Like any good liberal woman my wife wanted one thing more than anything else: a stable of gay men she could call her friends.
She would speak about other friends who had close gay friends almost wistfully
"See those guys? They love Carrie and Cheryl. They'd be perfect!. "
She would scheme and plan in an attempt to invite gay couples over for dinner and would pout dejectedly when the offer wasn't met with what she felt should be the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. Oddly, I felt like I was asking my own wife about her dating prospects with other men. I even recognized subconsciously that I was treading carefully, ridiculous as it was, so as not to pour salt on a wound.
"How'd it go," I might ask tentatively
"They said they'd call me"
"Oh! So that's good!"
She'd flash me a look letting me know that patronizing her wasn't appreciated.
"They aren't going to call me."
I then continued the ridiculous charade of reminding her all she had going for her.
She was stylish.
She was sweet and funny.
She was a woman working in Democratic politics for Christ sake. She was going to meet, as I told her with just a slight bit of intended pun, "more gay men than she could shake a stick at."
As usual when it came to reassuring my self-conscious better half, I was right. Karen finally met several un-eligible bachelors and developed quick bonds with them.
She couldn't have been happier.
These were good guys. Funny and smart with like minded attitudes and morals, I quickly grew to calling these men my friends and my wife was always quick to set boundaries.
"I really like Jordy," I'd tell her. "He's fucking hilarious."
A cool but deadly countenance would come over her.
"He's my friend"
"OK, well he's my friend too."
"No," she flatly rejected
Sadly I knew it wasn't her husband she was jealous of but her new gay friend.
I thought Karen had possibly gone 'round the bend with Larry.
Larry was an older man who took her under his wing after a lifetime in Michigan politics. As most who meet her do, he quickly grew to love my wife. Its difficult not to. Karen has a sweetness made up of equal parts genuine goodness, a great sense of humor, a fantastic work ethic, and a willingness to help.
The affection was mutual for my wife.
"Honey, I want Larry to adopt me."
Having no desire to see my father-in-law thanked for 28 years of good service and ushered out the door without so much as a gold watch, , I reminded Karen she had a dad and he was still very much alive.
"I just love him."
Clearly, she meant Larry.
Karen also maintains a small amount of that 1950's Catholic instilled by her mother that is in conflict with the educated liberal woman that she is. While very curious about the dating and bedroom lives of her new friends, she was not the type to ask them about it. She was shy. She might hint or dance around the subject but getting her to come out with questions regarding this subject was equivalent to pulling teeth. Ironically, she got a fair amount of her information from me.
Not unlike minor carpentry and small auto maintenance, I'd learned basic facts about the homosexual man through other sources and not unlike changing a tire and the importance of crowning your lumber while framing a wall, it was something that stuck inside my cavernous head.
I explained to her about certain subsets in the gay community. I taught her about "bears"and informed her that by a relative definition, she preferred "bears" her self. I advised her about "tops" and "bottoms" and other things I'd learned along the way and she was always a captive audience.
"How do you know this," she asked.
"Friends."
"You don't have any gay friends!"
She was always pissed at the insinuation that I had gay friends and she didn't
"Well yes, I do. and Doug had a lot of gay friends."
Adding my cousin, often a source of antagonism with my wife, was even worse.
"Oh what the hell does Doug know"
The obvious answer being more than she did; I wasn't interested in fighting that fight.
As her relationship with Larry grew, she began to wade into the deeper waters ever so slowly.
One day she came home with two books that Larry had given her. Years later he explained the additions to our library in a manner that would come to no surprise whatsoever to anyone who knows my wife
"I got so god-damn tired of her questions. Not the fact that she was asking them but she's so god-damn bashful that it would take her a fucking hour to ask them."
In all my life, I never thought mine would be a coffee table that housed "The Guide to Strap-on Sex" and "The Joy of Gay Sex" but there they were there for all to see. Karen would peruse them at night muttering an intrigued "ohhhhhh" and when her suspicions confirmed, the occasional "mmmmm-hmmm" and every now and then a startled "Oh My!"
I steered clear.
I pride myself on being an open minded socially liberal man. I think that a person's right to happiness is his or her own and I am fiercely protective of that right provided it doesn't infringe on anyone else.
As much as I am not proud, I confess a bit of an uneasiness when it comes to physical affections between two men. It isn't that they are infringing on my rights. It isn't a moral objection and it has nothing to do with my half-hearted Catholicism. In fact , that thinking and the fact that homosexuals are persecuted with an often tacit if not blatant approval is a hot point of anger for me. No, my issues were much more simple and primal:
Dudes are gross.
I am one. I have lived with several. . Hairy and disgusting, even the most sculpted amongst us are horrific,piggish mammals who should by all right be made to live in large pens with the rest of the hogs.
I loved Brokeback Mountain. I thought it a terrific movie and a heartbreaking story. Heath Ledger gave a haunting and wonderful performance. I mean that. However, the scenes were the two actors would express themselves physically brought me back to being seven years old and seeing "The Exorcist" for the first time. I'd wince and while I stopped short of covering my eyes, I'd avert them and was glad when the scene had passed.
(Conversely, I love watching two women have sex and have rationalized it thusly as balance.)
Ultimately Karen's questions began to, shall we say, probe more deeply.
"I wonder if Larry's a top or a bottom?"
"He's a bottom."
"Why do you say that?"
He's a bottom. I guarentee it.
"Why do you think that?"
"I just do."
Karen's suspicions could not be quelled and she came home to announce her findings.
"I told Larry you wanted to know if he was a top or a bottom," she stated matter of factly.
"WHAAAA.WHAT THE FUCK? WHY? I DIDNT WANT TO KNOW THAT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"
She ignored my protests and continued on.
"He's a bottom"
She then began to laugh
"He said, 'You tell Sean that I'm a bottom. I just like to sit back and relax."
I simultaneously hissed and winced.
"Ahhh Jesus Karen...Well you tell Larry that I can't think of anything less relaxing."
Weeks passed with a smattering of less graphic updates that in retrospect, was a calm before the storm.
I was on my lunch hour when the phone rang
"Hi Honey,"
"Hi. Uh, I have gotten us into some trouble." My wife's tone was a slight and not-too serious panic
"What's up?"
"Well you know how I've been asking Larry about things?
My mined flashed with images from "Joy of Gay Sex" that I wish I could un-see
"Yup. I sure do."
Well, I don't know what to do because I don't want to hurt his feelings but he wants to come over and talk to both of us about it."
"Hurt his feelings Karen."
"I can't" she half wailed.
"Karen, I'm serious. I don't want any part of that."
"Well what am I supposed to do?"
"Fuck if I know, but get us out of it."
"No. I'm afraid he's lonely and I think he's touched that we have taken an interest."
"God Damnit Karen! We havent. You have!"
I silently stewed as my wife timidly went forward
"There's more"
"What. The. Fuck? What else could there possibly be?"
"He wants to bring videos."
"NO FUCKING WAY KAREN! NO. NO FUCKING WAY WHATSOEVER. NO!"
"Just calm down"
"FUCK THAT. NO. I'M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW I WILL NOT BE THERE FOR THAT. NO WAY."
"Don't be like that."
Be like what?! I want no fucking part of this and did not get us into this. You deal with it but you get us out of it. I mean it Karen!"
She dug in her heels and prepared for the fight to come.
"No, I'm not. We have to. I'm not hurting his feelings. I'm sorry and I know its my fault but we have to do it."
"KAREN, IM NOT SITTING AROUND WITH YOU AND LARRY AND WATCHING INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEOS ON BUTT-FUCKING!"
The raw fury only added to the confusion as I heard a raucous laughter on the other end of the line. Several people had burst out in hysterics and it was clear that multiple people in my wife's office had been listening to our conversation by way of speaker phone.
With a sweetness betrayed only by a deep and complete satisfaction my wife let me off the hook.
"April Fools"
She had me. The date had never occurred to me. It was the practical joke equivalent of a no-hitter and only could be delivered ; when one person knows their victim so well.
"Wow," I said, "You ..really.. fucking.. got me."
"I know. Love You." (Click)
Her smug tone seeped through the line. And like that, she was gone.
I have no idea how long this had been planned. I don't know if her feigning my interest was part of an elaborate scheme or her own shyness legitimately led to my being a scapegoat. Both are possible. I have no idea if others were involved or if she , on a whim, decided that April 1st morning to simply throw a line and try and get a bite. She knew that I would want to support her in any way I could in new friendships and she knew further that I wouldn't want to hurt Larry's feelings and more than anything else, she knew if it was something important to her that I would acquiesce, albeit extremely begrudgingly. To her credit,she took full advantage. I am proud of her for that and I tell the story often
This I do know. At no time in my life have I been so efficiently and thoroughly duped. It was a remarkable virtuoso performance. It began innocently enough with my wife's education and culminated with my being completely schooled.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
The Boxer
My friend Abby asked me a question.
"Where do you get your sense of humor?"
As I always do, I gave proper credit to my parents. Lucky to have parents with different but exceptionally keen senses of humor, I took elements of both and made it my own
The quick sarcasm is straight from my father. Like a precious timepiece passed down from father to son, I can only hope that my son will wield that same razor wit that his grandfather still shows on occasion to this day.
While my mother and I share commonalities in what we find funny, (We both love practical jokes. We hold seeing people we care about make an ass of themselves in highest regard) it is the context more than the content that my mom passed on to me.
Like so many in my life, I knew my mom would make for an entertaining subject. I knew the myriad of material she has provided could be told in a story. Truth be told she could be her own blog. She could be her own internet. I struggled with ideas. I'd write and delete, write and delete, write and delete.
Stuck and with father's day approaching I thought maybe my dad would be an easier story to tell.
My son loves to hear music. In his monosyllabic squeaks and squeals, he has learned to request songs that I am happy to oblige. "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" is translated to "Dee-dee-dee." "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" is "BadBad." He requested these two songs ad-nauseum and I was thrilled when I caught him bobbing his over-sized head to "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel. The request for "Lie-la-Lie" quickly became part of his repertoire. As I sang along with my son, I became conscious that maybe this song would serve as a nice backdrop for a post about my dad. After countless requests by my son, I realized that despite the obvious gender differences, the song summed up My mother perfectly.
All lies in jest,
still a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest
My mom operates among her own rules. She is fully aware of the expectations society has for a 72 year old grandmother and she plays along when those norms fit into her way of doing things and to hell with it if they don't.
She considers herself Protestant and I truly believe it's because The Catholics make you shake hands and show a sign of Peace.
Prior to going to Mass with me she will sigh and say "I hate the hand shaking. I don't wanna shake some stranger's hand."
"Don't then."
"Yeah well..."
Her voice will trail off as she imagines a world where she can snub a well-meaning stranger.
oh no thank you, she will say, I don't know you and don't want to shake your hand.
She is genetically incapable of getting names of movies and celebrities and pop culture icons. Compounding this, she speaks freely without the slightest bit of hesitation, doubt, or self-awareness. Most people would make an effort to get these things right so the listener might have some form of comprehension and an ability to play an active role in the conversation. Not her. She sees it as your job to keep up and if not, she is fine leaving you behind.
She refers to the revolutionary social media site as "spacepage."
She once held a fifteen minute discussion on the "raw deal" that infamous cult leader Ted Manson, got from his sentence of life in prison. Ted Manson, who as near as we can figure, is a mesh of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and possibly Ted Danson.
"Oh you know what I meant" is her constant and immediate response. Whether you did or not is of no consequence to her.
Once, my niece Christina brought her friend camping. I was telling a story about a euchre tournament in which I was the only participant with all my teeth. Remembering only after I finished the story that the friend Christina brought did not, in fact, have all her teeth. A fact I wished I had remembered as I sat awkwardly staring at the sizeable hole in the now half agape mouth of the teenage girl I had just mortified. Luckily my mom was there to bail me out:
"YOU'RE SO STUPID!"
She's right.
I was.
I am.
Laying Low
seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people go
looking for the places only they would know.
She has known ragged people. She has married a couple of them. Others she has called friends and family. Her heart goes out to the ragged people and she will often open her arms and her home to them long after everyone else has understandably stopped doing so.
A perfect example of this is a cousin she routinely visits in prison. This is a man who has spent most of his adult life incarcerated and long ago established his role as a skeleton in the furthest recesses of our family closet. Knowing how I would feel, she kept secret the fact that she was going to a maximum security prison on a regular basis to see her felonious cousin who was serving a life sentence.
She mentioned him in a purposefully nonchalant manner and as I always do when she tries this shit, I jumped all over it.
"Wait...what cousin?"
"Oh my cousin that has been in prison since before you were born."
"Uh, the guy who kidnapped and raped that woman?"
"Yeah him."
"He kidnapped and raped someone."
"Yeah, he did. That was wrong."
"Jesus Christ mom. What are you doing?"
"Well he's an old man now."
"Yeah. he's old. He's an old kidnapper and an old rapist!"
The conversation ended. She knew I'd never be OK with her going and I knew she'd still go.
Doubtless it was this kindness to the ragged people that served as the background for what I often refer to as a "lost classic" in our family history.
My mom worked for a time at The Veterans Hospital in Battle Creek. She had a soft spot for Veterans and those who ended up here were often lost souls who had no one or no where to shelter them.
I was probably ten when I came home and noticed an old, green, Ford in our drive way. An older man sat in the car and it was clear to me even then that something was not right with this man. I double timed it to my neighbor's house and alerted his father. My friend's dad called my dad at work and the two talked. My neighbor's dad walked over and confronted the man and he left. The man, as it turns out, was a mental patient from the VA that had somehow gotten our address and had come to our house in search of my mom. My dad left work and informed me that the man, John, had been caught and was back in custody. Being the sensitive cat that he was, my dad saw fit to cue me in to everything that was going on, terrifying me in the process.
"This guy has a thing for your mother. He told the cops he had murdered her. They don't know how he got out or how the hell he knows where we live but he did."
This would be a lot for anyone to take in. For a ten year old prone to worry, it was earth shattering. I began to shake and my dad noticed. The notion of reassuring me that "this was a terrible mistake but that it was OK and would absolutely NEVER happen again as this man was an obvious danger and they would lock him up and throw away the key" might have been one route my dad could have taken in calming his son who sat trembling in fear beside him. My father decided on a different course of action
"Don't worry. If he comes back, I'll kill the motherfucker."
Oh.
Good.
Nothing to worry about then.
What the fuck?
If?
I wanted no part of if.
If is no good.
If is bad.
I was pretty sure that If he comes back and If he killed said motherfucker, this presents a whole new array of problems. Chief among them being the fact that my father will then go to prison for killing this man. The math of saving one parent and losing another was not something my dad considered.
Needless to say, my father exacerbated the situation immensely and by the time my mom made it home from work, she had a quivering ten year old on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don't remember what my mom said to make it better but whatever it was, it was obviously effective.
Last year, some two and a half decades later, I was reminded of this story in some vague and foggy way and called my mom for clarity
"Hey ma, remember that time that guy who was a patient and he came to our house..." I trailed off as I tried to piece together the faded memory.
"Huh? No, i don't know what you're talking about"
"Yeah, you know, that guy....John something or other, I think he said he killed you or something."
The lightbulb flickered for a brief second and illuminated my mom's memory as if she was trying to recall the details of some long passed vacation instead of a story in which a psychotic man stalked our family
"Oh yeah...John, yeah John. That's right, geez I forgot about that. Yeah...what about him."
"Oh Nothing, I just couldn't remember what happened with that."
"Yeah, he was crazy and I guess he liked me. I was nice to him or something, I don't really remember.
I immediately cracked up at the absurdity.
"What?"
I spoke through halting laughter, my voice cracking
"Jesus Christ what is wrong with us?"
I reasoned to her that any other family might never recover from this and at the very least would still be in therapy over it and here we were fumbling and foggy and trying like hell to rememeber the details.
She then laughed too and added "Yeah...well...whatever. It turned out fine."
In The clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove
that laid him down or cut him til he cried out,
in his anger and his shame
I am leaving. I am leaving.
But the fighter still remains.
I admit our reaction to the story of John is abnormal. More importantly, it gets to the crux of something else. More than any other trait of her character it is my mom's resilience that stands out above everything else. It is easily the most important lesson she has ever taught me. I pride myself on my ability to bounce back and this comes straight from my mother. People often measure "tough" in the punches you throw when in reality, it's the ability to take those punches that serve as the true measure of toughness. I don't know a tougher soul than my mother. It is that toughness that helps me see the humor in the most bizzare and sometimes frightening situations. She has more to do with the common theme running through these stories then she realizes. She, like anyone who has spent seventy plus years on this planet, has seen any number of life's pitfalls and tragedies. She has stood at the hospital bedside of four children and the graveside of one. She has experienced great joy but also pain in immeasurable quantities. Through all of it she remains resilient as hell and often does so by laughing with and laughing at those things that would crush others under its weight. She has taught my brothers and sister and I that to get through life, sometimes it's better to laugh at it.
And we are all better for it.
"Where do you get your sense of humor?"
As I always do, I gave proper credit to my parents. Lucky to have parents with different but exceptionally keen senses of humor, I took elements of both and made it my own
The quick sarcasm is straight from my father. Like a precious timepiece passed down from father to son, I can only hope that my son will wield that same razor wit that his grandfather still shows on occasion to this day.
While my mother and I share commonalities in what we find funny, (We both love practical jokes. We hold seeing people we care about make an ass of themselves in highest regard) it is the context more than the content that my mom passed on to me.
Like so many in my life, I knew my mom would make for an entertaining subject. I knew the myriad of material she has provided could be told in a story. Truth be told she could be her own blog. She could be her own internet. I struggled with ideas. I'd write and delete, write and delete, write and delete.
Stuck and with father's day approaching I thought maybe my dad would be an easier story to tell.
My son loves to hear music. In his monosyllabic squeaks and squeals, he has learned to request songs that I am happy to oblige. "You Don't Mess Around With Jim" is translated to "Dee-dee-dee." "Bad Bad Leroy Brown" is "BadBad." He requested these two songs ad-nauseum and I was thrilled when I caught him bobbing his over-sized head to "The Boxer" by Simon and Garfunkel. The request for "Lie-la-Lie" quickly became part of his repertoire. As I sang along with my son, I became conscious that maybe this song would serve as a nice backdrop for a post about my dad. After countless requests by my son, I realized that despite the obvious gender differences, the song summed up My mother perfectly.
All lies in jest,
still a man hears what he wants to hear
and disregards the rest
My mom operates among her own rules. She is fully aware of the expectations society has for a 72 year old grandmother and she plays along when those norms fit into her way of doing things and to hell with it if they don't.
She considers herself Protestant and I truly believe it's because The Catholics make you shake hands and show a sign of Peace.
Prior to going to Mass with me she will sigh and say "I hate the hand shaking. I don't wanna shake some stranger's hand."
"Don't then."
"Yeah well..."
Her voice will trail off as she imagines a world where she can snub a well-meaning stranger.
oh no thank you, she will say, I don't know you and don't want to shake your hand.
She is genetically incapable of getting names of movies and celebrities and pop culture icons. Compounding this, she speaks freely without the slightest bit of hesitation, doubt, or self-awareness. Most people would make an effort to get these things right so the listener might have some form of comprehension and an ability to play an active role in the conversation. Not her. She sees it as your job to keep up and if not, she is fine leaving you behind.
She refers to the revolutionary social media site as "spacepage."
She once held a fifteen minute discussion on the "raw deal" that infamous cult leader Ted Manson, got from his sentence of life in prison. Ted Manson, who as near as we can figure, is a mesh of Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, and possibly Ted Danson.
"Oh you know what I meant" is her constant and immediate response. Whether you did or not is of no consequence to her.
Once, my niece Christina brought her friend camping. I was telling a story about a euchre tournament in which I was the only participant with all my teeth. Remembering only after I finished the story that the friend Christina brought did not, in fact, have all her teeth. A fact I wished I had remembered as I sat awkwardly staring at the sizeable hole in the now half agape mouth of the teenage girl I had just mortified. Luckily my mom was there to bail me out:
"YOU'RE SO STUPID!"
She's right.
I was.
I am.
Laying Low
seeking out the poorer quarters
where the ragged people go
looking for the places only they would know.
She has known ragged people. She has married a couple of them. Others she has called friends and family. Her heart goes out to the ragged people and she will often open her arms and her home to them long after everyone else has understandably stopped doing so.
A perfect example of this is a cousin she routinely visits in prison. This is a man who has spent most of his adult life incarcerated and long ago established his role as a skeleton in the furthest recesses of our family closet. Knowing how I would feel, she kept secret the fact that she was going to a maximum security prison on a regular basis to see her felonious cousin who was serving a life sentence.
She mentioned him in a purposefully nonchalant manner and as I always do when she tries this shit, I jumped all over it.
"Wait...what cousin?"
"Oh my cousin that has been in prison since before you were born."
"Uh, the guy who kidnapped and raped that woman?"
"Yeah him."
"He kidnapped and raped someone."
"Yeah, he did. That was wrong."
"Jesus Christ mom. What are you doing?"
"Well he's an old man now."
"Yeah. he's old. He's an old kidnapper and an old rapist!"
The conversation ended. She knew I'd never be OK with her going and I knew she'd still go.
Doubtless it was this kindness to the ragged people that served as the background for what I often refer to as a "lost classic" in our family history.
My mom worked for a time at The Veterans Hospital in Battle Creek. She had a soft spot for Veterans and those who ended up here were often lost souls who had no one or no where to shelter them.
I was probably ten when I came home and noticed an old, green, Ford in our drive way. An older man sat in the car and it was clear to me even then that something was not right with this man. I double timed it to my neighbor's house and alerted his father. My friend's dad called my dad at work and the two talked. My neighbor's dad walked over and confronted the man and he left. The man, as it turns out, was a mental patient from the VA that had somehow gotten our address and had come to our house in search of my mom. My dad left work and informed me that the man, John, had been caught and was back in custody. Being the sensitive cat that he was, my dad saw fit to cue me in to everything that was going on, terrifying me in the process.
"This guy has a thing for your mother. He told the cops he had murdered her. They don't know how he got out or how the hell he knows where we live but he did."
This would be a lot for anyone to take in. For a ten year old prone to worry, it was earth shattering. I began to shake and my dad noticed. The notion of reassuring me that "this was a terrible mistake but that it was OK and would absolutely NEVER happen again as this man was an obvious danger and they would lock him up and throw away the key" might have been one route my dad could have taken in calming his son who sat trembling in fear beside him. My father decided on a different course of action
"Don't worry. If he comes back, I'll kill the motherfucker."
Oh.
Good.
Nothing to worry about then.
What the fuck?
If?
I wanted no part of if.
If is no good.
If is bad.
I was pretty sure that If he comes back and If he killed said motherfucker, this presents a whole new array of problems. Chief among them being the fact that my father will then go to prison for killing this man. The math of saving one parent and losing another was not something my dad considered.
Needless to say, my father exacerbated the situation immensely and by the time my mom made it home from work, she had a quivering ten year old on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don't remember what my mom said to make it better but whatever it was, it was obviously effective.
Last year, some two and a half decades later, I was reminded of this story in some vague and foggy way and called my mom for clarity
"Hey ma, remember that time that guy who was a patient and he came to our house..." I trailed off as I tried to piece together the faded memory.
"Huh? No, i don't know what you're talking about"
"Yeah, you know, that guy....John something or other, I think he said he killed you or something."
The lightbulb flickered for a brief second and illuminated my mom's memory as if she was trying to recall the details of some long passed vacation instead of a story in which a psychotic man stalked our family
"Oh yeah...John, yeah John. That's right, geez I forgot about that. Yeah...what about him."
"Oh Nothing, I just couldn't remember what happened with that."
"Yeah, he was crazy and I guess he liked me. I was nice to him or something, I don't really remember.
I immediately cracked up at the absurdity.
"What?"
I spoke through halting laughter, my voice cracking
"Jesus Christ what is wrong with us?"
I reasoned to her that any other family might never recover from this and at the very least would still be in therapy over it and here we were fumbling and foggy and trying like hell to rememeber the details.
She then laughed too and added "Yeah...well...whatever. It turned out fine."
In The clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders of every glove
that laid him down or cut him til he cried out,
in his anger and his shame
I am leaving. I am leaving.
But the fighter still remains.
I admit our reaction to the story of John is abnormal. More importantly, it gets to the crux of something else. More than any other trait of her character it is my mom's resilience that stands out above everything else. It is easily the most important lesson she has ever taught me. I pride myself on my ability to bounce back and this comes straight from my mother. People often measure "tough" in the punches you throw when in reality, it's the ability to take those punches that serve as the true measure of toughness. I don't know a tougher soul than my mother. It is that toughness that helps me see the humor in the most bizzare and sometimes frightening situations. She has more to do with the common theme running through these stories then she realizes. She, like anyone who has spent seventy plus years on this planet, has seen any number of life's pitfalls and tragedies. She has stood at the hospital bedside of four children and the graveside of one. She has experienced great joy but also pain in immeasurable quantities. Through all of it she remains resilient as hell and often does so by laughing with and laughing at those things that would crush others under its weight. She has taught my brothers and sister and I that to get through life, sometimes it's better to laugh at it.
And we are all better for it.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Desperately Random; Holding Out For A Hero
My father, much to the chagrin of my wife (some of the time) and my mother (most of the time), has passed more than a few traits my way. The enormous Easter Island head and butt chin notwithstanding, perhaps the most marked characteristic is my love of driving. Some of the warmest memories I have of my dad center around hopping in the car and driving across southwest Michigan. In particular, my dad had a habit of getting up early and still half asleep, heading out the door and into the car, often doing so with me at his side. I too understand the pleasure of waking first thing in the morning and conducting an ambling leisurely drive. The soundtrack sometimes calls for music, sometimes sports, somteimes NPR. While differing from my father in that my escapes are not done with the goal of procurring some sort of opiate, i do confess my morning drives are a subtle form of high for me. Like an alcoholic waiting in earnest for that liquor store to open it's doors, I begin to get an itch. I think of tasks at best menial and at worst ridiculous and brave the annoyed mutterings of my wife just for the chance to get out and drive just a little each morning. It's weird. I know it. I don't have a good explanation so I won't try and force a bad one.
The morning of my son's 6 month photos fell on a Sunday. I was especially antsy considering the benefit of skipping church was completely erased by the prospect of a morning spent at Potrait Innovations, a child and family photography studio that is unquestionably the most annoying place on the planet Earth. Potrait Innovations manages to be at once, an unlikley combination of creepy yet boring. Large photos of horrible looking families all attired in the same plaid sweater or white oxfords and dockers adorn the walls next to children of all ages,shapes, and sizes sporting poses and outfits that would give pause to the parents of Jon Benet. The photographers and assistants take one of two paths: First are the angry and bitter "artists," who wear the effects of spending 40 hours of their week with screaming children and frustrated parents while their artistic dreams are slowly and painfully dashed against rocks made from high pitched squeeky toys and Purell Hand Sanitizer. These broken artists are ten times better than their hyper-energized cohorts. These photogs are the true bane of my existence. I understand the job is to elicit smiles and guffaws from the drooling heaps of children paraded in and out of their doors. Pumped full of coffee and based on their mania, a significant does of methamphetamine, I recognize expelling all of that energy must be exhausting. I know because the energy expelled by not grabbing one of these people and choking the life from them is similarly impressive.
Knowing where I was going only added to my itch. Further multiplying this was the knowledge that trying to get out of my house without pissing off my wife would be herculean to say the least, and more accurately, completely futile.
As it turned out, the heavens smiled down on me intially. Perhaps it was my silent promise to God that I would go to mass every day for the rest of my life if I was allowed to skip Potrait Innovations but something divine stepped in and my wife granted me what would be a temporary reprieve from my problems
"Will you go to Quality Dairy and get me a coffee? You have to hurry though. We need to be there at 915."
I had my key in the ignition as the echo of her words still hung in our house. The thrill was shortlived. The joy of the getaway was buzzkilled by the spectre of the Portrait Innovations hellscape.
"What the hell are we doing at a picture studio at 915 on a Sunday?" I asked irritabily to no one; my annoyance compounded by being robbed of the joyous and fully sanctioned adventure.
I pulled into the QD and headed inside for the obligatory Diet Coke and Sour Cream Donut and was at the coffee dispenser when I first heard them
Loud and profane, my initial summation was that these were two friends talking loudly and probably processing the remnants of whatever cheap booze they had swilled together the night before. Curse words and hangovers were nothing new for this part of town and voices cranked to a volume of 11 were not uncommon. In short, they initially did not even register a blip in my Potrait Innovations fueled anger. Still not clued in to what was going on, I stood in line at the cash register.
Maybe it was the uncomfortable shifting of the patrons in front of me or the look of pure horror on the face of the cashier but slowly I realized that this was not a conversation between friends but open hositility between two strangers. Each progressive declaration grew louder and always seemed to start with the word "bitch." Being particularly adept to the subtle clues and nuances that come with passive dialouge, I picked up on the hostility of the conversation when one said to the other
'BITCH, I SHOULDA RUN YO FAT ASS OV-UH"
and the reply
'BITCH YOU'DA STARTED YO DAY GETTIN FUCKED UP THEN"
I stifled a laugh as I approached the counter and tried to complete my sale. The slight, effeminate clerk was not enjoying this in the manner that I was. He was clearly terrified.
"That will be two sixty-four" said the clerk, his voice only a whisper and drowned out by the ever escalating conversation. One of the women now stood behind me shouting at her counterpart at the back of the store some 30 feet away. The woman behind me was large and pale. Her dirty dishwater hair pulled tightly back gave an added sense of anger to her puffy enraged face. She sported the word thug tatooed on her doughy white neck. Despite my knowledge that it was wrong to do so, I quickly made my mind up on her. She was the pedestrian and was dressed in sweat pants and a t shirt one size too small, Her attire was more appropriate for a street fight and therein she held an advantage on her fellow combatant who , despite a filthy harsh mouth, was dressed in her Sunday best and was either headed to or from church. The driver somehow held a considerable size advantage to her enemy and the smart money was on the holy roller if things went south, which they quickly did.
"FAT ASS BITCH HOW YOU NOT EVEN SEE ME IN MY CAR? IT'S A CAR MUTHAFUCKA. YOU SAW ME PULL IN AND YOU KEEP WALKIN."
"THASSS RIGHT BITCH I AM WALKIN AND I GOT THE MUTHAFUCKIN RIGHT-O-WAY."
BITCH RIGHT AWAY MEAN SHIT. NEXT TIME I JUST HIT YO FAT ASS."
next time? how often are these two planning to do this?
I wheeled around and started to head out the door when my mind's eye saw the blanched face of the terrified teen age clerk who had no earthly idea what to do. I executed a 180 and stopped,waited, and watched as this war of words began raging towards something else. It was a split decision and clealry the correct one.
BITCH GONNA GIT HER ASS BEAT FO SHO
These, apparently, were fighting words as the Holy Terror rushed towards The Thug screaming like a banshee
WELL COME ON THEN MUTHAFUCKA-COME ON RIGHT FUCKEN NOW MUTHAFUCKA
The amped up aggression even gave The Thug pause as her resolved melted just for a second. Behind the counter, the whisper thin clerk's eyes grew wide as saucers.
Without thinking, I interjected myself between the two with a stiff arm motion to each woman. I instantly decided if this was going to work, I needed to be the loudest "muthafucka" in the room. I needed to sell crazy and sell it hard.
"ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT GODDAMNIT. KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF RIGHT FUCKING NOW."
The Holy slowed her roll just a bit and The Thug, bravery anew, steeled her resolve and began running her mouth.
BITCH COME ON THEN IF YOU GONNA
I wasn't about to cede any of the small control I gained and doubled down, quickly
HEY YOU. SHUT THE FUCK UP. GET YOUR SHIT. GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. NOW!
I pointed at whisper thin behind the counter , and planted the thought in his head since he was not moving an inch
THIS KID'S GOING TO CALL THE COPS IN ABOUT TWO FUCKING SECONDS. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
There was a pause as The Thug considered her options. A sunday spent in Ingham County, the least appealing among them, The Thug uttered a few curse words and picked up her items
"Fucking Ridiculous," I added for good measure as she moved past me towards the door and staring The Holy down with her dimwitted gaze.
As I watched her amble across the parking lot, I felt The Holy brush quickly by me and headed her off at the past
Incredulous, I raised my voice
WAIT A FUCKING SECOND. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
"Imma go hit that bitch." It was a statement of resolute fact. I really think she would have done exactly that.
I made myself as wide as I could and blocked the door
"GET YOUR ASS BACK A FUCKING SECOND. DON'T BE FUCKING STUPID. YOU START OUT TO GET COFFEE AND A BEAR CLAW AND SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN PRISON BECAUSE SOME BITCH WALKS IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR? STAND THE FUCK BACK AND COOL DOWN A GODDAMN SECOND"
She too gave pause and also decided that a life sentence was not her best alternative and took a deep breath. I turned and saw that The Thug had rounded a corner and was far enough out of sight that if The Holy did indeed kill her, I would not witness it. The Holy moved silently past me, not so much thanking me for my common sense.
After all was clear, I strolled out the door. I wished like hell that I could fly, or at least had ridden a horse to the Quality Dairy. I got in my non-descript old man sedan and pointed it out of the parking lot towards a day that was somehow only going to get worse.
The morning of my son's 6 month photos fell on a Sunday. I was especially antsy considering the benefit of skipping church was completely erased by the prospect of a morning spent at Potrait Innovations, a child and family photography studio that is unquestionably the most annoying place on the planet Earth. Potrait Innovations manages to be at once, an unlikley combination of creepy yet boring. Large photos of horrible looking families all attired in the same plaid sweater or white oxfords and dockers adorn the walls next to children of all ages,shapes, and sizes sporting poses and outfits that would give pause to the parents of Jon Benet. The photographers and assistants take one of two paths: First are the angry and bitter "artists," who wear the effects of spending 40 hours of their week with screaming children and frustrated parents while their artistic dreams are slowly and painfully dashed against rocks made from high pitched squeeky toys and Purell Hand Sanitizer. These broken artists are ten times better than their hyper-energized cohorts. These photogs are the true bane of my existence. I understand the job is to elicit smiles and guffaws from the drooling heaps of children paraded in and out of their doors. Pumped full of coffee and based on their mania, a significant does of methamphetamine, I recognize expelling all of that energy must be exhausting. I know because the energy expelled by not grabbing one of these people and choking the life from them is similarly impressive.
Knowing where I was going only added to my itch. Further multiplying this was the knowledge that trying to get out of my house without pissing off my wife would be herculean to say the least, and more accurately, completely futile.
As it turned out, the heavens smiled down on me intially. Perhaps it was my silent promise to God that I would go to mass every day for the rest of my life if I was allowed to skip Potrait Innovations but something divine stepped in and my wife granted me what would be a temporary reprieve from my problems
"Will you go to Quality Dairy and get me a coffee? You have to hurry though. We need to be there at 915."
I had my key in the ignition as the echo of her words still hung in our house. The thrill was shortlived. The joy of the getaway was buzzkilled by the spectre of the Portrait Innovations hellscape.
"What the hell are we doing at a picture studio at 915 on a Sunday?" I asked irritabily to no one; my annoyance compounded by being robbed of the joyous and fully sanctioned adventure.
I pulled into the QD and headed inside for the obligatory Diet Coke and Sour Cream Donut and was at the coffee dispenser when I first heard them
Loud and profane, my initial summation was that these were two friends talking loudly and probably processing the remnants of whatever cheap booze they had swilled together the night before. Curse words and hangovers were nothing new for this part of town and voices cranked to a volume of 11 were not uncommon. In short, they initially did not even register a blip in my Potrait Innovations fueled anger. Still not clued in to what was going on, I stood in line at the cash register.
Maybe it was the uncomfortable shifting of the patrons in front of me or the look of pure horror on the face of the cashier but slowly I realized that this was not a conversation between friends but open hositility between two strangers. Each progressive declaration grew louder and always seemed to start with the word "bitch." Being particularly adept to the subtle clues and nuances that come with passive dialouge, I picked up on the hostility of the conversation when one said to the other
'BITCH, I SHOULDA RUN YO FAT ASS OV-UH"
and the reply
'BITCH YOU'DA STARTED YO DAY GETTIN FUCKED UP THEN"
I stifled a laugh as I approached the counter and tried to complete my sale. The slight, effeminate clerk was not enjoying this in the manner that I was. He was clearly terrified.
"That will be two sixty-four" said the clerk, his voice only a whisper and drowned out by the ever escalating conversation. One of the women now stood behind me shouting at her counterpart at the back of the store some 30 feet away. The woman behind me was large and pale. Her dirty dishwater hair pulled tightly back gave an added sense of anger to her puffy enraged face. She sported the word thug tatooed on her doughy white neck. Despite my knowledge that it was wrong to do so, I quickly made my mind up on her. She was the pedestrian and was dressed in sweat pants and a t shirt one size too small, Her attire was more appropriate for a street fight and therein she held an advantage on her fellow combatant who , despite a filthy harsh mouth, was dressed in her Sunday best and was either headed to or from church. The driver somehow held a considerable size advantage to her enemy and the smart money was on the holy roller if things went south, which they quickly did.
"FAT ASS BITCH HOW YOU NOT EVEN SEE ME IN MY CAR? IT'S A CAR MUTHAFUCKA. YOU SAW ME PULL IN AND YOU KEEP WALKIN."
"THASSS RIGHT BITCH I AM WALKIN AND I GOT THE MUTHAFUCKIN RIGHT-O-WAY."
BITCH RIGHT AWAY MEAN SHIT. NEXT TIME I JUST HIT YO FAT ASS."
next time? how often are these two planning to do this?
I wheeled around and started to head out the door when my mind's eye saw the blanched face of the terrified teen age clerk who had no earthly idea what to do. I executed a 180 and stopped,waited, and watched as this war of words began raging towards something else. It was a split decision and clealry the correct one.
BITCH GONNA GIT HER ASS BEAT FO SHO
These, apparently, were fighting words as the Holy Terror rushed towards The Thug screaming like a banshee
WELL COME ON THEN MUTHAFUCKA-COME ON RIGHT FUCKEN NOW MUTHAFUCKA
The amped up aggression even gave The Thug pause as her resolved melted just for a second. Behind the counter, the whisper thin clerk's eyes grew wide as saucers.
Without thinking, I interjected myself between the two with a stiff arm motion to each woman. I instantly decided if this was going to work, I needed to be the loudest "muthafucka" in the room. I needed to sell crazy and sell it hard.
"ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT ALL RIGHT GODDAMNIT. KNOCK THIS SHIT OFF RIGHT FUCKING NOW."
The Holy slowed her roll just a bit and The Thug, bravery anew, steeled her resolve and began running her mouth.
BITCH COME ON THEN IF YOU GONNA
I wasn't about to cede any of the small control I gained and doubled down, quickly
HEY YOU. SHUT THE FUCK UP. GET YOUR SHIT. GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. NOW!
I pointed at whisper thin behind the counter , and planted the thought in his head since he was not moving an inch
THIS KID'S GOING TO CALL THE COPS IN ABOUT TWO FUCKING SECONDS. NOW GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
There was a pause as The Thug considered her options. A sunday spent in Ingham County, the least appealing among them, The Thug uttered a few curse words and picked up her items
"Fucking Ridiculous," I added for good measure as she moved past me towards the door and staring The Holy down with her dimwitted gaze.
As I watched her amble across the parking lot, I felt The Holy brush quickly by me and headed her off at the past
Incredulous, I raised my voice
WAIT A FUCKING SECOND. WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
"Imma go hit that bitch." It was a statement of resolute fact. I really think she would have done exactly that.
I made myself as wide as I could and blocked the door
"GET YOUR ASS BACK A FUCKING SECOND. DON'T BE FUCKING STUPID. YOU START OUT TO GET COFFEE AND A BEAR CLAW AND SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE IN PRISON BECAUSE SOME BITCH WALKS IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR? STAND THE FUCK BACK AND COOL DOWN A GODDAMN SECOND"
She too gave pause and also decided that a life sentence was not her best alternative and took a deep breath. I turned and saw that The Thug had rounded a corner and was far enough out of sight that if The Holy did indeed kill her, I would not witness it. The Holy moved silently past me, not so much thanking me for my common sense.
After all was clear, I strolled out the door. I wished like hell that I could fly, or at least had ridden a horse to the Quality Dairy. I got in my non-descript old man sedan and pointed it out of the parking lot towards a day that was somehow only going to get worse.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Desperately Random: The Creep Factor
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.
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.
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.
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