While Megan, Ned (my sister's boyfriend), and my parents were here visiting for Thanksgiving, Megan and I went for a short walk on the roads just above my house with Mr. Toni J. Sprinkleton (my only nephew by blood, who also happens to be a chihuahua, and now also apparently goes by the name Gary Gasbutt, a new and very fitting name according to many who've seen a bad aura around the dog as he realeases his shakra).
The roads around our house wind around like corkscrews, and, in the winter, are somewhat treacherous. But most everyone here is friendly, so as each car passes, there's a customary wave, just to let you know that they see you - and you see them. Not a bad idea, when, as my dad says, people are playing "dare to be stupid."
A couple in an SUV drives toward us on the opposite side of the road; the man behind the wheel waves. A teenager in a red Audi passes; not surprisingly, no wave. Two overweight dudes in a suburban. Both wave. Old geezer in a green Subaru, gives the frantic "Hullooo, hullooo, hullooo," that my dad used to do around Hazen, which always left us asking, "Did you know that person?" (We later found out that this is a genetic trait on the male side of the Quinn clan, when, at my cousin Cindy's wedding, my uncle Tom drove around Wheeling, W.Va., waving at anything that moved.)
Just as Megan and I are getting the hang of this - smile, be friendly, wave, watch the ice below and try to get out of the way, an odd vehicle comes our way. It's a weird cross between golf cart and Hummer, and it seems to be all-terrain, because it's having no problems getting up the slick roads.
But the person in the vehicle turns out to be an even weirder hybrid than the car he's driving.
I prepare myself for the usual grin and start moving my hand in recognition that I see the person. As the vehicle approaches, I see this enormous bump protruding from what appears to be the person's face. Closer: The face has next to nothing on it, no eyes, no hair, no features. Just a round, pink orb. Closer: I think there's at least one eye, maybe two, and a mouth drawn in a small o-shape, like a fish's pucker. As for teeth, it looks as though they (probably three of them) may be made out of makeshift objects, like a cut-off piece of a woodtip cigar.
Unfortunately, by now, my face cannot hide what my brain is thinking, but I manage a forced grimace nonetheless. The man-monster waves back unassuredly, sadly seeming mystified that someone might be waving at him.
After the man has passed, I turn around to Megan, who has a similarly stunned look on her face, and ask, "Was that Sloth?" We both laugh. Anyone from our generation knows this reference.
But we also agree that we feel really sorry for the guy. Or maybe it was a woman. Pretty hard to tell. Then, we tried to guess what might have happened to him. My first thought was the Iraq War. Megan's take: He had either been horribly disfigured in an accident - or was the result of too much inbreeding.
Needless to say, I'm surprised that Sloth lives in Evergreen. And Brook Forest, no less.
Maybe it's a cruel comparison, but Sloth from the movies turned out to be very friendly, was a great help to the Goonies in finding One-eyed Willie's treasure, and all it took to keep him happy was a few Baby Ruth candy bars. And he was pals with a kid named Chunk, who did the "Truffle Shuffle." What's not to love?
We think Evergreen's Sloth may work for Sanford and Sons, an interesting operation that we discovered this weekend operates in an area with myriad "Keep Out" and "No Trespassing" signs a few miles above our house. From the road below, you can see where the whole hillside has been clearcut for their junk. Let's just hope that the Sanfords are nicer to Sloth than the Fratelli's were.
VS. 
