Dia De Los Muertos
I have this theory that divine intervention plays a role in my life. Like any good Catholic, I turn to the heavens to explain the unexplainable. My theory is that when I encounter the bizarre incidents and motley cast of characters who have wandered into my life, it's merely adding weight to the notion that God doth have a sense of humor.
I explained it to my friend Drew like this:
"You know a lot of shit happens to me?"
"Uh. Yeah."
"Basically I think its God saying 'Hey Shane, look at this..."
Now, anytime I tell Drew I have a story, he invariably responds "Hey Shane, look at this."
Nothing I have ever experienced backs this theory up more than a story about the death of a woman named Bernice.
We had just returned home from our family vacation the day before. The stress of a four hour drive and all the requisite packing and unpacking subsided and gave way to a sense of Fuuuuuck, I don't want to go back to work.
I stood glumly at our front window and looked out at the neighborhood. Despite seeing me do this somewhere near a hundred times, my wife inquired as to my actions and added an insult for good measure without giving me a chance to respond.
"What are you doing? Get away from the door you damn weird-o."
I responded something mindless and let out a sigh; I was just about to turn away when I noticed an older model white Buick weaving down the street. I watched as the car went up over the curb across the street from our house and then through the adjoining yard. The car passed between a fence and tree and smashed into a car parked in the driveway. The path seemed deliberate and I could hear the engine racing as if the driver intended to inflict more damage.
The news had recently been peppered with stories of entire neighborhoods being turned into crime scenes as a result of some asshole with a gun and a grudge. My initial response, based on a bevy of shit that happens to me, is to assume the worst and work backwards from there. I yelled at my wife.
"GET THE BABY AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!"
"Wha? Why?"
"GETAWAYFROMTHEGODDAMNWINDOW," I bellowed
I peeked out the window and my fears gave way to a sheepish embarrassment. I watched as two little old ladies in church hats exited the passenger side of the vehicle and walked to the driver’s door.
Emboldened with the courage that comes with knowing your nemesis is not only unarmed but an 80 year old woman, I bounded out the front door and across the street, red cape flowing in the wind.
"Is everyone OK, here?" In my head, my voice sounds a lot like David Putty, Elaine's alpha-male boyfriend on Seinfeld.
"We OK but somethin wrong with Bernice." I leaned in and quickly concurred. While she suffered no injuries from the collision, something was wrong with Bernice. Her eyes were fixed and her mouth opened and closed slowly, like a fish that had long stopped flopping on the deck and now awaited the inevitable.
I maintained a serious if not cool demeanor and did not betray the panic in my mind as it provided a running commentary alongside the action
I touched her wrist and the pulse felt weak and fluttery.
"She OK?"
"I don't know."
This is bad, this is really fucking bad
"I'm going to call 911"
HOLY FUCK! HOLY FUCK! HOY FUCK!
"911 please hold"
"mmm-mmm-mm" I calmly muttered
WHAT THE FUCK!? 9-11 shouldn’t have “hold” as an option, goddamnit
The operator came on the line and I excitedly brought her up to speed. She asked a couple of standard questions and after answering them, assured me that an ambulance was on the way and hung up.
I have stood in front of countless electronic items and assorted video games systems that have malfunctioned. I fiddled with them half-heartedly, knowing in my heart of hearts that I possessed neither the skill nor patience to fix the problem at hand. The extent of my abilities was limited to bizarre tricks that were known to everyone but held no proven value. Everyone knew to do these things and did them out of habit more than any actual success. That training would not help me here; I stood back with folded arms and assessed the situation. It wasn't like I could open the woman's mouth, blow two or three times to get the dust out, smack the side of her head a few times, and hit the reset button. I was way out of my league. I had no other ideas so I reached up and touched her neck, hoping to feel a stronger pulse and assuage our collective fears
Just as I did this, Bernice let out a long, raspy rattle
and died.
MO-THER-FUCK-ER
Now obviously I am not the grim reaper. I didn't just touch this woman and effectively push her to the other side. My timing and my ineptitude were the sole reason this played out as it did. At the time though, I was touching this woman as she died and that was the only thought in my mind. My cool exterior evaporated and the primal instincts of my mind overtook me.
"Motherfucker. Motherfucker. Motherfucker," I hissed in a low whisper.
The EMT's responded quickly and after assessing Bernice, put her in the ambulance and drove slowly away, sans lights and sirens.
The gathering crowd lingered and discussed. In the flurry of activity and considering my failure perceived or otherwise, I was desperate to help.
I approached my neighbor whose vehicle had been struck and tried, in vain, to help
"You know, I don't want to seem insensitive..."
This is never a good way to start a sentence. It basically says,
I know what I'm about to say is going to make me sound like an asshole and I just wanted to warn you beforehand
If you hear yourself saying this. Just stop. You are going to sound insensitive, no matter how magnanimous your intentions might be. Ignoring this, I plunged headlong into painting myself into a low grade ambulance chaser.
"Uh, I'm an insurance adjuster and Bernice's insurance actually owes for the damages to your car and a rental," I added for good measure.
My neighbor looked at me for a long time, First, probably trying to discern if I was serious then, realizing I was serious, trying to ascertain how long before he could leave the conversation and quite possibly, the neighborhood, so as to avoid ever having any interaction with the insensitive prick who lives across the street. He muttered a vague and disinterested "Thanks, and walked away. I have seen this guy several times since and quickly look away like a dog that knows he has done something wrong.
Now, bound and determined to do something right, I spied the two passengers. They stood quietly talking to the police officer. I approached them. "I can take these ladies home if they need it." The ladies accepted and they, along with the officer, were effusive with their praise
Yeah, well, I touched your friend and she fucking died and then I tried to get my neighbor to scavenge the dead woman's insurance so you might want to hold off on contacting the folks at Nobel
"Glad to help."
We talked on the ride home. The ladies wished their friend a quick recovery and I, knowing that ship had sailed, tried to steer in another direction
"Did Bernice say anything or indicate she didn't feel well?"
"NAW, We was juss talkin and all of a sudden she is goin up into the ya-ad and I says where you go-en?"
I imagined a healthy Bernice responding "Oh I'm just going to go through this yard. It’s quicker."
I managed to stifle a laugh which was the absolute least I could do
I dropped the ladies at the assisted living complex they shared with Bernice and wished them well. They thanked me and I drove away. I called my wife and updated her and immediately picked up the phone to call Drew and was relieved when he answered.
"Hey, What's up?"
"Dude. I have a story."
"Hey Shane, look at this"
"You have no fucking idea."
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The God Damn Pepsi
What follows is a sort of confession. The humor is undeniable. The story is one often revisited with friends and family alike. While I acknowledge the hilarity, I see it as a form of penance. My actions in the story are disgusting and shameful. While it is worth mentioning that I was merely fifteen years old, I say that knowing there is no excuse. I have told the story many times as much for the Mea Culpa as the laughs I hope to get.
The house I spent my teenage years in had a rudimentary man-cave. Our basement was furnished and in a fitting style to our family, it wasn't decked out but somewhat ramshackle. The basement was carpeted in green shag and cheap wood paneling covered the walls. It afforded space, an extra cable-ready television, and little else.
The World Series between Oakland and The Dodgers was set to start and my father and I had our feast. Tombstone pizza and 2 liters of Pepsi secured, we settled in for The Fall Classic.
It was an historical night for many reasons. This was the game where Kirk Gibson hit his famous home run often seen in video clips and sports montages. When I watch that homerun, I am taken back to a different sort of history. It's a night cemented into our family's collective conscience.
My dad grew tired and shut off the lights. I sat in front of the glow of the television and watched Gibson's blast alone. After the game, I turned off the TV, too tired to go to my room, I lie on the floor. My father snored softly on the couch next to me. At some point, the effect of consuming an entire two liter of Pepsi awoke me. Too tired and ultimately too lazy, I fumbled in the complete darkness for the empty bottle. I first grabbed the half-full bottle and set it aside. I groped in the darkness and found what I was looking for and without an ounce of hesitation or more importantly, pride, relieved myself into the empty container. I write this 23 years later and still feel a sense of shame. Had that crept in so many years ago, things might have gone much differently.
I, with no weight on my mind for my sloth, fell back asleep. Sometime in the night my father stirred beside me. I sat up and told him about the historic game.
"Damn. I just couldn't stay awake. Hey, is there any Pepsi left?"
Without a second thought, I sealed our fates.
I heard two distinctive gulps and sat up in alarm at the unmistakable sound of my dad spraying the contents of the bottle in what was the ultimate spit-take. I knew my error befre my dad even spoke
"YOU GAVE ME A BOTTLE OF PISS!"
Now there are two points to consider. I still haven’t had the nerve to address these with my father. First, how did he know that he had just consumed urine? A human being should have no idea what urine tastes like. The fact that he knew without hesitation what he was drinking disturbs me now more than ever. Second, is the fact that he was so quickly able to figure out, from a dead sleep, what was going on. This can only mean that he too has urinated into an empty bottle of something. Sorry pal, live by the sword and die by the sword.
At that instant, I knew that this was a very funny thing that was playing out. I knew right then that someday we would look back on this and laugh. I knew that exact instant was not the time. I was faced with a dilemma. My natural reaction was to laugh. Laughter would have resulted in an ass whipping of monumental proportions. I stuttered and stammered as I decided what to do
"uh....uh....ummm"
With equal parts revulsion and indignation, my father choked out a response that instantly cemented it's self in the annals of our family's history. The final words were said haltingly. I'd like to think this was for dramatic effect but I'm certain it was his utter disgust overtaking him.
"WELL AT LEAST HAND ME THE GOD...DAMN...PEP-SI!."
It's a valid point he makes. I am certain that other than beating my ass blue, he wanted that Pepsi more than anything else in the world.
His stuttered demand snapped me from my stupor and I quickly complied.
"God Damn-it! Motherfuck!" Not unlike the old man from "A Christmas Story," My old man wove a tapestry of profanity, the cause much more sinister than a faulty furnace or The Bumpus Hounds. I wisely chose to say nothing and slipped silently through the darkness and upstairs to my room.
The next morning was tense and awkward. No college one night stand could ever top the levels felt in my own home that morning. I said nothing and would not look anywhere near my dad. The time was nearing for me to go to school and I didn't want this to wear on me. I started to speak and was immediately cut off.
"Dad I..."
"Just go to school," my dad's Eastwood-esque growl told me he meant what he said and a further discussion would not be wise.
Like any dutiful son whose urine was just consumed by his father, I silently picked up my bag and walked out the door.
The house I spent my teenage years in had a rudimentary man-cave. Our basement was furnished and in a fitting style to our family, it wasn't decked out but somewhat ramshackle. The basement was carpeted in green shag and cheap wood paneling covered the walls. It afforded space, an extra cable-ready television, and little else.
The World Series between Oakland and The Dodgers was set to start and my father and I had our feast. Tombstone pizza and 2 liters of Pepsi secured, we settled in for The Fall Classic.
It was an historical night for many reasons. This was the game where Kirk Gibson hit his famous home run often seen in video clips and sports montages. When I watch that homerun, I am taken back to a different sort of history. It's a night cemented into our family's collective conscience.
My dad grew tired and shut off the lights. I sat in front of the glow of the television and watched Gibson's blast alone. After the game, I turned off the TV, too tired to go to my room, I lie on the floor. My father snored softly on the couch next to me. At some point, the effect of consuming an entire two liter of Pepsi awoke me. Too tired and ultimately too lazy, I fumbled in the complete darkness for the empty bottle. I first grabbed the half-full bottle and set it aside. I groped in the darkness and found what I was looking for and without an ounce of hesitation or more importantly, pride, relieved myself into the empty container. I write this 23 years later and still feel a sense of shame. Had that crept in so many years ago, things might have gone much differently.
I, with no weight on my mind for my sloth, fell back asleep. Sometime in the night my father stirred beside me. I sat up and told him about the historic game.
"Damn. I just couldn't stay awake. Hey, is there any Pepsi left?"
Without a second thought, I sealed our fates.
I heard two distinctive gulps and sat up in alarm at the unmistakable sound of my dad spraying the contents of the bottle in what was the ultimate spit-take. I knew my error befre my dad even spoke
"YOU GAVE ME A BOTTLE OF PISS!"
Now there are two points to consider. I still haven’t had the nerve to address these with my father. First, how did he know that he had just consumed urine? A human being should have no idea what urine tastes like. The fact that he knew without hesitation what he was drinking disturbs me now more than ever. Second, is the fact that he was so quickly able to figure out, from a dead sleep, what was going on. This can only mean that he too has urinated into an empty bottle of something. Sorry pal, live by the sword and die by the sword.
At that instant, I knew that this was a very funny thing that was playing out. I knew right then that someday we would look back on this and laugh. I knew that exact instant was not the time. I was faced with a dilemma. My natural reaction was to laugh. Laughter would have resulted in an ass whipping of monumental proportions. I stuttered and stammered as I decided what to do
"uh....uh....ummm"
With equal parts revulsion and indignation, my father choked out a response that instantly cemented it's self in the annals of our family's history. The final words were said haltingly. I'd like to think this was for dramatic effect but I'm certain it was his utter disgust overtaking him.
"WELL AT LEAST HAND ME THE GOD...DAMN...PEP-SI!."
It's a valid point he makes. I am certain that other than beating my ass blue, he wanted that Pepsi more than anything else in the world.
His stuttered demand snapped me from my stupor and I quickly complied.
"God Damn-it! Motherfuck!" Not unlike the old man from "A Christmas Story," My old man wove a tapestry of profanity, the cause much more sinister than a faulty furnace or The Bumpus Hounds. I wisely chose to say nothing and slipped silently through the darkness and upstairs to my room.
The next morning was tense and awkward. No college one night stand could ever top the levels felt in my own home that morning. I said nothing and would not look anywhere near my dad. The time was nearing for me to go to school and I didn't want this to wear on me. I started to speak and was immediately cut off.
"Dad I..."
"Just go to school," my dad's Eastwood-esque growl told me he meant what he said and a further discussion would not be wise.
Like any dutiful son whose urine was just consumed by his father, I silently picked up my bag and walked out the door.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
"Dead Man Running"
In college, I dabbled for a time with a career in broadcasting. Like any avid sports fan, I dreamed of calling game seven of the World Series. I knew I could beautifully articulate the two-minute drive of a future Super Bowl if only given the chance. I'd practiced endlessly, often doing play-by-ply during my Nintendo games. I was good, I thought. I just needed to showcase those skills.
My sister, of all people, sought to give me my first big break. My 8 year old nephew was playing his Rocket Football game on the high school field and wouldn't it be great if they had a real live announcer.
"I'll bet my little brother would be good at that!"
My sister has never been quite so wrong.
I was excited. I practiced on live games, on video games, on imaginary games. I was going to nail this. The big dame came and my excitement was palpable. I bounded into the broadcast booth and was introduced to my spotter, an older man named Dave.
"Only thing you need to know is to flip the switch on the mike when you want to call the game and turn the mike off when you're not talking. Otherwise, they can hear everything you say." Easy enough, I thought. I sat down and was ready to start my path to Canton.
"YOU ARE LOOKING LIVE AT..." I mimicked the phrase made famous by Brett Mussberger. The parents ate it up and I was on my way.
The game began and everything was going swimmingly. The practice paid off.
"You're good," said Dave, "There are games later today if you want to stick around..."
If you have gone to Little League football, you have undoubtedly seen kids like John. John hit his growth spurt before everyone else. A head taller and 30 pounds heavier than everyone else, John was a bruiser at Tailback. While slow and awkward, John was a guarantee of 5 yards every time. Not unlike National geographic footage of a pride of lions trying to take down a water buffalo, it took almost the entire team to bring him down. They got him down but it took five yards to do it.
The play was third and sixteen. John lined up at fullback in front of the speedier, smaller running back. They called John's number and he got his usual five yards.
I called the play
Davis gets five yards on the play bringing up fourth down for the Blue Devils
Like a car accident, the details of what followed still play out in slow motion
I turned to Dave and commented
"Why the fuck did they do that? I've seen faster dead men than that kid!"
I was looking at the field so I couldn't help but notice that every single person immediately turned around and looked back at the broadcast booth
What is everyone looking at?
I looked at Dave, his face ashen and his eyes wide. Not wanting to be labeled as an accessory, Dave silently but urgently mouthed:
YOUR MIKE IS ON!
I swallowed hard and took in several panicked breaths, hoping if I waited long enough that maybe this would all go away.
The heartbreaking thing is I really wanted to do a good job for these kids. More importantly, I WAS doing a good job. I yelled for emphasis on the big plays and made a production out of each kid's name. I was cognizant that most of these kids wouldn’t get this experience very often and I was bound and determined to make the most of it for them. Coaches, players and parents alike, loved me right up to that moment.
Unless you are in fact Frankenstein's monster, you probably haven’t had the experience of an angry mob staring you down. I half expected the parents to overrun the booth with torches and pitchforks. I watched nervously as the game/doomsday clock ticked to zero.
The whistle for half time blew and despite considering staying in that booth for eternity, I ventured out. In cases like this, you are certain the most awkward and terrible scenario is playing out. You are sure everyone is looking at you. Everyone hates you. Usually someone reassures you that you are exaggerating and it isn't all that bad.
It was absolutely that bad.
It was made worse by the fact that the only exit, aside from leaping 40 feet from the back of the press box (which I considered), was to walk down the bleachers and directly through the throng of enemy combatants.
I felt the eyes upon me and heard whispers and not at all veiled insults.
There's no way to fix this.
I didn't realize the mike was on
which translates to
I'm not only an asshole but also totally incompetent
I put my head down and double timed it for the concession stand two football fields away. I yearned desperately for my sister and sanctuary. I would tell her my gaffe. She would laugh it off. She would tell me it wasn't that bad.
From 25 feet away, I could see by her face that news travels fast and if I was hoping for a friendly face, I'd need to keep on looking.
"Nice move."
"How did you know?"
"I heard you"
"Where were you?"
"I was here you dummy!"
Word, as it turns out, traveled at the speed of sound. I knew instantly the people on that field heard me. I never imagined that my sister, some 300 yards away and in a concrete building had also heard me. The annoyance visible to even the innocent:
"What did Uncle Shane do?" asked my 6 year old niece, Leah
My sister either could not or would not hide the look of disgust on her face. She stared at me for a long second; doubtless, she was making a mental note to never ever involve her idiot brother in the lives and activities of her children.
As I shuffled sheepishly away and made my way back towards the angry throng of parents, I had no choice but to agree with her.
My sister, of all people, sought to give me my first big break. My 8 year old nephew was playing his Rocket Football game on the high school field and wouldn't it be great if they had a real live announcer.
"I'll bet my little brother would be good at that!"
My sister has never been quite so wrong.
I was excited. I practiced on live games, on video games, on imaginary games. I was going to nail this. The big dame came and my excitement was palpable. I bounded into the broadcast booth and was introduced to my spotter, an older man named Dave.
"Only thing you need to know is to flip the switch on the mike when you want to call the game and turn the mike off when you're not talking. Otherwise, they can hear everything you say." Easy enough, I thought. I sat down and was ready to start my path to Canton.
"YOU ARE LOOKING LIVE AT..." I mimicked the phrase made famous by Brett Mussberger. The parents ate it up and I was on my way.
The game began and everything was going swimmingly. The practice paid off.
"You're good," said Dave, "There are games later today if you want to stick around..."
If you have gone to Little League football, you have undoubtedly seen kids like John. John hit his growth spurt before everyone else. A head taller and 30 pounds heavier than everyone else, John was a bruiser at Tailback. While slow and awkward, John was a guarantee of 5 yards every time. Not unlike National geographic footage of a pride of lions trying to take down a water buffalo, it took almost the entire team to bring him down. They got him down but it took five yards to do it.
The play was third and sixteen. John lined up at fullback in front of the speedier, smaller running back. They called John's number and he got his usual five yards.
I called the play
Davis gets five yards on the play bringing up fourth down for the Blue Devils
Like a car accident, the details of what followed still play out in slow motion
I turned to Dave and commented
"Why the fuck did they do that? I've seen faster dead men than that kid!"
I was looking at the field so I couldn't help but notice that every single person immediately turned around and looked back at the broadcast booth
What is everyone looking at?
I looked at Dave, his face ashen and his eyes wide. Not wanting to be labeled as an accessory, Dave silently but urgently mouthed:
YOUR MIKE IS ON!
I swallowed hard and took in several panicked breaths, hoping if I waited long enough that maybe this would all go away.
The heartbreaking thing is I really wanted to do a good job for these kids. More importantly, I WAS doing a good job. I yelled for emphasis on the big plays and made a production out of each kid's name. I was cognizant that most of these kids wouldn’t get this experience very often and I was bound and determined to make the most of it for them. Coaches, players and parents alike, loved me right up to that moment.
Unless you are in fact Frankenstein's monster, you probably haven’t had the experience of an angry mob staring you down. I half expected the parents to overrun the booth with torches and pitchforks. I watched nervously as the game/doomsday clock ticked to zero.
The whistle for half time blew and despite considering staying in that booth for eternity, I ventured out. In cases like this, you are certain the most awkward and terrible scenario is playing out. You are sure everyone is looking at you. Everyone hates you. Usually someone reassures you that you are exaggerating and it isn't all that bad.
It was absolutely that bad.
It was made worse by the fact that the only exit, aside from leaping 40 feet from the back of the press box (which I considered), was to walk down the bleachers and directly through the throng of enemy combatants.
I felt the eyes upon me and heard whispers and not at all veiled insults.
There's no way to fix this.
I didn't realize the mike was on
which translates to
I'm not only an asshole but also totally incompetent
I put my head down and double timed it for the concession stand two football fields away. I yearned desperately for my sister and sanctuary. I would tell her my gaffe. She would laugh it off. She would tell me it wasn't that bad.
From 25 feet away, I could see by her face that news travels fast and if I was hoping for a friendly face, I'd need to keep on looking.
"Nice move."
"How did you know?"
"I heard you"
"Where were you?"
"I was here you dummy!"
Word, as it turns out, traveled at the speed of sound. I knew instantly the people on that field heard me. I never imagined that my sister, some 300 yards away and in a concrete building had also heard me. The annoyance visible to even the innocent:
"What did Uncle Shane do?" asked my 6 year old niece, Leah
My sister either could not or would not hide the look of disgust on her face. She stared at me for a long second; doubtless, she was making a mental note to never ever involve her idiot brother in the lives and activities of her children.
As I shuffled sheepishly away and made my way back towards the angry throng of parents, I had no choice but to agree with her.
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