story apartment building in Culver City that had seen better days…but it had a courtyard with a pool. Drooping near the stairs in a corner of the courtyard was an unattractive, but undeniably real, palm tree.

We christened the place our first night with beer and a fifth of Southern Comfort. I knew I was wasted when I looked out the window and saw strange creatures walking up and down the street. In the moonlight they appeared short and shriveled. “Come check this out,” I said to Mel.

He staggered to the window. “What’s up? I don’t see anything.”

I looked again; this time nothing. The street was empty.

I blamed the booze and laughed it off.

We drained the bottle of Southern Comfort and polished off the rest of the beers, staggered down the stairs and jumped in the pool. The September night was typically warm; I felt content with my life. I gazed at the stars, blurry behind the smog, and watched planes passing frequently overhead, their lights disappearing behind the silhouette of our homely palm tree.

The next evening we partied again, this time with our friends: Rodney, Jay and Barry. 1:00 A.M. rolled by and I was having a great time drinking and horsing around in the pool—until I saw the tip of a cigarette glowing in the darkness. We were being observed by someone beneath our palm tree. I’d noticed several good-looking girls in the pool earlier that day and had chatted with one of them in the laundry room. Perhaps a hot babe was sitting in the shadows, checking us out.

Just as I was about to draw everyone’s attention to the intruder’s presence, the glowing cigarette disappeared. I heard the creaking sound of someone rising from an old lounge chair, along with sandals slapping concrete. The person was leaving, their silhouette visible in the flickering glow of a nearby bug light. My mouth dropped open and I took a big gulp of pool water. We weren’t being checked out by a hot girl looking for some action; we were being observed by an escapee from last night’s hallucination, some sort of goblin or gnome. I shook my head in disbelief and wiped the water from my eyes.

When my vision cleared, it was gone.

The next day was Saturday, no classes. I poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes and tried to brush aside the cobwebs, along with last night’s disturbing image near the palm tree. My thoughts were drowned out by the sound of a lawnmower. I glanced out the window and saw a goblin pushing a lawnmower up and down the tiny lawn in front of the Hollywood-style bungalow across the street.

I’d grown up on children’s books like The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet, and the creature across the street certainly looked like it could have come from a mushroom planet. Too much booze, I thought. But the apparition refused to vanish. I abandoned my Frosted Flakes to confront it.

Conclusion on Friday

Mountain Of Grief

I had no idea King Midas was real. I figured he was a mythical figure, so when told we were pausing at his burial site I was surprised. The landscape was flat and barren except for short grasses that waved in the wind. In the distance I spotted a small mountain. Our guide, Selchuk, explained that it wasn’t a mountain. Not a mountain? What could it be?

The mountain seemed to grow as our bus brought us near. “This is the burial mound of King Midas,” Selchuk explained.

“The dude who turned everything he touched into gold?” one of our traveling companions asked.

“A story that must have evolved over time, an embellishment referring to his extreme wealth,” Selchuk answered. “There were several kings over the centuries named Midas, but this mound is the burial site of the most famous.”

The more I examined it, the more impressive the mound became. Built in a land without quarries or timber, this was a remarkable feat. My head swam when I tried to calculate the tons of earth moved to create this mound.

“An American team of archeologists excavated the mound in the 80’s,” Selchuk said. “They found many interesting items: wooden tables, glassware and ceramics, but no gold. I invite you to visit the burial chamber, which you can do by walking a hundred yards into the mound by way of the tunnel the archeologists left behind.”

Mrs. Chatterbox looked apprehensive. “Do you think it’s safe?” she whispered to me.

“Of course,” I answered. “Don’t you want to see where King Midas was buried?”

“Not particularly.” But Mrs. Chatterbox, an amazingly good sport, followed me into the tunnel.

Events often shuffle in my mind; what I think is important fades behind something seemingly insignificant that manages to stick in my brain. The tunnel was long and not particularly interesting, and when we arrived at the burial chamber it was empty. I was mildly impressed with the five thousand year old timbers used in the construction of the chamber since there weren’t any sizable trees outside for hundreds of miles. But all interesting artifacts discovered inside the mound had been removed to various Turkish museums.

Mrs. C. and I gulped fresh air when we left the tunnel. We walked over to our guide. A quick look told us something was wrong. Very wrong. Selchuk was ashen, his trademark smile nowhere to be found. Our group gathered near the bus. When everyone had viewed the mound and had been accounted for he said, “I just received a phone call from home, bad news. My mother has unexpectedly died. She passed away this morning.” Tears were streaming down his face. “I’ll be leaving you for a few days. According to Islamic law, my mother must be buried within twenty-four hours. I’m catching a three hour flight to Istanbul tonight to be with my father.”

When we arrived in Turkey we’d all been strangers, but Selchuk had quickly forged us into a family, and he was an integral part. We all took turns hugging him and offering condolences. Then we piled back into the bus and headed to our next stop where Selchuk had arranged for another guide to take his place. He explained, “My good friend Achmed will temporarily fill in for me. He recently lost both parents in a car crash and understands what I am going through. I’ll return in three days.”

It’s common for traveling companions to rotate bus seats to avoid riding in the same section, and our seat happened to be opposite Selchuk’s. I could see his shoulders shaking as he did his best to control his sobbing. My heart went out to him, as I’m sure everyone’s did.

Midas’s mound receded into the background. Thousands of years ago a nation channeled its grief into burying a king destined to figure prominently in history’s collective consciousness. Countless hands filled buckets of dirt to create a mountain for their departed sovereign, but when I saw the grief clouding Selchuk’s eyes I knew that Midas’s mound reached no higher than the mountain of grief pressing down on Selchuk's heart.

King or mother of a tour guide; it makes no difference when you lose someone you love.

Selchuk at the walls of Troy.