An underlying theme in my life is the chance occurrences and encounters that cross my path. Be it strange people, bizzare events, or divine intervention, I am a magnet for the random. It would be easy to let these moments pass and fade into oblivion. Luckily I have managed to cultivate an ability to recognize the situations as they are starting to unfold. This subsequently activates a mental recorder, allowing me to capture details and dialouge that might slip by someone unprepared for such an event. On top of that, I have an unconscious talent for doing the exact wrong things in these situations and turning the banal into a calamity in seconds flat.
This particular story does afford me a slight defense. I was just sitting there. To be fair, my unconscious reponse might have fanned the flames in an attempt to produce such an outcome.
I hate January and February. They are miserable times of the year that are void of any watchable sports or outdoor activities that don't replicate the symptoms of malaria. Aside from getting loaded and firing up my snowblower, I was finding zero joy in my winter existence. In a stroke of inspiration and a motivation to take the fight to January, I hatched The DeMott Winter Movie Festival. I go and see one movie a week from January 1 to February 28. This has a profound effect on my battle against the drudgery of winter. Another upshot is the fact that the naming and notion of the DeMott Winter Movie Festival annoys my wife to no end. Annoying Karen is a preferred activity regardless of season.
I believe this is called a win-win.
The escape that a movie provides makes it the perfect solution to my problem. I sit back with my diet soda and my jujy fruit/popcorn mixture and after 2+ hours, I am reborn to the point that even the miserable Michigan winter can't touch me for a while. An important condition is that I go to the movies by myself. It isn't a necessity. I have advised my wife on more than one instance that I have an extra pass to the DWMF and have selected her to attend. Nonplussed, she almost always declines despite the fact that she hates that I go to movies alone. She has never clarified if she hates that I am participating by myself in an activity that commonly involves other people or that she hates the fact that the other movie goers look with disdain upon her husband as some sketchy, weird, loner. Regardless, I go anyway. I'm protective of this time alone and would prefer not to spend it forecasting the plot to a movie I have never seen and being peppered with my wife's questions and refusal to suspend her disbelief.
"Is she gonna die?"
"What is he doing? Why is he doing that?"
"Oh right! That would never happen."
I consciously choose to go it alone.
Year One Week Two of The DWMF found me with a ticket to The Clint Eastwood movie, "Gran Turino." The weather outside was terrible. Inside provided a different test to my patience. The pimple-faced emo crowd was in a tizzy because of the latest installment of the faux-vampire series, "Twilight." I knew the storm would make me exponentially busy at work and I was edgy enough from that certainty. The theatrical histrionics of some drama club teenage tool wearing eye-makeup and a cape was actively pushing this race car to the red. At first opportunity, I made my way into the empty theater and picked my spot. Half way up and halfway in the aisle, I secured a prime seat for sound and visual quality.
The movie was about five minutes in when my nemesis entered the theater. As my row was completely empty, i correctly figured he would block my unfettered access to the bathroom. My nemesis was alone and my distrust was instantaneous. Despite the fact that I go to movies alone, I am immediately suspicious of a man alone at a movie. I assume he is either part of the raincoat set or planning some sort of killing spree.
I understand the hypocrisy. Accept it and move on.
My nemesis came closer and my discomfort grew. I heard my voice in my head
All right pal, that's close enough. Let's back it up.
I am not a person who is easily surprised. A life time of surprises has allowed me to be prepared for most situations. I was completely unprepared for what happened next.
My nemesis sat in the seat right beside me.
I was so taken aback at first that I stuttered aloud. A confused "uhhh" escaped my lips and my brain immediately went into overdrive
What the fuck is this?
Maybe I know this dude...
I've never seen this person before in my life
I sat there waiting, though I'm not sure for what, a plan that simply wasn't coming to me
He thinks I'm his buddy. That's it. All a big mistake.
I reached under my seat for an imaginary item and made as much noise and ruckus as I could.
The nemesis simply shifted in his seat, unaware or uncaring.
Nope. That's not it
My father always taught me if there was a situation that needed addressing, the best solution is an aggressive one. Fresh out of ideas, I decided on drastic action in the absence of anything else. I turned in my seat and stared at the guy. Our eyes locked for what felt like forever. I leaned in to speak and my antagonist leaned in as well.
"Hey Man."
"Yeah?" His tone conveyed a pleasant,willingness to help. I stared at him for longer than was customary in the hopes that this apparently normal man would realize his incredibly abnormal course of action. When he didn't move, I proceeded on my own charted course.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
He laughed nervously. "What do you mean?"
I restated with proper inflection. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Watching the movie."
"Yeah," I agreed, "but why are you sitting right next to me?"
"I like the middle of the theater"
"No shit? Me too. That's why I got here 20 minutes before the movie started. You gotta move, dude."
"Are you serious?"
"Are you fucking serious? Who sits next to a complete stranger in a half empty theater?"
"I like the middle," he reasonded again. I wasn't having it
My nemesis stood up and moved one seat over. As I sat there wondering how in the hell this stuff happens to me my nemeisis, who is clearly the most clueless human being on the face of the planet leaned back in to speak
"Hey man, can you tell me what I missed?"
Again, I turned in my seat fully facing the man and stared at him. I stared at him until his face changed from expectation to realization. I stared for a good thirty seconds after he looked back to the screen, exaggerating his interest in the movie. I stared until I was certain that my point had been made.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Good Friday,Hebrew Nationals, and The Church of Baseball
I’ve heard it said that while man created sports, God created baseball.
This makes sense to me as baseball is at the epicenter of my spiritual being. I can draw parallels between the organized religion in which I have been baptized (Catholicism) and the false idol to which I am admittedly more committed. (I feel guilty writing that so obviously The Catholics can claim some success with me.) I can find commonalities between baseball and Catholicism. Susan Sarandon’s character in Bull Durham pointed out: “There 108 beads in a Catholic Rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.” Of course there are more overt examples. The stadiums and churches are breath taking cathedrals when they are at their best or, when designed and built between 1950 and 1970, bland and ugly. I give you Riverfront Stadium or my home Parish of St John Boscoe for perfect examples of the latter. (My cousin Doug accurately refers to St Johns as "The only ugly Catholic Church in the world.”) Even the traditional baseball meal of beer and hot dog takes on the communal feel of bread and wine.
Of course I only eat Hebrew National so who knows what the hell that means.
What can I say? The Jews make a tasty hot dog.
It's this last comparison that deepened one faith and forever altered the beloved ritual of the other.
My wife is a super-Catholic. The daughter of a devout Polish Catholic mother, she is the moral compass for our family. I am usually glad that I went to church while acknowledging that if left to me I would never go. I'm not exactly dragged to church but I confess to slipping off to the bathroom weekly and playing Angry Birds during Mass. My wife can recite all the necessary call and responses for any given feast on any given weekend. Like the other dedicated parishioners, the timing of her rote replies are in perfect unison while her idiot husband stands sheepishly next to her saying every fifth word aloud and clumsily mouthing the others in the hopes that his charade is known only to God and her.
I have never denied anything of which I write. She is more knowledgeable, more pious, more holy, better. In retrospect, that makes my decision to engage in a religious argument with her so stupefying. The reason is pretty simple.
I'm stupid.
Karen doesn't challenge me in a test of which '84 Tiger was used in situational relief (Doug Bair) or what utility infielder and all-purpose Tiger wore number 16 for said team. (Tom Brookens) The fact that I challenged her on the dictates of a Catholic mandate is so foolish that the truly amazing conclusion to this story can only be looked at as divine in nature.
A few years ago, the biggest weekend of our respective faiths crossed paths. Opening Day fell on a Friday, Good Friday as fate would have it. Per usual, I would be in attendance and decked out in my orange and blue, Olde English D's proudly displayed as to leave little doubt to which team I was devoted. I eagerly anticipated the game, the crowd, and everything John Fogerty sang about.
As much as anything, I couldn't wait for that first hot dog.
Like so many religious conflicts throughout history, this one started by chance and the flames quickly fanned into full blown war within a few days’ time.
I had wanted to go to Stations of the Cross, the service that detailed the final moments of Christ's life, and had mentioned that to my wife the previous year. As it turns out she listens when I mention things and she remembers it, often to my extreme detriment.
"Hey, I can't go but if you want to go to Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, I'm sure my mom will go."
I quickly and flatly rejected this suggestion with two words
"Opening Day."
"OK. You just said you would like to go."
"Yeah but not this Friday"
I'd like to think that to her credit, she understood and didn't push it and what followed was simply one of those twists of fate that led to something bigger. The cynic in me thinks she was lying in wait. Armed with righteous knowledge, she waged her very own crusade.
"What are you going to do about Good Friday?"
"Just let it happen. You know. Nothing I can do about it now."
"No smartass. What are you going to eat?"
I let this question ruminate. Why the hell is she asking this? She knows I'm going to eat a hot dog. I always eat a hot dog. Years of walking blindly into a trap had me proceeding with due care and caution. This was too important. With no worldly idea where the hell this was going, I proceeded, with extreme hesitation.
"A...Hot....Dog?"
It made no difference that my statement was more interrogative than declarative. I was still gazed upon like I was Linda Blair, molesting myself with that cross.
"YOU CAN’T DO THAT. IT'S GOOD FRIDAY?! YOU CAN'T EAT MEAT ON GOOD FRIDAY."
As I said earlier, This was serious. This was opening day. This was peanuts and cracker jacks. This was Hebrew National. It was fight or flight and damn it, some things are worth fighting for.
"Bullshit! I'm eating a fucking hot dog on Opening Day."
"It's Opening Day," I repeated, thinking it was a simple misunderstanding, a lack of clarity rather than 28 years of Catholic training that was hanging up my betrothed.
"It's LENT. You don't EAT MEAT on GOOD FRIDAY!"
She emphasized the important words to hammer home her point.
I scrambled together a sound and flawless argument.
"NO! NO! NO! Lent represents Jesus’ time in the dessert. He was dead on Good Friday. Lent: Over” I finished the argument with the universal symbol of dusting one's hand's off and added the safe sign for emphasis. I figured pulling baseball imagery into the argument was a nice touch.
My wife was clearly angry and took to the profane to aid her cause.
"NO. TOTAL BULLSHIT!"
"NO. It isn't. I'm having a fucking hot dog on opening day."
I said this last line in a low but steady, defiant tone and the argument was over. My wife silently stewing next to me, I knew the war wasn't over but I had won the initial volley.
Eventually, she just fucking wore me down.
Her plan of attack was brilliant. It was multi-faceted. It was sometimes full force anger. It was sometimes joking. It was sometimes appealing to human decency.
She brought it up several times a day over the next week. Knowing that above all things, including a hot dog with grilled onions, I value a quiet hassle free evening at home. She was bound and determined to win. The final straw came when, in a surprise attack, she brought in her mother, St Elizabeth of Livonia.
"Mom, Shane is going to eat a hot dog at the game on Friday."
My mouth fell open in utter shock. I was facing a force I knew I could not argue with. I had not anticipated this drastic step. My wife stood to the side with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Oh...Oh no" My mother-in-law voiced her disproval in a low, dramatic whisper. I'm sure she didn't actually make the sign of the cross but she wasn't far from that. I half-heartedly explained my logic, the disappointment registering on my mother in law's face throughout. I knew it was in vain before I even started
"OK. Fine" The defeat was unmistakable in my voice. I looked at Karen as Betty walked away.
"YOU ASSHOLE," I silently mouthed. She smiled wide, knowing she had won.
The big day came and my excitement was palpable. I bounded around the house alternating my songs between "Take Me out to the Ballgame" and "Centerfield." My day would not be ruined.
How the hell will she know if I have a hot dog?
She was not to be deterred. I kissed her goodbye and as I headed out the door she called after me.
"NO HOT DOGS."
How dare she? This is my day. My anger boiled over and with the door closed behind me my bravery surged. I turned and pointed emphatically at the door and said in a low growl. "I'm having a fucking hot dog."
And I did.
Two, in fact
They were delicious.
Sacrilicious.
"Did you have fun? Did you have a hot dog?" My wife followed up the first question quickly, betraying her true concern wasn't my enjoyment but my defeat.
"NO!" I sounded like a petulant indignant child.
Days passed and the issue died with my white lie. The next weekend I was having breakfast when an e-mail from my friend Drew popped in front of me. The message piqued my curiosity and I said aloud to Karen, "This is weird. Look at this."
She came over and looked. Drew's message was unusually cryptic
"Just past the half-way point" and a link. I clicked the link and a montage of opening day photos flashed across the screen. I said to Karen. "I wonder if I'm in here." My question was answered, as Drew promised, just after the half-way point.
My picture flashed onto the screen.
"Hey!" said Karen.
There I was in all my Olde English glory.
Sun shining brightly on my face
Spring in my step
Hebrew National Hot Dog in my hand
In a moment's time Karen turned from proud wife to Grand Inquisitor.
Arm extended and her finger pointing at me to emphasize my heresy
"THAT'S A HOT DOG! YOU ATE A HOT DOG! YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T! YOU LIED!"
I turned toward her, mouth agape, stunned.
"I...uhhh. I....uhhh." I stammered and stuttered.
I looked at her again. She stood there waiting.
My response was simultaneously wildly inappropriate yet totally appropriate.
"Holy Fuck"
"Yeah...I knew it." My wife turned and walked away, disgusted.
I sat there and stared at the picture of myself unbelieving yet at the same time, a true believer. Like any baseball fan I'm a superstitious guy. I don't use the words "no hitter" when a Tiger is throwing one. If the Tigers win a playoff game, I wear the exact same clothes until they lose. This was God telling me I was wrong and I knew it. My faith was deepened and it has altered my traditions. From that moment, I have and will never eat meat on Good Friday. I was wrong and Jesus was letting me know.
My friend Drew felt compelled to tie a bow on the gift he delivered to my door.
"You know, if you think about it, it's interesting that on Good Friday it was a Hebrew National hot dog that betrayed you."
Yeah, that is interesting Mel Gibson.
These are the kinds of people that I'm friends with.
This makes sense to me as baseball is at the epicenter of my spiritual being. I can draw parallels between the organized religion in which I have been baptized (Catholicism) and the false idol to which I am admittedly more committed. (I feel guilty writing that so obviously The Catholics can claim some success with me.) I can find commonalities between baseball and Catholicism. Susan Sarandon’s character in Bull Durham pointed out: “There 108 beads in a Catholic Rosary and there are 108 stitches in a baseball.” Of course there are more overt examples. The stadiums and churches are breath taking cathedrals when they are at their best or, when designed and built between 1950 and 1970, bland and ugly. I give you Riverfront Stadium or my home Parish of St John Boscoe for perfect examples of the latter. (My cousin Doug accurately refers to St Johns as "The only ugly Catholic Church in the world.”) Even the traditional baseball meal of beer and hot dog takes on the communal feel of bread and wine.
Of course I only eat Hebrew National so who knows what the hell that means.
What can I say? The Jews make a tasty hot dog.
It's this last comparison that deepened one faith and forever altered the beloved ritual of the other.
My wife is a super-Catholic. The daughter of a devout Polish Catholic mother, she is the moral compass for our family. I am usually glad that I went to church while acknowledging that if left to me I would never go. I'm not exactly dragged to church but I confess to slipping off to the bathroom weekly and playing Angry Birds during Mass. My wife can recite all the necessary call and responses for any given feast on any given weekend. Like the other dedicated parishioners, the timing of her rote replies are in perfect unison while her idiot husband stands sheepishly next to her saying every fifth word aloud and clumsily mouthing the others in the hopes that his charade is known only to God and her.
I have never denied anything of which I write. She is more knowledgeable, more pious, more holy, better. In retrospect, that makes my decision to engage in a religious argument with her so stupefying. The reason is pretty simple.
I'm stupid.
Karen doesn't challenge me in a test of which '84 Tiger was used in situational relief (Doug Bair) or what utility infielder and all-purpose Tiger wore number 16 for said team. (Tom Brookens) The fact that I challenged her on the dictates of a Catholic mandate is so foolish that the truly amazing conclusion to this story can only be looked at as divine in nature.
A few years ago, the biggest weekend of our respective faiths crossed paths. Opening Day fell on a Friday, Good Friday as fate would have it. Per usual, I would be in attendance and decked out in my orange and blue, Olde English D's proudly displayed as to leave little doubt to which team I was devoted. I eagerly anticipated the game, the crowd, and everything John Fogerty sang about.
As much as anything, I couldn't wait for that first hot dog.
Like so many religious conflicts throughout history, this one started by chance and the flames quickly fanned into full blown war within a few days’ time.
I had wanted to go to Stations of the Cross, the service that detailed the final moments of Christ's life, and had mentioned that to my wife the previous year. As it turns out she listens when I mention things and she remembers it, often to my extreme detriment.
"Hey, I can't go but if you want to go to Stations of the Cross on Good Friday, I'm sure my mom will go."
I quickly and flatly rejected this suggestion with two words
"Opening Day."
"OK. You just said you would like to go."
"Yeah but not this Friday"
I'd like to think that to her credit, she understood and didn't push it and what followed was simply one of those twists of fate that led to something bigger. The cynic in me thinks she was lying in wait. Armed with righteous knowledge, she waged her very own crusade.
"What are you going to do about Good Friday?"
"Just let it happen. You know. Nothing I can do about it now."
"No smartass. What are you going to eat?"
I let this question ruminate. Why the hell is she asking this? She knows I'm going to eat a hot dog. I always eat a hot dog. Years of walking blindly into a trap had me proceeding with due care and caution. This was too important. With no worldly idea where the hell this was going, I proceeded, with extreme hesitation.
"A...Hot....Dog?"
It made no difference that my statement was more interrogative than declarative. I was still gazed upon like I was Linda Blair, molesting myself with that cross.
"YOU CAN’T DO THAT. IT'S GOOD FRIDAY?! YOU CAN'T EAT MEAT ON GOOD FRIDAY."
As I said earlier, This was serious. This was opening day. This was peanuts and cracker jacks. This was Hebrew National. It was fight or flight and damn it, some things are worth fighting for.
"Bullshit! I'm eating a fucking hot dog on Opening Day."
"It's Opening Day," I repeated, thinking it was a simple misunderstanding, a lack of clarity rather than 28 years of Catholic training that was hanging up my betrothed.
"It's LENT. You don't EAT MEAT on GOOD FRIDAY!"
She emphasized the important words to hammer home her point.
I scrambled together a sound and flawless argument.
"NO! NO! NO! Lent represents Jesus’ time in the dessert. He was dead on Good Friday. Lent: Over” I finished the argument with the universal symbol of dusting one's hand's off and added the safe sign for emphasis. I figured pulling baseball imagery into the argument was a nice touch.
My wife was clearly angry and took to the profane to aid her cause.
"NO. TOTAL BULLSHIT!"
"NO. It isn't. I'm having a fucking hot dog on opening day."
I said this last line in a low but steady, defiant tone and the argument was over. My wife silently stewing next to me, I knew the war wasn't over but I had won the initial volley.
Eventually, she just fucking wore me down.
Her plan of attack was brilliant. It was multi-faceted. It was sometimes full force anger. It was sometimes joking. It was sometimes appealing to human decency.
She brought it up several times a day over the next week. Knowing that above all things, including a hot dog with grilled onions, I value a quiet hassle free evening at home. She was bound and determined to win. The final straw came when, in a surprise attack, she brought in her mother, St Elizabeth of Livonia.
"Mom, Shane is going to eat a hot dog at the game on Friday."
My mouth fell open in utter shock. I was facing a force I knew I could not argue with. I had not anticipated this drastic step. My wife stood to the side with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Oh...Oh no" My mother-in-law voiced her disproval in a low, dramatic whisper. I'm sure she didn't actually make the sign of the cross but she wasn't far from that. I half-heartedly explained my logic, the disappointment registering on my mother in law's face throughout. I knew it was in vain before I even started
"OK. Fine" The defeat was unmistakable in my voice. I looked at Karen as Betty walked away.
"YOU ASSHOLE," I silently mouthed. She smiled wide, knowing she had won.
The big day came and my excitement was palpable. I bounded around the house alternating my songs between "Take Me out to the Ballgame" and "Centerfield." My day would not be ruined.
How the hell will she know if I have a hot dog?
She was not to be deterred. I kissed her goodbye and as I headed out the door she called after me.
"NO HOT DOGS."
How dare she? This is my day. My anger boiled over and with the door closed behind me my bravery surged. I turned and pointed emphatically at the door and said in a low growl. "I'm having a fucking hot dog."
And I did.
Two, in fact
They were delicious.
Sacrilicious.
"Did you have fun? Did you have a hot dog?" My wife followed up the first question quickly, betraying her true concern wasn't my enjoyment but my defeat.
"NO!" I sounded like a petulant indignant child.
Days passed and the issue died with my white lie. The next weekend I was having breakfast when an e-mail from my friend Drew popped in front of me. The message piqued my curiosity and I said aloud to Karen, "This is weird. Look at this."
She came over and looked. Drew's message was unusually cryptic
"Just past the half-way point" and a link. I clicked the link and a montage of opening day photos flashed across the screen. I said to Karen. "I wonder if I'm in here." My question was answered, as Drew promised, just after the half-way point.
My picture flashed onto the screen.
"Hey!" said Karen.
There I was in all my Olde English glory.
Sun shining brightly on my face
Spring in my step
Hebrew National Hot Dog in my hand
In a moment's time Karen turned from proud wife to Grand Inquisitor.
Arm extended and her finger pointing at me to emphasize my heresy
"THAT'S A HOT DOG! YOU ATE A HOT DOG! YOU SAID YOU DIDN'T! YOU LIED!"
I turned toward her, mouth agape, stunned.
"I...uhhh. I....uhhh." I stammered and stuttered.
I looked at her again. She stood there waiting.
My response was simultaneously wildly inappropriate yet totally appropriate.
"Holy Fuck"
"Yeah...I knew it." My wife turned and walked away, disgusted.
I sat there and stared at the picture of myself unbelieving yet at the same time, a true believer. Like any baseball fan I'm a superstitious guy. I don't use the words "no hitter" when a Tiger is throwing one. If the Tigers win a playoff game, I wear the exact same clothes until they lose. This was God telling me I was wrong and I knew it. My faith was deepened and it has altered my traditions. From that moment, I have and will never eat meat on Good Friday. I was wrong and Jesus was letting me know.
My friend Drew felt compelled to tie a bow on the gift he delivered to my door.
"You know, if you think about it, it's interesting that on Good Friday it was a Hebrew National hot dog that betrayed you."
Yeah, that is interesting Mel Gibson.
These are the kinds of people that I'm friends with.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Dia De Los Muertos
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."
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."
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.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
"Crossbow"
"I need you to go to my house."
My mother was recovering from surgery at the home of my aunt and grandmother. I was visiting her and upon walking in, instantly recognized the concern in her voice. I'd heard it somewhere near a thousand times.
"Okay“. Why?"
Your sister called. xxxx is drunk and walking around the neighborhood."
xxxx was a longtime family friend. xxxx had a problem and would often require both his family and ours to intervene. Requesting this wasn't enough to justify my mother's concern. I knew there was more
"He has a crossbow."
"What the fuck? He has a fucking crossbow?"
"Yes. Can you go and get it away from him?"
"This is some favor, Mom"
The thing is. She knew I'd go. I knew I'd go. The wildcard here was xxxx and his crossbow.
My cousin, Doug was home for Christmas and privy to this conversation. I looked at him.
"Your ass is coming"
"Yeah...Okay."
Our family copes by laughing at those things that would scar normal people. We laugh to keep from crying. It's a trait my mother passed to her children by leading through example. Life is hard and often sad and sometimes to get through it, you have to take humor where ever you might happen upon it
"I need some clothes since you'll be by my house."
"What do you need?"
"My robe, a t-shirt, my sweat pants, some underwear..."
"Jesus Ma..."
"Oh just my thong..."
I winced noticeably as she laughed at me.
"You know, sometimes xxxx ends up at my house when he drinks"
"That's great mom. I have to go to your house to retrieve your underwear..."
"Thong..."
I paused, "Where there may or may not be a drunk man who may or may not have a crossbow?"
"Can you pick up some Ruby Red Squirt?"
This was fucking pointless.
As we drove to disarm this man and pick up my mother's undergarments, the mood in my car was understandably tense. Doug and I barely said a word, only briefly summarizing the task at hand.
"Fucking Crossbow?"
"Yeah, the absolute BEST ending here is an arrest”, Doug correctly observed.
The worst possible endings were obvious and too numerous to mention.
We rounded the corner and instantly saw a crowd had gathered. I sucked in my breath sharply and heard my cousin swear quietly, almost to himself. The tension was palpable. I literally had to make myself press the gas pedal, preparing myself for the flashing sirens and yellow tape that would cause a group of fifteen people to gather in the middle of a neighborhood on a Tuesday afternoon.
We approached and I was planning how I was going to deliver whatever this terrible news was to family and friends and the crowd of onlookers simultaneously scattered like a flock of dirty pigeons.
There was nothing there. They seemingly just congregated for reasons I still can't understand and then parted as I drove by.
"What the fuck?" was all I could muster
We pulled into the driveway of my mom's house and I opened the door. I was about to get out of the car when Doug said, almost to himself,
"I hope he isn't wandering around in there with that crossbow."
The absurdity of that statement and the mounting tension of the situation were perfectly summarized. I pressed my head against the steering wheel and began to laugh uncontrollably.
Doug and I built up our courage and entered my mom's house. There was an eerie silence in the house.
Undoubtedly, you have entered a dwelling and have been struck with an ominous feeling that someone is in the house with you.
Imagine that feeling and then imagine that person having a crossbow. The burst of laughter between my cousin and I seemed a very distant memory.
We tiptoed through the house looking left and right. It must have looked like a scene from a war movie.
We were combat weary soldiers walking cautiously through a rice-paddy scanning the fields for certain death. Of course, Doug and I weren't carrying M-16's and it wasn't Charlie who threatened us but xxxx and his crossbow
It struck me then.
What were we doing here? This was above and beyond the call of being neighborly. XXXX was on his own.
"Fuck this. Let’s get her clothes and get the fuck out of here."
I moved quickly. I grabbed my mom's robe and sweat suit in one quick motion and opened the drawer for that last item.
My desire to get the hell out of there should have been paramount to anything else and right up to that moment it was.
Forgetting the fact that a drunken man with a crossbow might happen upon us, I reached into my mom's underwear drawer and pulled out a pair and in one quick motion, threw it over my shoulder with the goal of hitting my cousin in the face with his aunt's unmentionables.
Doug bent backwards at the waist at almost 90 degrees as the underwear sailed within an inch of his nose. Dressed in a black coat,He looked strikingly similar to Keanu Reeves's slow motion contortion as he avoided the gunfire of Agent Smith in "The Matrix”.
"Come on man, what the fuck?!"
We both erupted into laughter again. Two idiots, standing in the middle of an old lady's room throwing her underwear at each other while a man with a crossbow lurked somewhere nearby.
We never crossed paths with xxxx or, more importantly, his crossbow.
I tell people the ending of the story and it's always met with disappointment.
"That's it? kind of anti-climactic"
The alternate and exciting climax is my cousin or me being shot with a crossbow.
My mother was recovering from surgery at the home of my aunt and grandmother. I was visiting her and upon walking in, instantly recognized the concern in her voice. I'd heard it somewhere near a thousand times.
"Okay“. Why?"
Your sister called. xxxx is drunk and walking around the neighborhood."
xxxx was a longtime family friend. xxxx had a problem and would often require both his family and ours to intervene. Requesting this wasn't enough to justify my mother's concern. I knew there was more
"He has a crossbow."
"What the fuck? He has a fucking crossbow?"
"Yes. Can you go and get it away from him?"
"This is some favor, Mom"
The thing is. She knew I'd go. I knew I'd go. The wildcard here was xxxx and his crossbow.
My cousin, Doug was home for Christmas and privy to this conversation. I looked at him.
"Your ass is coming"
"Yeah...Okay."
Our family copes by laughing at those things that would scar normal people. We laugh to keep from crying. It's a trait my mother passed to her children by leading through example. Life is hard and often sad and sometimes to get through it, you have to take humor where ever you might happen upon it
"I need some clothes since you'll be by my house."
"What do you need?"
"My robe, a t-shirt, my sweat pants, some underwear..."
"Jesus Ma..."
"Oh just my thong..."
I winced noticeably as she laughed at me.
"You know, sometimes xxxx ends up at my house when he drinks"
"That's great mom. I have to go to your house to retrieve your underwear..."
"Thong..."
I paused, "Where there may or may not be a drunk man who may or may not have a crossbow?"
"Can you pick up some Ruby Red Squirt?"
This was fucking pointless.
As we drove to disarm this man and pick up my mother's undergarments, the mood in my car was understandably tense. Doug and I barely said a word, only briefly summarizing the task at hand.
"Fucking Crossbow?"
"Yeah, the absolute BEST ending here is an arrest”, Doug correctly observed.
The worst possible endings were obvious and too numerous to mention.
We rounded the corner and instantly saw a crowd had gathered. I sucked in my breath sharply and heard my cousin swear quietly, almost to himself. The tension was palpable. I literally had to make myself press the gas pedal, preparing myself for the flashing sirens and yellow tape that would cause a group of fifteen people to gather in the middle of a neighborhood on a Tuesday afternoon.
We approached and I was planning how I was going to deliver whatever this terrible news was to family and friends and the crowd of onlookers simultaneously scattered like a flock of dirty pigeons.
There was nothing there. They seemingly just congregated for reasons I still can't understand and then parted as I drove by.
"What the fuck?" was all I could muster
We pulled into the driveway of my mom's house and I opened the door. I was about to get out of the car when Doug said, almost to himself,
"I hope he isn't wandering around in there with that crossbow."
The absurdity of that statement and the mounting tension of the situation were perfectly summarized. I pressed my head against the steering wheel and began to laugh uncontrollably.
Doug and I built up our courage and entered my mom's house. There was an eerie silence in the house.
Undoubtedly, you have entered a dwelling and have been struck with an ominous feeling that someone is in the house with you.
Imagine that feeling and then imagine that person having a crossbow. The burst of laughter between my cousin and I seemed a very distant memory.
We tiptoed through the house looking left and right. It must have looked like a scene from a war movie.
We were combat weary soldiers walking cautiously through a rice-paddy scanning the fields for certain death. Of course, Doug and I weren't carrying M-16's and it wasn't Charlie who threatened us but xxxx and his crossbow
It struck me then.
What were we doing here? This was above and beyond the call of being neighborly. XXXX was on his own.
"Fuck this. Let’s get her clothes and get the fuck out of here."
I moved quickly. I grabbed my mom's robe and sweat suit in one quick motion and opened the drawer for that last item.
My desire to get the hell out of there should have been paramount to anything else and right up to that moment it was.
Forgetting the fact that a drunken man with a crossbow might happen upon us, I reached into my mom's underwear drawer and pulled out a pair and in one quick motion, threw it over my shoulder with the goal of hitting my cousin in the face with his aunt's unmentionables.
Doug bent backwards at the waist at almost 90 degrees as the underwear sailed within an inch of his nose. Dressed in a black coat,He looked strikingly similar to Keanu Reeves's slow motion contortion as he avoided the gunfire of Agent Smith in "The Matrix”.
"Come on man, what the fuck?!"
We both erupted into laughter again. Two idiots, standing in the middle of an old lady's room throwing her underwear at each other while a man with a crossbow lurked somewhere nearby.
We never crossed paths with xxxx or, more importantly, his crossbow.
I tell people the ending of the story and it's always met with disappointment.
"That's it? kind of anti-climactic"
The alternate and exciting climax is my cousin or me being shot with a crossbow.
Friday, January 6, 2012
"Porn and Quarters"
After meandering my way through 8 years of community college and undergrad, I had recently moved in with my mother. My plan was to complete 2 more years of post-grad to get my teaching certificate as the last 8 had produced a degree that qualified me to do absolutely nothing.
I was doing just that.
I enrolled at WMU to get a teaching certificate and reasoned to myself that substitute teaching would provide "hands on experience”.
In reality, I could work exactly whenever I wanted and get paid to read and manage my fantasy football teams while holding on to certain habits and lifestyles.
Happily, I took to substitute teaching. My hometown high school had provided me with constant work. I liked the kids and quickly became "the cool sub.” This was a distinction I held with great pride which pinpoints to a tee where my priorities were.
Moving back home at any age can alter the lifestyle one is used to. Doing so at 27 adds a degree of pride swallowing humiliation on top of any crimps in that person's style. Needless to say, my mother's upcoming trip to Germany was looked to with such eager anticipation that I didn't even bother hiding it. I extolled the virtues of bachelor-hood with my mom in earshot.
"MY mom is going to Germany for TWO WEEKS...house to myself" I'd say to friends, completely oblivious to the fact that no 27 year old man should ever speak that sentence.
The big day arrived and my upbeat mood was palpable as I drove my mom and her friends to the airport. The plans for my first afternoon of solitude had fallen nicely into place.
Day one festivities would involve porn, John Madden, and the joint I'd been squirreling away for this momentous occasion.
"First I'll get stoned, go get porn and Madden and ...OH...I HAVE TO DO LAUNDRY AND CLEAN," I exclaimed to myself after dropping the travelers at the airport.
I learned in college that if I were stoned, the menial tasks I performed were actually enjoyable while providing a focus and intensity that simply wasn't present when sober. Even now, cleaning the house or mowing the law brings forth a slight yearning for the scent of burning cannabis.
With my conscious altered and my focus narrowed, I set off for the necessary accoutrements, no hint of the disastrous trip that lie before me.
Things began swimmingly. I secured Madden '02 and was off to that nefarious corner of the store for some adult entertainment.
Family Video, ironically, has a fantastic porn selection. (On a similarly ironic note, Hollywood Video has no porn at all.) Rows of titles give recognition to a variety of fads and fetishes. New releases, retro, straight, gay, group sex, and solo. Literally anyone can find what they are looking for. After some perusing, I found "Hawaiian Blast”, A Kobe Tai/Heather Hunter feature. This had exceeded expectations.
The considerable down side to Family Video is the porn room was equipped with a swinging door more befitting a nineteenth century Old West saloon. Trying to open the door slowly was met with an audible "CREEEEEEEEEEAK”. A quick exit resulted in the doors banging against each other rapidly. Either exit sufficiently alerted the other customers that a pervert was in their midst.
It was probably the THC and the excitement of my find that helped me to forget this. I burst through the door remembering halfway through and tried to reach back and catch the unmistakable racket produced by the wildly flapping doors. This actually made things worse in that my attempts to slow the door sounded the afore-mentioned "CREEEEEEEEEEAK”. I had managed to elicit both undesirable outcomes in one badly planned moment.
I tried to steel myself. If you are high, the last thing you want is attention. It goes without saying that the only time you want less attention is leaving the porn room. My carelessness exiting the doors made me certain that an audience, and possibly a spotlight, awaited me. I stood in the little hallway separating the deviants from the general population and steadied my nerves. I strolled casually out and felt OK for about three steps until I heard a female voice say
"Hey, It's Mr. DeMott"
The only saving grace is the voice came from somewhere behind me so the look of shock and terror wasn't immediately seen. I actually considered for a brief moment, of taking off in a dead sprint and never acknowledging the voice I had clearly heard. Instead I stopped dead in my tracks and stared intently at the empty boxes in front of me. My brain rapidly firing as best it could against the THC and adrenaline flooding my system.
I was the only DeMott in the store-this person called me "Mr."-this person sounded young-this person was a girl. I wheeled around, pornographic movie and video game in hand to find two girls I had gotten to know through teaching at my old high school.
"HE-HEY-WHAT'S UP GIRLS?"
"Not much...you?"
Oh my mom's left the house to me for two weeks so I smoked some weed and rented porn and video games. You know...the usual
In truth, I have no idea what I said. Doubtless, it was awkward and my face betrayed me. I had no chance of this not spreading like wildfire and I knew it. I was fucked.
I left the girls probably four seconds before they exploded into tear stained hysterics at my expense. As I approached the counter, I felt a sense of relief in seeing the portly, pony-tailed cashier. With this kid’s lack of social life and knowledge of video games, I had no doubt; found a sympathetic, if not friendly exit from this hellscape. I could then try and salvage my day and my high.
Fate had other plans in the form of comic book guy's gorgeous and nubile coworker.
"Can I help who's next?"
I stood there, eyes watering, and stared at her long enough that comic book guy actually looked up from the customer he was helping and shooed me from his line
"She can help you, sir"
you treasonous fucking bastard
I meekly shuffled to the counter and placed the porn and video game on the counter. Certain I also reeked of pot; I watched her face carefully for any sign of reaching for a panic button. In the clear, I reached into my pocket and was awashed with a new horror.
I had changed all my cash to do the laundry. All that was left was a handful of quarters.
I don't know why I didn't just leave. It might have been defeat. Maybe it was dogged determination to make something of this awful trip. Whatever it was, it clearly altered my judgment.
It became clear, halfway through, that slowly and painstakingly counting the sixteen quarters needed to consummate the transaction was the worst possible thing I could have done. After I sorted the four stacks of four quarters and scooped them into my hand, I gave them to the video beauty without a word and hurried from the store and into my mother's mini van where sadly, a better day await me
I was doing just that.
I enrolled at WMU to get a teaching certificate and reasoned to myself that substitute teaching would provide "hands on experience”.
In reality, I could work exactly whenever I wanted and get paid to read and manage my fantasy football teams while holding on to certain habits and lifestyles.
Happily, I took to substitute teaching. My hometown high school had provided me with constant work. I liked the kids and quickly became "the cool sub.” This was a distinction I held with great pride which pinpoints to a tee where my priorities were.
Moving back home at any age can alter the lifestyle one is used to. Doing so at 27 adds a degree of pride swallowing humiliation on top of any crimps in that person's style. Needless to say, my mother's upcoming trip to Germany was looked to with such eager anticipation that I didn't even bother hiding it. I extolled the virtues of bachelor-hood with my mom in earshot.
"MY mom is going to Germany for TWO WEEKS...house to myself" I'd say to friends, completely oblivious to the fact that no 27 year old man should ever speak that sentence.
The big day arrived and my upbeat mood was palpable as I drove my mom and her friends to the airport. The plans for my first afternoon of solitude had fallen nicely into place.
Day one festivities would involve porn, John Madden, and the joint I'd been squirreling away for this momentous occasion.
"First I'll get stoned, go get porn and Madden and ...OH...I HAVE TO DO LAUNDRY AND CLEAN," I exclaimed to myself after dropping the travelers at the airport.
I learned in college that if I were stoned, the menial tasks I performed were actually enjoyable while providing a focus and intensity that simply wasn't present when sober. Even now, cleaning the house or mowing the law brings forth a slight yearning for the scent of burning cannabis.
With my conscious altered and my focus narrowed, I set off for the necessary accoutrements, no hint of the disastrous trip that lie before me.
Things began swimmingly. I secured Madden '02 and was off to that nefarious corner of the store for some adult entertainment.
Family Video, ironically, has a fantastic porn selection. (On a similarly ironic note, Hollywood Video has no porn at all.) Rows of titles give recognition to a variety of fads and fetishes. New releases, retro, straight, gay, group sex, and solo. Literally anyone can find what they are looking for. After some perusing, I found "Hawaiian Blast”, A Kobe Tai/Heather Hunter feature. This had exceeded expectations.
The considerable down side to Family Video is the porn room was equipped with a swinging door more befitting a nineteenth century Old West saloon. Trying to open the door slowly was met with an audible "CREEEEEEEEEEAK”. A quick exit resulted in the doors banging against each other rapidly. Either exit sufficiently alerted the other customers that a pervert was in their midst.
It was probably the THC and the excitement of my find that helped me to forget this. I burst through the door remembering halfway through and tried to reach back and catch the unmistakable racket produced by the wildly flapping doors. This actually made things worse in that my attempts to slow the door sounded the afore-mentioned "CREEEEEEEEEEAK”. I had managed to elicit both undesirable outcomes in one badly planned moment.
I tried to steel myself. If you are high, the last thing you want is attention. It goes without saying that the only time you want less attention is leaving the porn room. My carelessness exiting the doors made me certain that an audience, and possibly a spotlight, awaited me. I stood in the little hallway separating the deviants from the general population and steadied my nerves. I strolled casually out and felt OK for about three steps until I heard a female voice say
"Hey, It's Mr. DeMott"
The only saving grace is the voice came from somewhere behind me so the look of shock and terror wasn't immediately seen. I actually considered for a brief moment, of taking off in a dead sprint and never acknowledging the voice I had clearly heard. Instead I stopped dead in my tracks and stared intently at the empty boxes in front of me. My brain rapidly firing as best it could against the THC and adrenaline flooding my system.
I was the only DeMott in the store-this person called me "Mr."-this person sounded young-this person was a girl. I wheeled around, pornographic movie and video game in hand to find two girls I had gotten to know through teaching at my old high school.
"HE-HEY-WHAT'S UP GIRLS?"
"Not much...you?"
Oh my mom's left the house to me for two weeks so I smoked some weed and rented porn and video games. You know...the usual
In truth, I have no idea what I said. Doubtless, it was awkward and my face betrayed me. I had no chance of this not spreading like wildfire and I knew it. I was fucked.
I left the girls probably four seconds before they exploded into tear stained hysterics at my expense. As I approached the counter, I felt a sense of relief in seeing the portly, pony-tailed cashier. With this kid’s lack of social life and knowledge of video games, I had no doubt; found a sympathetic, if not friendly exit from this hellscape. I could then try and salvage my day and my high.
Fate had other plans in the form of comic book guy's gorgeous and nubile coworker.
"Can I help who's next?"
I stood there, eyes watering, and stared at her long enough that comic book guy actually looked up from the customer he was helping and shooed me from his line
"She can help you, sir"
you treasonous fucking bastard
I meekly shuffled to the counter and placed the porn and video game on the counter. Certain I also reeked of pot; I watched her face carefully for any sign of reaching for a panic button. In the clear, I reached into my pocket and was awashed with a new horror.
I had changed all my cash to do the laundry. All that was left was a handful of quarters.
I don't know why I didn't just leave. It might have been defeat. Maybe it was dogged determination to make something of this awful trip. Whatever it was, it clearly altered my judgment.
It became clear, halfway through, that slowly and painstakingly counting the sixteen quarters needed to consummate the transaction was the worst possible thing I could have done. After I sorted the four stacks of four quarters and scooped them into my hand, I gave them to the video beauty without a word and hurried from the store and into my mother's mini van where sadly, a better day await me
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