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.
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
Monday, December 12, 2011
"Sky Rockets in Flight"
Excluding any illegal acts, my first time was more of a disaster than yours.
I understand that rarely is the first time that fairytale that one might hope.
Mine was worse. I promise.
(At this point, I'd like to go ahead and invite my mother to stop reading)
Romance was not part of my game just yet, thoughts of same being trumped by the fact that I had found someone willing to have sex with me.
I had secured a location that afforded privacy and nothing else. It was not a candle-lit room with flowers and Barry White. It was a dingy, window-less, basement bedroom. A scraggly, stained indoor/outdoor carpet covered the room but exposed the cement floor in various patches. Grey, warped paneling covered the walls. As if the creep factor wasn't solidified enough, a large poster of Jack Nicholson's "Here's Johnny!" scene from The Shining hung on the walls
Honestly, I can't remember if my cousin and his friends were there at the beginning of the proceedings or came home from football practice once things had progressed. I had other things on my mind and was able to ignore the outside world, as it turns out, to my considerable detriment.
My cousin, Booger, is a story unto himself. Operating with little to no filter, Booger is at once my cousin, one of my best friends, as well as my chief rival and nemesis. He is loud, profane, and reactionary. Importantly, Booger operates on his own code that remains a mystery to those who know him. I knew this then, and now. This is why my taking for granted exactly what I thought Booger would do seems so foolish in retrospect
In this case I just assumed that he'd see a closed door and knock
Anyone who has ever had an intimate moment interrupted can relate to that sickening, nauseous, dread that starts at the base of your spine and the pit of your stomach as you hear a hand on the door and realize that door is not locked.
The degree of terror is directly proportionate to the degree of intimacy your act entails.
Changing clothes is bad.
Using the bathroom is worse,
Being walked in on while having sex is certainly the worst of any scenario. Throw in the fact it is the first time you are actually doing said act and the horror is unspeakable.
In a similar vein, it is supposed to be horrifying for the intruder. No one wants to walk in on that and the interloper usually slams the door while screaming some panic filled combination of apology and explanation.
As I said, my cousin has his own set of norms and mores
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
At this point I have completely forgotten there is a naked human being beneath me and am screaming at Booger to close the door. My own stream of curses and commands match his volume and intensity:
SHUTTHEFUCKINGDOORYOUASSHOLESHUTUPSHUTTHEFUCKINGDOOR!
After what seemed like forever,the shock of what was happening wore off and it simultaneously occurred to my cousin and I that he had come into that room for a reason. Our eyes locked. Booger looked at his hand and my eyes followed.
He was holding a cordless phone.
"Uh...It's fo you"
Booger threw the phone and ran away, leaving the door wide open and me with a decision to make
For reasons I still can't explain, I took the call
It was my father's landlord on the other line. After an uncomfortable pause, she inquired as to the whereabouts of my father as his rent was due and his clothes and personal effects were still there
This is when things went really bad.
"Uh, my dad's in jail."
"HE'S IN JAIL?!?"
"Yes."
"Will he be there a long time?"
"Yes, about 9 months"
"Well what..."
"Listen I'm going to call you back."
My plan was to ease my girlfriend into that little nuance of my personal life. That plan too, became a victim of this disaster.
Inevitably, the reaction to this story is the same.
What was she doing?
Well then what happened?
The answer is simple.
I don't know.
I have no idea what happened next and I don't remember what she was doing. It's fair to assume she was questioning why she got involved with this idiot and his obnoxious and apparently criminal family
I don't remember how the story ends.
I know for certain how it didn't end.
I understand that rarely is the first time that fairytale that one might hope.
Mine was worse. I promise.
(At this point, I'd like to go ahead and invite my mother to stop reading)
Romance was not part of my game just yet, thoughts of same being trumped by the fact that I had found someone willing to have sex with me.
I had secured a location that afforded privacy and nothing else. It was not a candle-lit room with flowers and Barry White. It was a dingy, window-less, basement bedroom. A scraggly, stained indoor/outdoor carpet covered the room but exposed the cement floor in various patches. Grey, warped paneling covered the walls. As if the creep factor wasn't solidified enough, a large poster of Jack Nicholson's "Here's Johnny!" scene from The Shining hung on the walls
Honestly, I can't remember if my cousin and his friends were there at the beginning of the proceedings or came home from football practice once things had progressed. I had other things on my mind and was able to ignore the outside world, as it turns out, to my considerable detriment.
My cousin, Booger, is a story unto himself. Operating with little to no filter, Booger is at once my cousin, one of my best friends, as well as my chief rival and nemesis. He is loud, profane, and reactionary. Importantly, Booger operates on his own code that remains a mystery to those who know him. I knew this then, and now. This is why my taking for granted exactly what I thought Booger would do seems so foolish in retrospect
In this case I just assumed that he'd see a closed door and knock
Anyone who has ever had an intimate moment interrupted can relate to that sickening, nauseous, dread that starts at the base of your spine and the pit of your stomach as you hear a hand on the door and realize that door is not locked.
The degree of terror is directly proportionate to the degree of intimacy your act entails.
Changing clothes is bad.
Using the bathroom is worse,
Being walked in on while having sex is certainly the worst of any scenario. Throw in the fact it is the first time you are actually doing said act and the horror is unspeakable.
In a similar vein, it is supposed to be horrifying for the intruder. No one wants to walk in on that and the interloper usually slams the door while screaming some panic filled combination of apology and explanation.
As I said, my cousin has his own set of norms and mores
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
"SHANEY FUCKIN!"
At this point I have completely forgotten there is a naked human being beneath me and am screaming at Booger to close the door. My own stream of curses and commands match his volume and intensity:
SHUTTHEFUCKINGDOORYOUASSHOLESHUTUPSHUTTHEFUCKINGDOOR!
After what seemed like forever,the shock of what was happening wore off and it simultaneously occurred to my cousin and I that he had come into that room for a reason. Our eyes locked. Booger looked at his hand and my eyes followed.
He was holding a cordless phone.
"Uh...It's fo you"
Booger threw the phone and ran away, leaving the door wide open and me with a decision to make
For reasons I still can't explain, I took the call
It was my father's landlord on the other line. After an uncomfortable pause, she inquired as to the whereabouts of my father as his rent was due and his clothes and personal effects were still there
This is when things went really bad.
"Uh, my dad's in jail."
"HE'S IN JAIL?!?"
"Yes."
"Will he be there a long time?"
"Yes, about 9 months"
"Well what..."
"Listen I'm going to call you back."
My plan was to ease my girlfriend into that little nuance of my personal life. That plan too, became a victim of this disaster.
Inevitably, the reaction to this story is the same.
What was she doing?
Well then what happened?
The answer is simple.
I don't know.
I have no idea what happened next and I don't remember what she was doing. It's fair to assume she was questioning why she got involved with this idiot and his obnoxious and apparently criminal family
I don't remember how the story ends.
I know for certain how it didn't end.
"Blues Bitch"
If you google "Big Time Sarah". You can get a sense of what I went through.
I say "a sense" because seeing a picture of her frightening countenance doesn't do justice to what happened.
Years later, when I wake up screaming and cant remember why, I can only assume it's Sarah that haunts me.
Every Summer, I would make a yearly pilgrimage to Chicago to see my friend Chad. Chad strives to be a great host. Not resting on the laurels of a 20 year friendship, Chad goes all out in terms of creativity and quality of entertainment.
On a seemingly unrelated note, Chad also takes significant pleasure in any emotional or physical humiliation I might endure.
For Chad, the former paid dividends to the latter in a manner that well exceeded his imagination.
Chad had made plans for us to join his girlfriend at B.L.U.E.S., a little dive blues bar on Chicago's North End. Blues and live music in general isn't really my thing but Chad's plans were always fun. I had no reason to question that this night would be anything less than great
Chad was on the mark again. The music was fantastic. The bar inhabitants were straight out of central casting and the people watching was extraordinary. I quickly downed a couple of Jack and Cokes and let the feel of the place wash over me.
Rebekka, Chad's girlfriend, spotted her first.
"Oh wow. Look at her. She has to be a prostitute."
She was right. The figure that stood before us clearly had, at one time, been a prostitute. I use the past tense because literally no one in their right mind would pay to have sex with this woman as is. It was clear with this woman that while you might take the girl off the corner, you would never take the corner out of the girl
Clearly intoxicated, Big Time Sarah was dressed in full length fur coat and flip flops . Even with a five piece band on the stage, her raspy voice carried over the percussion and guitars. Complete with a gold tooth, the only thing more cliche would be if she actually tied off her arm and shot heroin right in the bar
As she was called up on stage and introduced for a set, Big Time Sarah was introduced to the crowd and exhibited no pretense, kicking off her flip flops and shedding her fur coat to reveal a thin house dress that Barbara Billingsley might have worn circa 1955. Sarah , showing no grace or eloquence, hunkered down letting her stubby legs dangle of the front of the stage.
To her credit and no one's surprise, Sarah was fantastic. She mesmerized the crowd with her throaty growl. Sarah was clearly the queen of the place and moreover, she knew it.
Sarah had a sort of lisp that made deciphering her nearly impossible but through her lyrics and actions , I gathered her third offering was the story of a woman who's sexual appetites had overtaken the stamina and abilities of her old man and BTS was in line for a newer, younger model.
The music faded until It was merely Sarah talking aloud with the leader of the band. The drummer kept rhythm with a slow beat as Sarah lamented her problems.
I'd love to tell you what she said but truth be told, I have no idea. I was only half listening until I heard her say
"Fact my new man here now."
"He is huh?"
"Yunh"
Now maybe it was my imagination but it seems at that point that, as if Charlton Heston himself had commanded it, the throng of bar patrons separated and Sarah and I met eyes
In a state of hysterical panic, I said aloud and to no one in particular,
"Oh god. Oh God! OH GOD! She's looking at me! SHE'S LOOKING AT ME!"
"Get up her boy!"
For reasons I still can't explain, I nearly ran up to the stage. My thinking was not unlike a victim of hostage situation.
just cooperate and don't look her in the eye and you'll be OK
Looking back, my running to the stage must have conveyed that I couldn't WAIT to be molested by this horrific woman
Sarah commanded me to get on my knees and I inexplicably did so.
I knew what was coming. I simply had no idea how bad it would get
Sarah pulled me close and mashed my face into her massive,sweaty breasts. This created a "sea-shell " effect as her lady lumps flopped on either side of my face
This has to be what a basset hound feels like
She repeated this several times. Each time I'd suck in a deep, gasping breath as she pushed me away before I was pushed against her. She pushed me away a final time and left me there, dazed. As she grabbed me again I wondered how long she was going to keep this up. It was at this moment that I realized Sarah had other plans
Sarah pushed my face down and ground her crotch against me. For a brief instant I caught a faint whiff of baby powder and funk. I started to scream and thought better of it. i wanted no part of opening my mouth and realized the vibration of the screams would only prolong my situation. I was "down there" for what felt like forever.
Jesus, what if this kills me
Then I realized that it wasn't a brill-o pad I was feeling through her dress but rather her pubic hair poking against my face.
Jesus, what if it doesn't
Sarah released me from her clutches. Maybe it was the oxygen deprivation but I have little or no memory of the rest of the night. I woke the next morning with an incredibly sore neck and back. I have made reference to the trapezoid muscles a hundred times in my life but could only describe my pain to my friends by advising that
"My resistor muscles really hurt,", Supportive as they were, Chad and Rebekka would giggle uncontrollably
Further demonstration of the kindness of my friends was evidenced by their eagerness to mark the occasion with gifts. A copy of BTS' CD stared me in the face when I awoke, and an extra small tank top that simply and appropriately said Blues Bitch lie crumpled on the floor.
Rebekka, having spied it at the club made a bee line to purchase it:
"We only have woman's small" advised the bartender
"perfect," replied Rebekka
Trying to sum up what it was like to have my face used as a loofah for a sweaty 250 pound sixty year old Blues Singer is understandably difficult. While I have no recollection of this, my initial response was probably the most honest.
Apparently upon my return to the table, the waitress ran to me and asked if I wanted a shot
"Yes. Two. In the back of my fucking head," was the response I am told that I had given.
I say "a sense" because seeing a picture of her frightening countenance doesn't do justice to what happened.
Years later, when I wake up screaming and cant remember why, I can only assume it's Sarah that haunts me.
Every Summer, I would make a yearly pilgrimage to Chicago to see my friend Chad. Chad strives to be a great host. Not resting on the laurels of a 20 year friendship, Chad goes all out in terms of creativity and quality of entertainment.
On a seemingly unrelated note, Chad also takes significant pleasure in any emotional or physical humiliation I might endure.
For Chad, the former paid dividends to the latter in a manner that well exceeded his imagination.
Chad had made plans for us to join his girlfriend at B.L.U.E.S., a little dive blues bar on Chicago's North End. Blues and live music in general isn't really my thing but Chad's plans were always fun. I had no reason to question that this night would be anything less than great
Chad was on the mark again. The music was fantastic. The bar inhabitants were straight out of central casting and the people watching was extraordinary. I quickly downed a couple of Jack and Cokes and let the feel of the place wash over me.
Rebekka, Chad's girlfriend, spotted her first.
"Oh wow. Look at her. She has to be a prostitute."
She was right. The figure that stood before us clearly had, at one time, been a prostitute. I use the past tense because literally no one in their right mind would pay to have sex with this woman as is. It was clear with this woman that while you might take the girl off the corner, you would never take the corner out of the girl
Clearly intoxicated, Big Time Sarah was dressed in full length fur coat and flip flops . Even with a five piece band on the stage, her raspy voice carried over the percussion and guitars. Complete with a gold tooth, the only thing more cliche would be if she actually tied off her arm and shot heroin right in the bar
As she was called up on stage and introduced for a set, Big Time Sarah was introduced to the crowd and exhibited no pretense, kicking off her flip flops and shedding her fur coat to reveal a thin house dress that Barbara Billingsley might have worn circa 1955. Sarah , showing no grace or eloquence, hunkered down letting her stubby legs dangle of the front of the stage.
To her credit and no one's surprise, Sarah was fantastic. She mesmerized the crowd with her throaty growl. Sarah was clearly the queen of the place and moreover, she knew it.
Sarah had a sort of lisp that made deciphering her nearly impossible but through her lyrics and actions , I gathered her third offering was the story of a woman who's sexual appetites had overtaken the stamina and abilities of her old man and BTS was in line for a newer, younger model.
The music faded until It was merely Sarah talking aloud with the leader of the band. The drummer kept rhythm with a slow beat as Sarah lamented her problems.
I'd love to tell you what she said but truth be told, I have no idea. I was only half listening until I heard her say
"Fact my new man here now."
"He is huh?"
"Yunh"
Now maybe it was my imagination but it seems at that point that, as if Charlton Heston himself had commanded it, the throng of bar patrons separated and Sarah and I met eyes
In a state of hysterical panic, I said aloud and to no one in particular,
"Oh god. Oh God! OH GOD! She's looking at me! SHE'S LOOKING AT ME!"
"Get up her boy!"
For reasons I still can't explain, I nearly ran up to the stage. My thinking was not unlike a victim of hostage situation.
just cooperate and don't look her in the eye and you'll be OK
Looking back, my running to the stage must have conveyed that I couldn't WAIT to be molested by this horrific woman
Sarah commanded me to get on my knees and I inexplicably did so.
I knew what was coming. I simply had no idea how bad it would get
Sarah pulled me close and mashed my face into her massive,sweaty breasts. This created a "sea-shell " effect as her lady lumps flopped on either side of my face
This has to be what a basset hound feels like
She repeated this several times. Each time I'd suck in a deep, gasping breath as she pushed me away before I was pushed against her. She pushed me away a final time and left me there, dazed. As she grabbed me again I wondered how long she was going to keep this up. It was at this moment that I realized Sarah had other plans
Sarah pushed my face down and ground her crotch against me. For a brief instant I caught a faint whiff of baby powder and funk. I started to scream and thought better of it. i wanted no part of opening my mouth and realized the vibration of the screams would only prolong my situation. I was "down there" for what felt like forever.
Jesus, what if this kills me
Then I realized that it wasn't a brill-o pad I was feeling through her dress but rather her pubic hair poking against my face.
Jesus, what if it doesn't
Sarah released me from her clutches. Maybe it was the oxygen deprivation but I have little or no memory of the rest of the night. I woke the next morning with an incredibly sore neck and back. I have made reference to the trapezoid muscles a hundred times in my life but could only describe my pain to my friends by advising that
"My resistor muscles really hurt,", Supportive as they were, Chad and Rebekka would giggle uncontrollably
Further demonstration of the kindness of my friends was evidenced by their eagerness to mark the occasion with gifts. A copy of BTS' CD stared me in the face when I awoke, and an extra small tank top that simply and appropriately said Blues Bitch lie crumpled on the floor.
Rebekka, having spied it at the club made a bee line to purchase it:
"We only have woman's small" advised the bartender
"perfect," replied Rebekka
Trying to sum up what it was like to have my face used as a loofah for a sweaty 250 pound sixty year old Blues Singer is understandably difficult. While I have no recollection of this, my initial response was probably the most honest.
Apparently upon my return to the table, the waitress ran to me and asked if I wanted a shot
"Yes. Two. In the back of my fucking head," was the response I am told that I had given.
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