Ok, so it's been about six months since I've posted anything, except for the "Empire" of my Spring Chickens trilogy. The reason for this absence was a job, an awful, arduous job that made my life miserable and in turn everyone around me. But it wasn't all bad. See, something wonderful happened during my sabbatical from blogspot.
I got engaged. And no, she's not a pirana. I just need to change my headline.
I'm also back at the job I had when I started posting these ridiculous stories, so there will be more to come.
Can't say you weren't warned.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Spring Chickens (two)
Well, it took long enough (thanks new job), but here's part two of the Spring Chickens trilogy. It's actually been done for quite a while, but I had no way to transfer it off my laptop so I had to enlist the help of Stefania to transcribe it. Thanks, gypsy.
Gigi felt threatened by my presence. She was the younger of two assistant managers, and at thirty two, the only employee besides myself whose age didn't qualify her as a greeter at Wal-Mart. Barely an inch above five feet, she drenched herself in Sunflower perfume, spoke like a long-lost Clampett and had a dermatological problem where the skin seemed to flake off around her nose. In a doomed attempt to hide it she caked on copious amounts of make-up, and when she overheated it would dissolve and her face began to look rubbery and synthetic, like a melting android. Suffice it to say the after-lunch rush was not a pleasant shift to work with Gi3po, as I took to calling her when the unfortunate mix of nerves, heat and war paint interacted.
I only write these awful things after six months of psychological torture almost caused me to lunge over the counter one busy Friday night and try to peel off her crusty Maybelline mask, convinced that my high school bully was hiding behind the flaky dead skin, noxious perfume and hillbilly accent. When her husband Dave was around it was even worse. He stopped in a few times a week for lunch or dinner depending on her shift, and by providing an audience he brought out her vindictive nature. I've never been in a fight, but given the rage she induced I probably could have taken her, even if she was a melting, malfunctioning robot.
"I hate the North, hate it," she would pout with a petulant stomp as we unpacked the weekly shipment in the storage room. Her presence rattled my nerves, and she had to have known this because she would creep up behind me at every opportunity, tip-toeing over my shoulder while I rang up or assisted a customer by searching for a title on the computer. It's difficult to maintain your composure when someone is always lurking behind you, waiting for you to err so they can show you up, preferably in front of a crowd.
"Sorry sir, we don't seem to have that title in stock. If you like, I'd be glad to special-order it; the book will arrive to you at no extra cost in seven to ten business da--."
"Oh, we have it sir," she would confidently interject while making a dash for the storage room, leaving me looking and feeling like a lummox. Sometimes she would return triumphant, coddling the book like an infant she rescued from a burning building, sometimes empty-handed. In the latter case, the only apology she ever issued was to the customer whose hopes she had fasely raised.
If my eye was able to catch her in time, I could usually see Abby mouthing something to the effect of "fuckin' twat." At least I wasn't alone regarding my feelings for Gi3po, amd that added to my feeling of acceptance despite having absolutely nothing in common with the rest of my co-workers.
-4-
There is a task called recovery that most retail employees must complete at the end of a shift. At the bookstore, recovery is taking the Karma Sutra out of the Children's section. At the record store, recovery means taking Guided By Voices out of the V column and replacing it under G, the proper, alphabatized spot. At the landscape center, recovery is hunting down the stray alyssum and cleome trays customers leave in the gravel aisles because they opt for a perenial flowerbed at the last minute. Recovery is cleaning up a mess.
It isn't arduous work, although you have to do it at the end of your shift, and if you're in a hurry it can be a frustrating process. I was in such a rush one Friday night when I turned an aisle too fast, knocking over a James Patterson display of hardcovers. I looked down at the end table, and for several moments had no idea what I was staring at. Then, after the misfortune of picking one up and inspecting it, it became evident that I had accidently stumbled upon a stack of about ten finger and ten toenails.
"What the..."
In my periphery I saw Gi3po darting toward me from the other side of the store like the Terminator pursuing John Connor. She flashed an intrepid, intimidating glare, swept the nails off the table into her hand, marched back behind the counter and opened it over the trash can. Every Spring Chicken working maintained stoic composure until she left moments later. What followed was a minute long fit of communal laughter, one of the most beautiful sounds that man can produce. Everyone laughed except for me, who hadn't moved from the Patterson display, still wondering what the hell had just happened.
When we were sure she wasn't coming back, the remaining staff congregated in the back room and Jeanna explained a few of Dave's quirks to me. Apparently, he has a most unsanitary habit of ripping off his finger and toenails when they get long enough, then hiding little piles of them everywhere. After a month or two, when they're ripe enough, he would return to the pile and pick his teeth would the favorites. According to Gigi, who confided to Jeanna one night in a rare show of personal confession, there is toenail treasure hidden all over their house. She discovers at least one pile a week. That same night, she also told her about an evening a few months after the wedding when her parents came over for dinner, and afterward they all moved to the den for coffee. Her mom reached over a candle stick on the coffee table and knocked it over, revealing a pile of nails that numbered in the fifties, much larger than the one I had discovered in the store. This is somewhat comparable to the Allies stumbling across different sizes of concentration camps in WWII Germany. In the store I had accidentally happened upon a Landsburg; that night, Dave's mother in-law had liberated the Auschwitz of toenail clippings.
He has another hang-up that everyone knows of but is rarely acknowledged because it is simply too strange. Dave cannot urinate in public restrooms or even in a home other than his or his mother's without removing every article of clothing, down to his shoes and socks. Carol discovered this quirk one day at work when she opened the door of our bathroom in back to find him stark naked in front of the toilet, water running in the sink to help his release, clothes neatly folded on the floor. When she asked Gigi about it later that day, she said that in addition to being hopelessly neurotic, he had a narrow urethra which made urinating painfully laborious.
I sat and listened to them take turns telling Gigi stories, each one worse than the last. During her four-year tenure at Waldenbook's she managed to alienate, frustrate and eventually inspire pure hatred in the heart of every employee. Soon it became evident that something had to be done, a stand needed to be taken. It was in the storage room that Friday evening when the Spring Chickens hatched their plan to finally get rid of Gi3po.
Gigi felt threatened by my presence. She was the younger of two assistant managers, and at thirty two, the only employee besides myself whose age didn't qualify her as a greeter at Wal-Mart. Barely an inch above five feet, she drenched herself in Sunflower perfume, spoke like a long-lost Clampett and had a dermatological problem where the skin seemed to flake off around her nose. In a doomed attempt to hide it she caked on copious amounts of make-up, and when she overheated it would dissolve and her face began to look rubbery and synthetic, like a melting android. Suffice it to say the after-lunch rush was not a pleasant shift to work with Gi3po, as I took to calling her when the unfortunate mix of nerves, heat and war paint interacted.
I only write these awful things after six months of psychological torture almost caused me to lunge over the counter one busy Friday night and try to peel off her crusty Maybelline mask, convinced that my high school bully was hiding behind the flaky dead skin, noxious perfume and hillbilly accent. When her husband Dave was around it was even worse. He stopped in a few times a week for lunch or dinner depending on her shift, and by providing an audience he brought out her vindictive nature. I've never been in a fight, but given the rage she induced I probably could have taken her, even if she was a melting, malfunctioning robot.
"I hate the North, hate it," she would pout with a petulant stomp as we unpacked the weekly shipment in the storage room. Her presence rattled my nerves, and she had to have known this because she would creep up behind me at every opportunity, tip-toeing over my shoulder while I rang up or assisted a customer by searching for a title on the computer. It's difficult to maintain your composure when someone is always lurking behind you, waiting for you to err so they can show you up, preferably in front of a crowd.
"Sorry sir, we don't seem to have that title in stock. If you like, I'd be glad to special-order it; the book will arrive to you at no extra cost in seven to ten business da--."
"Oh, we have it sir," she would confidently interject while making a dash for the storage room, leaving me looking and feeling like a lummox. Sometimes she would return triumphant, coddling the book like an infant she rescued from a burning building, sometimes empty-handed. In the latter case, the only apology she ever issued was to the customer whose hopes she had fasely raised.
If my eye was able to catch her in time, I could usually see Abby mouthing something to the effect of "fuckin' twat." At least I wasn't alone regarding my feelings for Gi3po, amd that added to my feeling of acceptance despite having absolutely nothing in common with the rest of my co-workers.
-4-
There is a task called recovery that most retail employees must complete at the end of a shift. At the bookstore, recovery is taking the Karma Sutra out of the Children's section. At the record store, recovery means taking Guided By Voices out of the V column and replacing it under G, the proper, alphabatized spot. At the landscape center, recovery is hunting down the stray alyssum and cleome trays customers leave in the gravel aisles because they opt for a perenial flowerbed at the last minute. Recovery is cleaning up a mess.
It isn't arduous work, although you have to do it at the end of your shift, and if you're in a hurry it can be a frustrating process. I was in such a rush one Friday night when I turned an aisle too fast, knocking over a James Patterson display of hardcovers. I looked down at the end table, and for several moments had no idea what I was staring at. Then, after the misfortune of picking one up and inspecting it, it became evident that I had accidently stumbled upon a stack of about ten finger and ten toenails.
"What the..."
In my periphery I saw Gi3po darting toward me from the other side of the store like the Terminator pursuing John Connor. She flashed an intrepid, intimidating glare, swept the nails off the table into her hand, marched back behind the counter and opened it over the trash can. Every Spring Chicken working maintained stoic composure until she left moments later. What followed was a minute long fit of communal laughter, one of the most beautiful sounds that man can produce. Everyone laughed except for me, who hadn't moved from the Patterson display, still wondering what the hell had just happened.
When we were sure she wasn't coming back, the remaining staff congregated in the back room and Jeanna explained a few of Dave's quirks to me. Apparently, he has a most unsanitary habit of ripping off his finger and toenails when they get long enough, then hiding little piles of them everywhere. After a month or two, when they're ripe enough, he would return to the pile and pick his teeth would the favorites. According to Gigi, who confided to Jeanna one night in a rare show of personal confession, there is toenail treasure hidden all over their house. She discovers at least one pile a week. That same night, she also told her about an evening a few months after the wedding when her parents came over for dinner, and afterward they all moved to the den for coffee. Her mom reached over a candle stick on the coffee table and knocked it over, revealing a pile of nails that numbered in the fifties, much larger than the one I had discovered in the store. This is somewhat comparable to the Allies stumbling across different sizes of concentration camps in WWII Germany. In the store I had accidentally happened upon a Landsburg; that night, Dave's mother in-law had liberated the Auschwitz of toenail clippings.
He has another hang-up that everyone knows of but is rarely acknowledged because it is simply too strange. Dave cannot urinate in public restrooms or even in a home other than his or his mother's without removing every article of clothing, down to his shoes and socks. Carol discovered this quirk one day at work when she opened the door of our bathroom in back to find him stark naked in front of the toilet, water running in the sink to help his release, clothes neatly folded on the floor. When she asked Gigi about it later that day, she said that in addition to being hopelessly neurotic, he had a narrow urethra which made urinating painfully laborious.
I sat and listened to them take turns telling Gigi stories, each one worse than the last. During her four-year tenure at Waldenbook's she managed to alienate, frustrate and eventually inspire pure hatred in the heart of every employee. Soon it became evident that something had to be done, a stand needed to be taken. It was in the storage room that Friday evening when the Spring Chickens hatched their plan to finally get rid of Gi3po.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Golden Owl
This story is for my grandma. I miss you, Amy. It began as a monologue from the POV of a redneck with a hidden soft side. I wanted to take an extremely vulgar, unlikeable character and see if I could make him sympathetic by the end of the story. It's long and there are few breaks, but stick with it if you can. (It figures, only I would dedicate a story to my grandma that begins with a masturbation joke).
A few moments later when he peripherally noticed a slight move in the window, he jolted upright in his recliner and dropped the objects that were in his hands. He rushed to the door, yanked it open and pounced on me. I was standing on the front porch with a six-pack of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag. The bag dropped to the ground and one one of the Budweiser cans burst and soaked the bag, seeping out onto the tiny stone porch.
Fuming huge gasps of breath, he dragged me into his apartment , slammed the door and jacked me up against the wall. A plastic framed picture of Franco Harris a few inches to the left of my head fell off the wall and landed face up against his leg. The cramped, rectangular living room was decorated with clothing from every part of the body strewn about the floor, a back log of last week's newspapers shabbily stacked at the foot of the couch, and a growing pyramid of empty beer cans on the coffee table. 'Detroit Rock City' blasted from his stereo that was propped up by two orange milk crates in the corner.
"So you like peeping in other people's windows, huh?"
"I, I--Get the fuck off me! I was walking up to the door and I just looked in the window! I mean, shit! Haven't you ever glanced in somebody's window before if it's on the way to the front door?"
"Glancing? Are you fucking serious? You were staring at me man, what the fuck?"
"I was staring because I've never seen a grown man knitting before! I mean-- shit man, is that fucking fuchsia?"
He tightened his grip on my shirt and drove me into the wall again, slamming the back of my head into it. The impact made the CD player skip, and all I heard during that brief pause were my heavy gasps of breath.
"You fuckin' smart, asshole? Huh? You bein' fuckin' smart?"
Our noses were nearly touching; his nostrils flared as they rapidly exhaled steam from his boiling face. His normally wide round eyes contracted to mere slits, and his mouth twisted into a fierce grimace. Expecting a hearty welcome from my surprise visit, I was paralyzed with fear from his violent greeting.
"Murphy please, calm the fuck down!"
My terrified appeal must have begun to quell his surging rage. He relaxed his grip on my shirt and turned away from me. Slumped against the wall and gasping for air, I watched him walk into the dark kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, adroitly cracking it open with the same hand.
"Go get your sixer and sit your ass down."
Once I opened the door, I thought about running to my car and getting the hell out of there, but dodging him at work would be impossible, so I picked up the remaining five beers from the lake of Budweiser, hesitated for a final moment, and walked back inside. Murphy was pacing in front of the TV.
"Dude, if anyone at work finds out that I make those," he pointed to the half-finished afghan draped over the side of his recliner, "I swear..." He pulled a can of snuff from his pocket and wedged a rub behind his bottom lip. "Sorry for losing it man, but you're the only person who knows anything about this. Shit, now I'm starting to feel bad. Really man, I'm sorry. I always figured this would happen someday, eventually. But you really fuckin' scared me, standing in the window like that."
"I scared you? Do you welcome all of your visitor's that way?"
"Hey, you're the only fuckin' person who knows about this. I never knew how I'd react when I got, well, caught."
"Ah hell, it's alright I guess. I have to ask though, man--if you're so worried about being spotted, how come you were knitting in the living room? Why not do it in your bedroom where you couldn't be seen?"
"Press play."
"Huh?"
"The VCR, jerkoff. Press play."
I picked up the remote next to him on the coffee table and did as instructed. When the video came on, and my lips pursed and the corners of my mouth twitched as I battled the urge to break into a fit of laughter. Sweat began to moisten my forehead as I avoided eye-contact with Murphy, a blanket-knitting warrior, capable of unleashing a furious beating at the slightest prompt.
"It's Betty Marshall. Her tapes show techniques for mastering the Knit and Purl stitches. Teaching myself some advanced shit."
"May I, uh, ask how you learned how?"
He drained his beer and turned down the stereo with the other, skinnier remote that was on the table. Looking down at his shoes, he sighed and shook his head slowly.
"I can't believe we're having this conversation. Remember, if you fucking tell anybody--"
"I swear to God, man."
He took a deep breath and spit a wad of Copenhagen into his old, dented can.
1
Murphy didn't immediately see me peering in his living room window from the front porch. He didn't see my head tilt and mouth gape open in mystified wonder, watching his hands jerking up and down in rapid succession while his eyes didn't seem to blink from the television. I contemplated tapping on the window to make my presence known, thought better of it and continued to indulge my voyeuristic observation a bit longer.A few moments later when he peripherally noticed a slight move in the window, he jolted upright in his recliner and dropped the objects that were in his hands. He rushed to the door, yanked it open and pounced on me. I was standing on the front porch with a six-pack of beer wrapped in a brown paper bag. The bag dropped to the ground and one one of the Budweiser cans burst and soaked the bag, seeping out onto the tiny stone porch.
Fuming huge gasps of breath, he dragged me into his apartment , slammed the door and jacked me up against the wall. A plastic framed picture of Franco Harris a few inches to the left of my head fell off the wall and landed face up against his leg. The cramped, rectangular living room was decorated with clothing from every part of the body strewn about the floor, a back log of last week's newspapers shabbily stacked at the foot of the couch, and a growing pyramid of empty beer cans on the coffee table. 'Detroit Rock City' blasted from his stereo that was propped up by two orange milk crates in the corner.
"So you like peeping in other people's windows, huh?"
"I, I--Get the fuck off me! I was walking up to the door and I just looked in the window! I mean, shit! Haven't you ever glanced in somebody's window before if it's on the way to the front door?"
"Glancing? Are you fucking serious? You were staring at me man, what the fuck?"
"I was staring because I've never seen a grown man knitting before! I mean-- shit man, is that fucking fuchsia?"
He tightened his grip on my shirt and drove me into the wall again, slamming the back of my head into it. The impact made the CD player skip, and all I heard during that brief pause were my heavy gasps of breath.
"You fuckin' smart, asshole? Huh? You bein' fuckin' smart?"
Our noses were nearly touching; his nostrils flared as they rapidly exhaled steam from his boiling face. His normally wide round eyes contracted to mere slits, and his mouth twisted into a fierce grimace. Expecting a hearty welcome from my surprise visit, I was paralyzed with fear from his violent greeting.
"Murphy please, calm the fuck down!"
My terrified appeal must have begun to quell his surging rage. He relaxed his grip on my shirt and turned away from me. Slumped against the wall and gasping for air, I watched him walk into the dark kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge, adroitly cracking it open with the same hand.
"Go get your sixer and sit your ass down."
Once I opened the door, I thought about running to my car and getting the hell out of there, but dodging him at work would be impossible, so I picked up the remaining five beers from the lake of Budweiser, hesitated for a final moment, and walked back inside. Murphy was pacing in front of the TV.
"Dude, if anyone at work finds out that I make those," he pointed to the half-finished afghan draped over the side of his recliner, "I swear..." He pulled a can of snuff from his pocket and wedged a rub behind his bottom lip. "Sorry for losing it man, but you're the only person who knows anything about this. Shit, now I'm starting to feel bad. Really man, I'm sorry. I always figured this would happen someday, eventually. But you really fuckin' scared me, standing in the window like that."
"I scared you? Do you welcome all of your visitor's that way?"
"Hey, you're the only fuckin' person who knows about this. I never knew how I'd react when I got, well, caught."
"Ah hell, it's alright I guess. I have to ask though, man--if you're so worried about being spotted, how come you were knitting in the living room? Why not do it in your bedroom where you couldn't be seen?"
"Press play."
"Huh?"
"The VCR, jerkoff. Press play."
I picked up the remote next to him on the coffee table and did as instructed. When the video came on, and my lips pursed and the corners of my mouth twitched as I battled the urge to break into a fit of laughter. Sweat began to moisten my forehead as I avoided eye-contact with Murphy, a blanket-knitting warrior, capable of unleashing a furious beating at the slightest prompt.
"It's Betty Marshall. Her tapes show techniques for mastering the Knit and Purl stitches. Teaching myself some advanced shit."
"May I, uh, ask how you learned how?"
He drained his beer and turned down the stereo with the other, skinnier remote that was on the table. Looking down at his shoes, he sighed and shook his head slowly.
"I can't believe we're having this conversation. Remember, if you fucking tell anybody--"
"I swear to God, man."
He took a deep breath and spit a wad of Copenhagen into his old, dented can.
2
When I was eleven, my mom and dad were fighting a lot and were real close to getting a divorce. I didn't know this at the time, didn't find out until they really did get divorced when I was fifteen. Anyway, at the time, they didn't want me to see them hating each other and shit, guess because I was so young, so they sent me to stay with my grandparents in Altoona.
I really loved my grandparents' house so I was all for it. I mean, my Grandpa never really said much and when he did he was a strict Sonofabitch, but he said some funny shit sometimes. His right leg was amputated just below the knee from some crazy accident in the coalmines. He had a wooden leg in the hall closet that gave me fucking nightmares for years, no shit.
Anyway, he had a wheelchair and everything but he didn't really move around too much. He used to read these dime paperback Westerns, these Louis L'amour books. Must've had a hundred of 'em. He'd drink coffee in the morning and read them at the kitchen table, or if it was nice out we'd wheel his ass out onto the front porch. Then he'd just sit there like a piece of fuckin' furniture or somethin'. I mean, he came in for dinner and shit, but he spent most of his time on the front porch.
Murphy got up, picked up the picture of Franco Harris that was still on the ground, replaced it on the wall and walked into the hallway-shaped kitchen to grab another beer. He spit a mouthful of saliva snuff into one of the empty cans and took a long swig from the fresh one.
Anyway, my Grandaddy was ice cool but I was always closer to Grandma. I don't know man, she was just the shit. She never gave me any fuss, always gave me my space. But at the same time, when I was depressed or whatever, she could cheer me up when my mum and old man couldn't. We used to play Connect-Four and shit. She loved board games.
Man, I learned some good lessons from her. Like she was a real competitor when we played games. She just hated to lose. I remember one day when we were playing Yahtzee and she kicked my ass for like three hours. So naturally I threw a fucking tantrum and started to cry and shit, but she never let me win just so I could feel good. I finally beat her right before I went to bed that night and it was the best fucking feeling, because I knew I beat her myself--she didn't pull any kid-always-wins shit on me. I don't know, you grow to appreciate that kind of shit.
Did I mention her cooking? I mean, she put EFFORT into it. She'd start at one o'clock right after "the Young and the Restless" was over, you remember that shit? Yeah, she loved her soaps, too. Anyway, she'd slave in the kitchen all afternoon and me and gramps would reap the fuckin' rewards come five-thirty every day, hell yeah.
So when Grams was in the kitchen and Gramps was on the porch staring at clouds and birds and shit, I had the whole backyard to myself. It was fucking massive. Didn't have it for long, though.
There was this kid Evan that lived next door who came over a few times, but he was pretty square. I'd try to get him to catch baseball and shit but he was never into it. I knew from the start that he was a pussy, but he let me boss him around and shit so it was pretty cool.
Way back near the shed there was this huge pear tree. One day I asked Gramps if Evan and me could build a tree house and he kinda nodded and mumbled some shit, then I went and told Grandma that he said it was okay and I got the green light. I've always been fuckin' sly like that, I don't know. Yeah, Evan was pretty much worthless, so he just kinda stared at me while I did all the work, nailing in the wooden planks that was gonna be the ladder.
So I was hugging the trunk on the twelfth or thirteenth step of the ladder, which was pretty high, like ten feet or so, and this wasp was buzzing around one of the pears right by my head. I don't know what I was thinking, I usually freeze up like a fuckin' statue even now when I see a bee or a wasp, but I took a swipe at it. The pear snapped off and dropped to the ground, and this must've pissed it off 'cause it came right at me. Stung me right above my eyebrow right here. I panicked and fell out of the tree and landed next to Evan who just stood there holding the spare hammer like a jerkoff, like he was going to hammer ANYTHING.
I broke my left leg and my eye swelled up like a fuckin' egg from the wasp sting. That little chode Evan didn't even get my grandparents. He dropped the hammer and ran straight home. Never saw him again, the little shit. Damn, they were really pissed at me for a few days after I got the cast on it. That was the only time they ever lectured me like parents, but I didn't really mind 'cause I knew I deserved it.
I really loved my grandparents' house so I was all for it. I mean, my Grandpa never really said much and when he did he was a strict Sonofabitch, but he said some funny shit sometimes. His right leg was amputated just below the knee from some crazy accident in the coalmines. He had a wooden leg in the hall closet that gave me fucking nightmares for years, no shit.
Anyway, he had a wheelchair and everything but he didn't really move around too much. He used to read these dime paperback Westerns, these Louis L'amour books. Must've had a hundred of 'em. He'd drink coffee in the morning and read them at the kitchen table, or if it was nice out we'd wheel his ass out onto the front porch. Then he'd just sit there like a piece of fuckin' furniture or somethin'. I mean, he came in for dinner and shit, but he spent most of his time on the front porch.
Murphy got up, picked up the picture of Franco Harris that was still on the ground, replaced it on the wall and walked into the hallway-shaped kitchen to grab another beer. He spit a mouthful of saliva snuff into one of the empty cans and took a long swig from the fresh one.
Anyway, my Grandaddy was ice cool but I was always closer to Grandma. I don't know man, she was just the shit. She never gave me any fuss, always gave me my space. But at the same time, when I was depressed or whatever, she could cheer me up when my mum and old man couldn't. We used to play Connect-Four and shit. She loved board games.
Man, I learned some good lessons from her. Like she was a real competitor when we played games. She just hated to lose. I remember one day when we were playing Yahtzee and she kicked my ass for like three hours. So naturally I threw a fucking tantrum and started to cry and shit, but she never let me win just so I could feel good. I finally beat her right before I went to bed that night and it was the best fucking feeling, because I knew I beat her myself--she didn't pull any kid-always-wins shit on me. I don't know, you grow to appreciate that kind of shit.
Did I mention her cooking? I mean, she put EFFORT into it. She'd start at one o'clock right after "the Young and the Restless" was over, you remember that shit? Yeah, she loved her soaps, too. Anyway, she'd slave in the kitchen all afternoon and me and gramps would reap the fuckin' rewards come five-thirty every day, hell yeah.
So when Grams was in the kitchen and Gramps was on the porch staring at clouds and birds and shit, I had the whole backyard to myself. It was fucking massive. Didn't have it for long, though.
There was this kid Evan that lived next door who came over a few times, but he was pretty square. I'd try to get him to catch baseball and shit but he was never into it. I knew from the start that he was a pussy, but he let me boss him around and shit so it was pretty cool.
Way back near the shed there was this huge pear tree. One day I asked Gramps if Evan and me could build a tree house and he kinda nodded and mumbled some shit, then I went and told Grandma that he said it was okay and I got the green light. I've always been fuckin' sly like that, I don't know. Yeah, Evan was pretty much worthless, so he just kinda stared at me while I did all the work, nailing in the wooden planks that was gonna be the ladder.
So I was hugging the trunk on the twelfth or thirteenth step of the ladder, which was pretty high, like ten feet or so, and this wasp was buzzing around one of the pears right by my head. I don't know what I was thinking, I usually freeze up like a fuckin' statue even now when I see a bee or a wasp, but I took a swipe at it. The pear snapped off and dropped to the ground, and this must've pissed it off 'cause it came right at me. Stung me right above my eyebrow right here. I panicked and fell out of the tree and landed next to Evan who just stood there holding the spare hammer like a jerkoff, like he was going to hammer ANYTHING.
I broke my left leg and my eye swelled up like a fuckin' egg from the wasp sting. That little chode Evan didn't even get my grandparents. He dropped the hammer and ran straight home. Never saw him again, the little shit. Damn, they were really pissed at me for a few days after I got the cast on it. That was the only time they ever lectured me like parents, but I didn't really mind 'cause I knew I deserved it.
3
Anyway, I was all pumped up to have this awesome summer, now all of a sudden I'm confined to the house for two and a half months. What made it like ten times worse was that their tv only got three channels really good, and they were both pretty possessive over it. Grandma had her soaps in the afternoon, even when she was cooking dinner, and Gramps watched his Westerns at night when he came in from the porch. That left me with about two hours a day, except for my Saturday morning cartoons.
The first few days I hung out with Grampa on the porch a lot, but it drove me fuckin' nuts just sitting there. I think I started to get on his nerves too, 'cause he just wanted his peace and quiet and I'm asking him a million questions and shit. He was pretty patient, but one of those days I was bitchin' about my leg a lot, being a real shit, and he told me he'd saw it off and give me the wooden leg in the hall closet. That really freaked me out, and I started crying and threw a fit. Grams really bitched him out that night; I was in bed but I heard her giving him shit in the kitchen.
The next day was the worst of the summer. I got Gramps in trouble and felt bad about that, but I was really still just feeling sorry for myself. Grandma though, God love her, tried everything to cheer me up. She made lime Jell-O, played damn near every board game in the house with me, I even think she took it easy on me 'cause I remember destroying her ass at Battleship. But nothing really cheered me up. Then after dinner once she finished the dishes, she sat down in the living room with the TV turned down, pulled out this pink and white blanket that was almost finished, two balls of yarn and started knitting. I don't know, man. It just fascinated the hell out of me, the way she explained that it started from those two white and pink balls of yarn and was now a near finished blanket that she made. I mean, she didn't buy it at fucking K-Mart, she MADE it, ya know?
Anyway, she taught me the basics, casting on, making the loop, binding off--well, you don't need to know that shit. I guess I picked it up really fast though, 'cause I was knitting little patches by the time I went to bed that night. The next morning I couldn't wait to finish my fuckin' Kix and get back on the couch. It really made her proud, too. You should've seen her man, she really thrived on teaching it to me. Gramps drove us to the crafts store and we bought a bunch of yarn, green, gold and more white, and another pair of needles. All of a sudden my summer didn't seem ruined because of my leg.
I was completely transfixed. This was a guy who exuded alpha-male hubris at work; in three years I'd never heard him speak of anything besides sports, strippers and fast food. This was the first time I heard him speak of any woman with the slightest amount of respect.
She would invite some of her cronies over, this lady named Helen Stratahaus and some other old bag named Marcy. She had these patches of gray facial hair and smelled like maple syrup. Ever meet anybody that smelled like maple syrup? It's not a good smell like you might think, man. It's fuckin' nauseating. We let her sit in the recliner on the other side of the living room while the three of us sat on the couch. Helen was cool at first because she used to bring over vanilla pitzels and chocolate chip cookies in this Folger's Coffee can, but she was kind of a lousy knitter for someone her age. She just sort of gossiped all day in this loud-ass whiny voice about her church's council meetings and her fuckin' neighbor's son-in-law who always turned around in her driveway 'cause it was wider.
Marcy meant fuckin' business though; she'd just sit there, knitting away and nodding her head every once in a while. When she did talk, her voice was real phlegmy and gross and I had to concentrate on the low volume of the tv to tune her out. Maybe she knew that she sounded like she was gargling when she talked and was quiet out of courtesy, I don't know. Barely a fuckin' peep out of her on most days, though.
Those turned out to be my friends that summer. One time I added up all their ages in my head and it was like a hundred and ninety years or some shit. But it didn't really bother me; all I cared about was finishing something big by the end of the summer. I wanted to go home to Pittsburgh at the end of August with a fuckin' blanket that I could show mom and dad.
The first few days I hung out with Grampa on the porch a lot, but it drove me fuckin' nuts just sitting there. I think I started to get on his nerves too, 'cause he just wanted his peace and quiet and I'm asking him a million questions and shit. He was pretty patient, but one of those days I was bitchin' about my leg a lot, being a real shit, and he told me he'd saw it off and give me the wooden leg in the hall closet. That really freaked me out, and I started crying and threw a fit. Grams really bitched him out that night; I was in bed but I heard her giving him shit in the kitchen.
The next day was the worst of the summer. I got Gramps in trouble and felt bad about that, but I was really still just feeling sorry for myself. Grandma though, God love her, tried everything to cheer me up. She made lime Jell-O, played damn near every board game in the house with me, I even think she took it easy on me 'cause I remember destroying her ass at Battleship. But nothing really cheered me up. Then after dinner once she finished the dishes, she sat down in the living room with the TV turned down, pulled out this pink and white blanket that was almost finished, two balls of yarn and started knitting. I don't know, man. It just fascinated the hell out of me, the way she explained that it started from those two white and pink balls of yarn and was now a near finished blanket that she made. I mean, she didn't buy it at fucking K-Mart, she MADE it, ya know?
Anyway, she taught me the basics, casting on, making the loop, binding off--well, you don't need to know that shit. I guess I picked it up really fast though, 'cause I was knitting little patches by the time I went to bed that night. The next morning I couldn't wait to finish my fuckin' Kix and get back on the couch. It really made her proud, too. You should've seen her man, she really thrived on teaching it to me. Gramps drove us to the crafts store and we bought a bunch of yarn, green, gold and more white, and another pair of needles. All of a sudden my summer didn't seem ruined because of my leg.
I was completely transfixed. This was a guy who exuded alpha-male hubris at work; in three years I'd never heard him speak of anything besides sports, strippers and fast food. This was the first time I heard him speak of any woman with the slightest amount of respect.
She would invite some of her cronies over, this lady named Helen Stratahaus and some other old bag named Marcy. She had these patches of gray facial hair and smelled like maple syrup. Ever meet anybody that smelled like maple syrup? It's not a good smell like you might think, man. It's fuckin' nauseating. We let her sit in the recliner on the other side of the living room while the three of us sat on the couch. Helen was cool at first because she used to bring over vanilla pitzels and chocolate chip cookies in this Folger's Coffee can, but she was kind of a lousy knitter for someone her age. She just sort of gossiped all day in this loud-ass whiny voice about her church's council meetings and her fuckin' neighbor's son-in-law who always turned around in her driveway 'cause it was wider.
Marcy meant fuckin' business though; she'd just sit there, knitting away and nodding her head every once in a while. When she did talk, her voice was real phlegmy and gross and I had to concentrate on the low volume of the tv to tune her out. Maybe she knew that she sounded like she was gargling when she talked and was quiet out of courtesy, I don't know. Barely a fuckin' peep out of her on most days, though.
Those turned out to be my friends that summer. One time I added up all their ages in my head and it was like a hundred and ninety years or some shit. But it didn't really bother me; all I cared about was finishing something big by the end of the summer. I wanted to go home to Pittsburgh at the end of August with a fuckin' blanket that I could show mom and dad.
4
I worked day and night on that fuckin' blanket. Of the four of us, I was definitely the most focused at my work. If Helen Stratahaus didn't check a can of sweets at the door almost every day, I would've been a little dick to her; blabbing on and on like she did got really old after a while, real distracting. And I knew she must've driven Gramps up a fuckin' wall with her loud whiny voice disrupting his peace and quiet.
At first I struggled making the Owl. It seemed pretty advanced, even for Grandma, and I fucked up a couple times at the beginning. Marcy seemed to have the most experience with following difficult patterns, so after about a month she switched seats with Helen and sat in between Grams and me on the couch. It was tough because I had to close my nasal passages and breathe through my mouth or her pancake stank would make me fuckin' sick. It was really that bad, man. But she helped me in the areas that Grandma didn't know much about, and seriously, by the end of the summer I didn't mind her nearly as much as that fucking blabbermouth Helen. One night at dinner Gramps asked me if I could knit a muzzle for her. Yeah, she was a real pain in the ass, and her cookies weren't that great anyway.
As the summer dragged on, the Owl started to take shape. Taking instruction from Marcy, I started at the bottom and worked my way up. When it was about halfway finished, I started carrying it up to bed with me at night and would fall asleep with the hallway light on, staring at the bottom half and imagining what it would look like when it was finished.
By the beginning of August it really started looking good. The pissed-off look on the Owl was identical to the pattern in the book. My Grandma was so fucking proud, man. She'd invite over other old ladies from the church, some that Helen spent the entire summer bitching about--you should've seen how fucking nice she was to them in person, by the way, and they'd get all mushy, patting my head and shit. I won't lie, I ate that shit up--every kid does. Every time we went to the grocery store, some old coot that Grandma knew would be praising me. I felt like a fuckin' celebrity to every senior citizen in Altoona.
Mom and Dad would each call once or twice a week, never together, and the Owl was the only thing I would talk about. It was really the only thing there was to talk about. Grandma was still Grandma; Gramps was still asleep on the front porch.
When mom picked me up on Labor Day weekend and took me home, my cast was off by then and the Owl was finished. I ran out to the van and wrapped it around her when she got out. I knew that she was happier to see me than anything, and the Owl impressed her and shit, but she didn't get all crazy over it like everyone else did. At first, I don't think she believed that I really did it myself. Grandma showed me off like I was some kind of fucking prodigy, but mom just didn't seem that, interested in it, I guess.
It was the same thing with pops. Plus, he probably would have wanted me to spend my summer memorizing the Pirates box scores in the sports page or some shit. I think that they were just too involved in their own problems that they didn't see that it was the first thing I found that I really loved to do. Or maybe they did recognize it and ignored it because it wasn't what they wanted me to love doing, I don't know. Either way, I was so fucking hurt by their reaction that I gave the shit up. Begged Grandma not to make a big deal about it and swore it off forever.
The Owl hung around my room for years. I slept with it sometimes and shit, but when I got older like in high school I stowed it away in my closet because I got shit for it from a couple of my friends a few times. When I finally moved out I packed it with me but never took it out of the box.
Anyway, Grandma died last year, finally. She was eighty-seven and just fuckin' miserable. Gramps died two years before that, and people say this shit all the time but I know it's true--old married people go straight downhill after the other goes. When he died I handled it alright, 'cause shit, when I was thirteen he looked like he was five minutes from dying, so you could imagine what he looked like a few years ago. But Grams was always so fuckin' active and in good shape, when she went man, shit. I pulled out the box and dusted off that fuckin' blanket, and cried into it like a fuckin' child. Next day I drove all the way to Elizabeth so nobody might recognize me and bought some yarn and needles and shit. And I don't know man, I just feel good when I do this shit. It makes me forget that I drive around mulch and mushroom shit every day, makes me forget how long it's been since I got laid.
And with that, he let out a belch that I could smell across the coffee table.
"Damn man, that's some fuckin' story. Didn't expect to hear anything like that when I came over--don't worry, I know, your secret's safe. Hey, where is this blanket, anyway?"
"You're leaning on it, jerkoff."
"Huh?" I leaned forward and looked over my shoulder. There it was, folded and draped over the back of the loveseat; the round eyes that were closed to mere slits glared at me, and only the top of the screaming beak was above the fold. I grabbed it and opened it up, holding it in front of me. It was worn and the corners were a bit tattered, the white yarn had faded a bit over the years, but it still had all the warmth and comfort that everybody's favorite blanket has.
I examined the vengeful eyes and the ravenous gaping beak, and something familiar about the expression struck me. Then I realized that I had indeed seen that frightening face before, earlier on the front porch, when Murphy swung open the front door and dragged me inside his apartment.
So Grams had this book of patterns and designs and I flipped through it one day and picked out this bad-ass Golden Owl that was near the end of the book where the harder designs were. It had an olive green border with a white background for the Owl, and it looked pissed man, real squinty eyes and it's mouth gaped open a bit, with it's wings extended like it's flying right at you and shit.
I worked day and night on that fuckin' blanket. Of the four of us, I was definitely the most focused at my work. If Helen Stratahaus didn't check a can of sweets at the door almost every day, I would've been a little dick to her; blabbing on and on like she did got really old after a while, real distracting. And I knew she must've driven Gramps up a fuckin' wall with her loud whiny voice disrupting his peace and quiet.
At first I struggled making the Owl. It seemed pretty advanced, even for Grandma, and I fucked up a couple times at the beginning. Marcy seemed to have the most experience with following difficult patterns, so after about a month she switched seats with Helen and sat in between Grams and me on the couch. It was tough because I had to close my nasal passages and breathe through my mouth or her pancake stank would make me fuckin' sick. It was really that bad, man. But she helped me in the areas that Grandma didn't know much about, and seriously, by the end of the summer I didn't mind her nearly as much as that fucking blabbermouth Helen. One night at dinner Gramps asked me if I could knit a muzzle for her. Yeah, she was a real pain in the ass, and her cookies weren't that great anyway.
As the summer dragged on, the Owl started to take shape. Taking instruction from Marcy, I started at the bottom and worked my way up. When it was about halfway finished, I started carrying it up to bed with me at night and would fall asleep with the hallway light on, staring at the bottom half and imagining what it would look like when it was finished.
By the beginning of August it really started looking good. The pissed-off look on the Owl was identical to the pattern in the book. My Grandma was so fucking proud, man. She'd invite over other old ladies from the church, some that Helen spent the entire summer bitching about--you should've seen how fucking nice she was to them in person, by the way, and they'd get all mushy, patting my head and shit. I won't lie, I ate that shit up--every kid does. Every time we went to the grocery store, some old coot that Grandma knew would be praising me. I felt like a fuckin' celebrity to every senior citizen in Altoona.
Mom and Dad would each call once or twice a week, never together, and the Owl was the only thing I would talk about. It was really the only thing there was to talk about. Grandma was still Grandma; Gramps was still asleep on the front porch.
When mom picked me up on Labor Day weekend and took me home, my cast was off by then and the Owl was finished. I ran out to the van and wrapped it around her when she got out. I knew that she was happier to see me than anything, and the Owl impressed her and shit, but she didn't get all crazy over it like everyone else did. At first, I don't think she believed that I really did it myself. Grandma showed me off like I was some kind of fucking prodigy, but mom just didn't seem that, interested in it, I guess.
It was the same thing with pops. Plus, he probably would have wanted me to spend my summer memorizing the Pirates box scores in the sports page or some shit. I think that they were just too involved in their own problems that they didn't see that it was the first thing I found that I really loved to do. Or maybe they did recognize it and ignored it because it wasn't what they wanted me to love doing, I don't know. Either way, I was so fucking hurt by their reaction that I gave the shit up. Begged Grandma not to make a big deal about it and swore it off forever.
The Owl hung around my room for years. I slept with it sometimes and shit, but when I got older like in high school I stowed it away in my closet because I got shit for it from a couple of my friends a few times. When I finally moved out I packed it with me but never took it out of the box.
Anyway, Grandma died last year, finally. She was eighty-seven and just fuckin' miserable. Gramps died two years before that, and people say this shit all the time but I know it's true--old married people go straight downhill after the other goes. When he died I handled it alright, 'cause shit, when I was thirteen he looked like he was five minutes from dying, so you could imagine what he looked like a few years ago. But Grams was always so fuckin' active and in good shape, when she went man, shit. I pulled out the box and dusted off that fuckin' blanket, and cried into it like a fuckin' child. Next day I drove all the way to Elizabeth so nobody might recognize me and bought some yarn and needles and shit. And I don't know man, I just feel good when I do this shit. It makes me forget that I drive around mulch and mushroom shit every day, makes me forget how long it's been since I got laid.
And with that, he let out a belch that I could smell across the coffee table.
"Damn man, that's some fuckin' story. Didn't expect to hear anything like that when I came over--don't worry, I know, your secret's safe. Hey, where is this blanket, anyway?"
"You're leaning on it, jerkoff."
"Huh?" I leaned forward and looked over my shoulder. There it was, folded and draped over the back of the loveseat; the round eyes that were closed to mere slits glared at me, and only the top of the screaming beak was above the fold. I grabbed it and opened it up, holding it in front of me. It was worn and the corners were a bit tattered, the white yarn had faded a bit over the years, but it still had all the warmth and comfort that everybody's favorite blanket has.
I examined the vengeful eyes and the ravenous gaping beak, and something familiar about the expression struck me. Then I realized that I had indeed seen that frightening face before, earlier on the front porch, when Murphy swung open the front door and dragged me inside his apartment.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Neighbors
1
For some unknown reason, I have always been somewhat of a weirdo magnet. If there is an old lady with crinkled up newspapers as shoes and a tin-foil hat proselytizing fire and brimstone theology anywhere within a hundred-mile radius, you can bet that I'm going to run into her. This odd magnetism also seems to have determined my neighbors over the years, because I've lived next to some pretty unique folk. With 'quirky' being the lowest common denominator, they have ranged from harmless to walking-time-bomb.The latter is a rather spot-on characterization of Enola, a pre-op tranny who lived on the same floor of the apartment I had my junior year of college. I have no personal aversion to homosexuals and the trans-gendered, as long as they are nice people. As my luck usually dictates, however, this was not the case here. His real name was Angus, but he only answered to it during the day when he passed as a normal, hetero male. Normal until you heard him speak, anyway.
I have never encountered someone so full of hatred for everything and everyone. Before I met him, I considered myself somewhat of a misanthrope, but he made me look like that Pollyannish character Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live: ( "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!").
His alter ego's moniker was an apt description of his female persona, as the "Enola Gay" was the name of the plane that dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima. It was hard enough dealing with Angus, but when Enola came out to play, I learned pretty quickly to steer clear. I could always tell which identity he was using by the music that would blare at all hours of the night. Angus favored more introspective music like Morrisey and the Cure, while Enola blasted brash noise outfits like the Birthday Party and Big Black. I happen to like Big Black, but not at 4:30AM when I have an exam the following morning.
The weekend that I moved in I knocked on his door around dinner time and introduced myself. His place was an utter squat, and the entire five minutes I forced myself to stay out of cordiality all he did was go on and on about "his nigger Ben" who did all of his cooking. By this, of course, he was referring to Uncle Ben's microwaveable dinners. And I had to live next to this guy for an entire year.
On the other end of the spectrum, the gentleman who lived directly above me in Wilmington turned out to be a real sweetheart, albeit with a lunatic's demeanor. A curios looking middle-aged man whose entire wardrobe consisted of combat boots, army camouflage pants and shrunken black t-shirts, I saw him walking in the building a few days after I moved in, carrying three grocery bags full of bananas. I approached him in the hallway as I was leaving.
"Hey, you must live upstairs. My name's Kevin," I said with an outstretched hand. He looked confused, as if he clearly didn't understand the foreign gesture. Sensing the awkward silence, I quickly stuffed my hand back in my pocket.
"Slyocomous," he said, flashing a clumsy smile.
Here we go again.
"Um, is that your first name?"
"Last. It's Ferlongatong. Ferlongatong P. Slyocomous."
Dare I ask?
"The P. Phillip? Patrick?"
"Pachumbang."
Having been down this road before, I figured it best to try and say something funny, and retreat as soon as possible. "What's with all the bananas? Do you have a simian roommate I need to know about?" Again, my query triggered a puzzled response.
"Groceries," he said matter-of-factly.
2
The longer I lived there, the more strange my upstairs neighbor appeared. While he looked like a stern, punk rock drill sergeant, he seemed to have a predilection for seventies soft rock, particularly Joan Baez and Juice Newton. Then there were the bananas. As far as I could tell, it was all he ate. Every attempt I made at getting to know him better only further added to his mystique. Always polite, any question I asked invariably elicited the same, befuddled response.
One night I was laying in bed, listening to "Angel in the Morning" permeate through my ceiling. I was wondering if "Ferlongatong" was of Greek origin, when I heard shouting from my bedroom window. I looked out and saw my neighbors gathered in a mob, pointing across the street and covering their mouths in horror.
Clouds of thick black smoke poured from the windows of a duplex catycorner from our apartment building. For the first time since I moved in there, I heard the music upstairs stop. Gaining momentum as he descended the stairs three at a time, the mighty Slyocomous cut through the mob as swiftly as if the people themselves were a gaseous mass not unlike the smoke billowing from the duplex.
Minutes later, the crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, followed by cathartic cheers and applause. My inscrutable upstairs neighbor emerged from the doorway with a little girl wrapped tight around his neck and a charred teddy bear in his left hand.
After the firetrucks and police cars dispersed and people finally began to wander back to their homes, I walked over to where Slyocomous was apparently going through the painstaking process of spelling out his name for reporters.
"F-E-R-L-O-N-G-A-T-O-N-G," he said, pronouncing each letter carefully.
"Is that Greek or something?" I heard one of the reporters ask.
That's life--sometimes you're stuck with an Enola, other times you're blessed with a Slyocomous. More than likely, you'll end up encountering both.
One night I was laying in bed, listening to "Angel in the Morning" permeate through my ceiling. I was wondering if "Ferlongatong" was of Greek origin, when I heard shouting from my bedroom window. I looked out and saw my neighbors gathered in a mob, pointing across the street and covering their mouths in horror.
Clouds of thick black smoke poured from the windows of a duplex catycorner from our apartment building. For the first time since I moved in there, I heard the music upstairs stop. Gaining momentum as he descended the stairs three at a time, the mighty Slyocomous cut through the mob as swiftly as if the people themselves were a gaseous mass not unlike the smoke billowing from the duplex.
Minutes later, the crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, followed by cathartic cheers and applause. My inscrutable upstairs neighbor emerged from the doorway with a little girl wrapped tight around his neck and a charred teddy bear in his left hand.
After the firetrucks and police cars dispersed and people finally began to wander back to their homes, I walked over to where Slyocomous was apparently going through the painstaking process of spelling out his name for reporters.
"F-E-R-L-O-N-G-A-T-O-N-G," he said, pronouncing each letter carefully.
"Is that Greek or something?" I heard one of the reporters ask.
That's life--sometimes you're stuck with an Enola, other times you're blessed with a Slyocomous. More than likely, you'll end up encountering both.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Restructuring
Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I'm not the most organized of people, and up until now, this cluttered page reflected that quite accurately. However, every time I refer people here, I end up trying to explain which stories are pure fiction and which ones are just essays and random thoughts. This invariably ends up confusing the hell out whoever I'm talking to, so I've decided to simplify things a bit. I've divided my posts into two basic categories: this page hosts the short stories and other assorted fiction, while I moved all of the non-fiction stuff to Red Rocket, my other page, which can be found at unfetteredhubris.blogspot.com Consequentially, this page has diminished quite a bit in size while Red Rocket is now considerably larger. As always, thanks for reading, and send me an e-mail if you have any questions.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Twelve Step Hopscotch
Many of these short stories are actually parts of a novella which will probably never get finished due to laziness, insecurity and a demanding day job (but mostly laziness). Fortunately, they all function well enough in this format. In the time line, this one leads right up to Evil Did I Dwell. There's not really a denouement because it occurs in the next chapter; at this point the character is as hopeless at the end of the story as he is at the beginning, if not more so.
I realized that my drinking was out of hand, and since I was getting nowhere by trying to kick the habit alone, I decided to see if a support group was a more effective route to sobering up. I got out the phone book and cold-called Alcoholics Anonymous. I told the lady who answered about my addictive personality and how much trouble it's gotten me into over the years, and the first thing she said was that the temptation of being around other drinkers could be dangerous, and since I wasn't a drug addict, it might be prudent to try a Narcotics Anonymous meeting instead. I jotted down some addresses and times of local meetings and went to my first one that evening. But like everything else at the time, my heart wasn't really in it; I was basically going so I could tell everyone that I gave it a shot and the program just didn't work for me.
After the first few meetings, I learned to sit in the back. If you avert your eyes, only the bold will approach you. Although I had little faith that the twelve steps would work for me, I wanted to at least give the impression that I was trying. I learned the serenity prayer and recited it with brow-furrowed conviction, listened to the success stories from people who managed to clean up and lead a sober life, and suffered through the "war stories" that people thought they were intrepidly sharing.
But inspiration just never came.
I usually ended up trying not to laugh at their horror stories, the way seasoned veterans of any field mock the rookies. At the time I scoffed at their "pain," because I felt I was beyond their suffering, which of course was ridiculous. Everyone bears a cross of some kind. I adroitly posed as sympathetic while masking disgust, because most of the people there were addicted to pity, not drugs.
N/A meetings usually begin with a newcomer approaching the podium, introducing themselves, and receiving a hearty welcome. At the end of the first meeting you are given a key chain. Introductory, or "newbie" key chains are white. After ninety days you graduate to yellow, then green, and so on. The key chain itself is shaped like a number one, and has either A/A or N/A printed on it in bold letters. I kept mine for about a week, until I realized that every time I pulled it out of my pocket I was basically showing off a scarlet letter. I might as well have "drug-addict" or "alcoholic" stamped on my forehead, and that's not exactly the image I wanted to project, no matter what fucking color it was.
Anyway, many of the people there were pathetic, and I often had to think of deceased relatives to fight off the giggles I would get from listening to their sob stories ad nauseum. For example, the Wednesday night meeting in Brookline splits up into groups, according to which of the twelve steps you're currently following. One night we were making our way around the circle, each person sharing part of the reason that brought them to N/A. When the floor was given to the girl two seats to my left, her story rang familiar in both its pedestrianism and absurdity.
"I figured that I'd had enough of this life," she sputtered in between short fits of weeping. Aside from the maniacal bush of unkept hair and the sour breath brought on by incessant weeping, she was quite attractive; if her eyes weren't red and puffy from crying they were a sparkling emerald, and she had the slightest gap between her front teeth that I imagined centered the most endearing smile.
"...So I found my mom's prescription for Xanax, I never tried it before but I heard they were strong. So I downed half the bottle, wrote a note and waited for the end."
I had to admit her performance was captivating, and for a moment my heart, like everyone else's, was all hers. The people flanking her offered their hands for support, and she squeezed them tight as she shared her painful story.
The leader of our group, a twelve step graduate named Rhonda, had the sympathetic composure of someone who had heard a thousand similar tales in her lifetime and could empathize with every last one of them. "Did they have to pump your stomach, dear?"
"No, they...they didn't have to," she let go of the hands supporting her and reached into her purse for a Kleenex to dab her eyes. I could tell that everyone was curious as to how her story ended but were hesitant to ask because she was starting to calm down. I just couldn't resist.
"So what happened?"
"Apparently, my mom thought I might try something like that, so a few days before I did it she replaced the Xanax with Col....ce."
"Sorry, you kind of trailed off there." I felt Rhonda's disapproving glare but for some reason I persisted. "What did you say she replaced it with?"
"With COLACE," she blurted out, as her patience trailed off like the eyeliner sinking down her cheeks.
The people who didn't know what it was remained puzzled, and someone naively asked what it was. Before she could think up a suitable euphemism, I took it upon myself to explain the uses of the mystery pill.
"It's a stool softener."
"I had diarrhea for three days!" she blurted out before bursting into another fit of sobbing. A few people either genuinely continued to share in her grief or at least pretended to, but I could see most of them blushing and trying their best to suppress smiles. It was the kind of revelation that should engender a reaction of equal parts sympathy and humor, but it didn't strike me as either. In hindsight, I can't believe how callous I was.
For some reason, her anecdote completely incensed me. Here I was, finally letting my guard down and really feeling sorry for this girl, only for her story to end like a Monty Python sketch. I decided to express my anger, which was rare for me.
"You're shitting me, right?" I asked as I stood up, regretting the pun instantly when everyone's attention shifted my way. I racked my brain for something else to say that would convey my indignation, but I drew a blank. When I searched their eyes for validation and came up empty, I ended up storming off in silent disgust.
That was my last meeting for awhile.
I realized that my drinking was out of hand, and since I was getting nowhere by trying to kick the habit alone, I decided to see if a support group was a more effective route to sobering up. I got out the phone book and cold-called Alcoholics Anonymous. I told the lady who answered about my addictive personality and how much trouble it's gotten me into over the years, and the first thing she said was that the temptation of being around other drinkers could be dangerous, and since I wasn't a drug addict, it might be prudent to try a Narcotics Anonymous meeting instead. I jotted down some addresses and times of local meetings and went to my first one that evening. But like everything else at the time, my heart wasn't really in it; I was basically going so I could tell everyone that I gave it a shot and the program just didn't work for me.
After the first few meetings, I learned to sit in the back. If you avert your eyes, only the bold will approach you. Although I had little faith that the twelve steps would work for me, I wanted to at least give the impression that I was trying. I learned the serenity prayer and recited it with brow-furrowed conviction, listened to the success stories from people who managed to clean up and lead a sober life, and suffered through the "war stories" that people thought they were intrepidly sharing.
But inspiration just never came.
I usually ended up trying not to laugh at their horror stories, the way seasoned veterans of any field mock the rookies. At the time I scoffed at their "pain," because I felt I was beyond their suffering, which of course was ridiculous. Everyone bears a cross of some kind. I adroitly posed as sympathetic while masking disgust, because most of the people there were addicted to pity, not drugs.
N/A meetings usually begin with a newcomer approaching the podium, introducing themselves, and receiving a hearty welcome. At the end of the first meeting you are given a key chain. Introductory, or "newbie" key chains are white. After ninety days you graduate to yellow, then green, and so on. The key chain itself is shaped like a number one, and has either A/A or N/A printed on it in bold letters. I kept mine for about a week, until I realized that every time I pulled it out of my pocket I was basically showing off a scarlet letter. I might as well have "drug-addict" or "alcoholic" stamped on my forehead, and that's not exactly the image I wanted to project, no matter what fucking color it was.
Anyway, many of the people there were pathetic, and I often had to think of deceased relatives to fight off the giggles I would get from listening to their sob stories ad nauseum. For example, the Wednesday night meeting in Brookline splits up into groups, according to which of the twelve steps you're currently following. One night we were making our way around the circle, each person sharing part of the reason that brought them to N/A. When the floor was given to the girl two seats to my left, her story rang familiar in both its pedestrianism and absurdity.
"I figured that I'd had enough of this life," she sputtered in between short fits of weeping. Aside from the maniacal bush of unkept hair and the sour breath brought on by incessant weeping, she was quite attractive; if her eyes weren't red and puffy from crying they were a sparkling emerald, and she had the slightest gap between her front teeth that I imagined centered the most endearing smile.
"...So I found my mom's prescription for Xanax, I never tried it before but I heard they were strong. So I downed half the bottle, wrote a note and waited for the end."
I had to admit her performance was captivating, and for a moment my heart, like everyone else's, was all hers. The people flanking her offered their hands for support, and she squeezed them tight as she shared her painful story.
The leader of our group, a twelve step graduate named Rhonda, had the sympathetic composure of someone who had heard a thousand similar tales in her lifetime and could empathize with every last one of them. "Did they have to pump your stomach, dear?"
"No, they...they didn't have to," she let go of the hands supporting her and reached into her purse for a Kleenex to dab her eyes. I could tell that everyone was curious as to how her story ended but were hesitant to ask because she was starting to calm down. I just couldn't resist.
"So what happened?"
"Apparently, my mom thought I might try something like that, so a few days before I did it she replaced the Xanax with Col....ce."
"Sorry, you kind of trailed off there." I felt Rhonda's disapproving glare but for some reason I persisted. "What did you say she replaced it with?"
"With COLACE," she blurted out, as her patience trailed off like the eyeliner sinking down her cheeks.
The people who didn't know what it was remained puzzled, and someone naively asked what it was. Before she could think up a suitable euphemism, I took it upon myself to explain the uses of the mystery pill.
"It's a stool softener."
"I had diarrhea for three days!" she blurted out before bursting into another fit of sobbing. A few people either genuinely continued to share in her grief or at least pretended to, but I could see most of them blushing and trying their best to suppress smiles. It was the kind of revelation that should engender a reaction of equal parts sympathy and humor, but it didn't strike me as either. In hindsight, I can't believe how callous I was.
For some reason, her anecdote completely incensed me. Here I was, finally letting my guard down and really feeling sorry for this girl, only for her story to end like a Monty Python sketch. I decided to express my anger, which was rare for me.
"You're shitting me, right?" I asked as I stood up, regretting the pun instantly when everyone's attention shifted my way. I racked my brain for something else to say that would convey my indignation, but I drew a blank. When I searched their eyes for validation and came up empty, I ended up storming off in silent disgust.
That was my last meeting for awhile.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Evil Did I Dwell
This is a story about redemption, the Lord, and the little things that make life worthwhile. It's also about living with a crackhead.
Then he winked at me.
There are some acts that call for nothing less than sweet revenge, and although Pap died a few years after that scarring incident, I've since spent countless hours dreaming up a suitable retaliation for his well-intentioned, but ultimately traumatizing gesture.
I walked out of the Downtown Y in a stupor; a mobile of puppets and toy locomotives and withered genitalia circled above my head. My day was ruined. For weeks I had been looking forward to swimming in a pool other than the four-foot above ground soup bowl in my neighbor's backyard. I had a different neighbor on my mind. It would be years before I set foot in the water to swim again. The incident had the same effect on me that Jaws had on seventies pop culture.
After that, I pretty much spoke only when necessary. Most people took my laconic contributions to conversation as shyness, and that was fine because it freed me from speaking more than I wanted to. But it still took effort on my part. My sparse dialog was economically chosen, and its precision satisfied almost everyone. I always tried to be subtly complimentary; people walked away from me feeling good about themselves, and this was the beginning of a lifelong habit of pacification. Not only have I never been in a physical confrontation, I have prevented many conflicts from reaching a head. I even take a modicum of pride in this attribute, even though its roots lie in my abject yellow cowardice.
To achieve a balance, I have always surrounded myself with talkative people. I dated a girl for seven years who must have been cerebrally rewired so that the impulse to speak was immediately broadcast from the mouth without the delay that most people use to contemplate, censor or edit their thought before uttering it. She managed to talk more in one day than I would all week.
I didn't have insurance at the time, so the clinic I was admitted to lacked the amenities of most rehabilitation facilities. It was on the third floor of a hospital in the inner city, and I was the only white patient there. Most of the patients were recovering from crack addiction, including my roommate Stephan. At first it was novel, as this was the first bona fide "crack head" I'd ever encountered, and he lived up to all of my expectations. However, sharing a room with him got old real fast. Not that I would have been able to sleep much anyway, but Stephan simply would not stop talking; he talked like I used to drink. It was exhausting. Whereas I found his stories captivating on the first night, like the time he walked from Whitehall all the way to Kennywood (at least fifteen miles) for a "jumbo," which I gathered was a lot of crack, by the second day I was ready to kill him or myself, simply for five minutes of peace and quiet; if something didn't give soon, only one of us was making it out of that room alive.
Thankfully, early on the third morning, the facility's therapist knocked on the door and walked into the room. He asked Stephan to excuse us, exciting feelings of love for a complete stranger that I had never felt before.
"Dr. Pomerantz," he said, extending his hand.
"Patient McCarthy."
Like me, he was balding and tried compensating with a beard. Also like me, his facial hair did not grow in thick like I'm sure he wished it would; it was the kind of beard that teenagers try growing to buy cigarettes and beer.
He began with the usual litany of questions.
"Why did you start drinking?"
"I don't know Doc, I suppose I am depressed."
"How long have you been binging?"
"About four years."
"And are you allergic to anything?"
"Life."
He scribbled something in his notebook.
"I see you're taking Paxil. It's not helping?"
"It's like trying to slay a dragon with a butter knife."
Dr. Pomerantz set down his clipboard. He leaned back a bit in his chair and crossed his legs.
"I want you to try to remember some things that made you happy before booze." Probably anticipating my response, he added "Or at least the things that made life a little more bearable, because it's the sum of the little things that keep us going. So go ahead, give me a list."
The first one was easy.
"Black coffee in the morning."
"Good. Next?"
I closed my eyes and thought about it. Remembering those kind of things was harder than I thought.
"A marinated Delmonico steak, medium rare."
"Ok, one more."
I thought I was tapped. I sat for a while in silence, hoping he would let me off the hook, but another small pleasure came to mind just as I was about to give up.
"Palindromes."
He arched an eyebrow in surprise.
"Ah, there we go. How did that come about?"
"I don't know. My phone number is 833-5338. I know that doesn't really count, but I think that's how it started. I have trouble sleeping too; they're my sheep and fence."
He uncrossed his legs and shifted his weight in his chair.
"Go hang a salami," he said, testing my knowledge. I smiled and bobbed my head in approval.
"I like lasagna too." We shared a wonderful moment of two nerds enjoying the pleasure of obscure wordplay. I was grudgingly beginning to like Dr. Pomerantz.
3
The next morning, he ducked his head in the room at about the same time. He brought me a cup of black coffee.
"Is it leaded?"
"Lived on decaf, faced no devil."
"Nice. Thanks anyway." By then I had gone seventy two hours without alcohol (not that I was counting or anything), and was feeling a little better. Once again, he dropped in the chair, and I sat up in bed, groggy, grumpy, but as ready to talk as I ever was.
"Feeling any better today?"
"Well, I think my body is starting to forgive me."
"I want to talk a bit about religion today if you don't mind."
"It's all the rage in here, isn't it?"
"So where do you stand?"
"On religion, or faith?"
"You tell me."
"I don't like religion for the same reason I don't like the Grateful Dead."
"And that is?"
"The fans."
He was fighting it, but I saw the corners of his mouth turn up a bit before focusing on his clipboard to regain his composure.
"Go on."
"They ruin everything for me. And it's not just the piousness or zealotry, which is enough to turn off any Doubting Thomas. It sours the whole prospect of salvation for me."
"So you're letting other people come between you and a higher power."
"I guess so, yeah. It used to make me sick, sitting in church, sandwiched between these big families trying to out-deed each other...I didn't want any part of it. I don't feel like those kinds of people are my 'brothers and sisters' in the Lord. I don't want them to be."
"You want to be the Lord's orphan child."
"Amen."
I drained my coffee during a pensive silence. I was surprised by how much we had in common. Surprised and a little encouraged. I think he was too.
"And then there are the hymns," I said. He nodded and rolled his eyes.
"Apparently, the Lord said, 'let the Caucasians have music, and let it lack melody, soul and rhythm.'"
"Right! Jesus turned water into wine, but even he couldn't help my congregation keep a 4/4 time beat." We both laughed, and the silence that followed wasn't awkward, but strangely peaceful.
"Well, it seems like your dislike of people is ruining your life."
"And your recommended treatment?"
"You seem to appreciate candor over psychobabble."
"Absolutely. Give me the straight dope, pun intended."
"The straight dope is..." he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Fuck 'em. Try living a week without allowing people to turn you off from the good things in life."
This was my kind of doctor, my kind of person. I shook his hand, and asked him to keep Stephan at bay a bit longer while I contemplated his advice and the most beautiful sunrise I can remember from that window on the third floor. It might have saved my life.
Since then, I've been training myself not to let people bother me as much as they used to. When something pisses me off now, I let it be known. Back when we were exchanging palindromes, Dr. Pomerantz told me to "doom a good deed, liven a mood," and he's right, because ultimately it's healthier to be a sober asshole than a likable drunk.
1
I saw Fred Rogers naked in a YMCA locker room when I was nine years old, and from that point on, I didn't talk much for about thirteen years. My grandfather nudged me when we were changing out of our swim trunks, and with the nonchalance that comes with age, he said "There's Mr. Rogers. He's in here quite a bit," and when I looked up, there was everybody's favorite neighbor, in all his wrinkled, fleshy splendor. The aged, naked icon was leaning up against the lockers, stretching into a calender pose.Then he winked at me.
There are some acts that call for nothing less than sweet revenge, and although Pap died a few years after that scarring incident, I've since spent countless hours dreaming up a suitable retaliation for his well-intentioned, but ultimately traumatizing gesture.
I walked out of the Downtown Y in a stupor; a mobile of puppets and toy locomotives and withered genitalia circled above my head. My day was ruined. For weeks I had been looking forward to swimming in a pool other than the four-foot above ground soup bowl in my neighbor's backyard. I had a different neighbor on my mind. It would be years before I set foot in the water to swim again. The incident had the same effect on me that Jaws had on seventies pop culture.
After that, I pretty much spoke only when necessary. Most people took my laconic contributions to conversation as shyness, and that was fine because it freed me from speaking more than I wanted to. But it still took effort on my part. My sparse dialog was economically chosen, and its precision satisfied almost everyone. I always tried to be subtly complimentary; people walked away from me feeling good about themselves, and this was the beginning of a lifelong habit of pacification. Not only have I never been in a physical confrontation, I have prevented many conflicts from reaching a head. I even take a modicum of pride in this attribute, even though its roots lie in my abject yellow cowardice.
To achieve a balance, I have always surrounded myself with talkative people. I dated a girl for seven years who must have been cerebrally rewired so that the impulse to speak was immediately broadcast from the mouth without the delay that most people use to contemplate, censor or edit their thought before uttering it. She managed to talk more in one day than I would all week.
2
As I grew older, life began beating me down. I started liking people less and less. To cope with my growing misanthropy, I began drinking heavily every day. By the time I was twenty, my recycling bin was a glass card house stacked with bottles of bourbon, a Jim Beam cemetery. I was able to hide my hard partying from my mom and brother until my empty bank account and disheveled appearance forced me to come clean. Mom handled it by blaming herself, but my brother, wise beyond his years for a change, handled it by giving me a thorough, well-deserved ass-kicking. I needed to dry out and take a good hard look at the person I was becoming, and at my families' behest, I checked into a detox facility.I didn't have insurance at the time, so the clinic I was admitted to lacked the amenities of most rehabilitation facilities. It was on the third floor of a hospital in the inner city, and I was the only white patient there. Most of the patients were recovering from crack addiction, including my roommate Stephan. At first it was novel, as this was the first bona fide "crack head" I'd ever encountered, and he lived up to all of my expectations. However, sharing a room with him got old real fast. Not that I would have been able to sleep much anyway, but Stephan simply would not stop talking; he talked like I used to drink. It was exhausting. Whereas I found his stories captivating on the first night, like the time he walked from Whitehall all the way to Kennywood (at least fifteen miles) for a "jumbo," which I gathered was a lot of crack, by the second day I was ready to kill him or myself, simply for five minutes of peace and quiet; if something didn't give soon, only one of us was making it out of that room alive.
Thankfully, early on the third morning, the facility's therapist knocked on the door and walked into the room. He asked Stephan to excuse us, exciting feelings of love for a complete stranger that I had never felt before.
"Dr. Pomerantz," he said, extending his hand.
"Patient McCarthy."
Like me, he was balding and tried compensating with a beard. Also like me, his facial hair did not grow in thick like I'm sure he wished it would; it was the kind of beard that teenagers try growing to buy cigarettes and beer.
He began with the usual litany of questions.
"Why did you start drinking?"
"I don't know Doc, I suppose I am depressed."
"How long have you been binging?"
"About four years."
"And are you allergic to anything?"
"Life."
He scribbled something in his notebook.
"I see you're taking Paxil. It's not helping?"
"It's like trying to slay a dragon with a butter knife."
Dr. Pomerantz set down his clipboard. He leaned back a bit in his chair and crossed his legs.
"I want you to try to remember some things that made you happy before booze." Probably anticipating my response, he added "Or at least the things that made life a little more bearable, because it's the sum of the little things that keep us going. So go ahead, give me a list."
The first one was easy.
"Black coffee in the morning."
"Good. Next?"
I closed my eyes and thought about it. Remembering those kind of things was harder than I thought.
"A marinated Delmonico steak, medium rare."
"Ok, one more."
I thought I was tapped. I sat for a while in silence, hoping he would let me off the hook, but another small pleasure came to mind just as I was about to give up.
"Palindromes."
He arched an eyebrow in surprise.
"Ah, there we go. How did that come about?"
"I don't know. My phone number is 833-5338. I know that doesn't really count, but I think that's how it started. I have trouble sleeping too; they're my sheep and fence."
He uncrossed his legs and shifted his weight in his chair.
"Go hang a salami," he said, testing my knowledge. I smiled and bobbed my head in approval.
"I like lasagna too." We shared a wonderful moment of two nerds enjoying the pleasure of obscure wordplay. I was grudgingly beginning to like Dr. Pomerantz.
3
"Is it leaded?"
"Lived on decaf, faced no devil."
"Nice. Thanks anyway." By then I had gone seventy two hours without alcohol (not that I was counting or anything), and was feeling a little better. Once again, he dropped in the chair, and I sat up in bed, groggy, grumpy, but as ready to talk as I ever was.
"Feeling any better today?"
"Well, I think my body is starting to forgive me."
"I want to talk a bit about religion today if you don't mind."
"It's all the rage in here, isn't it?"
"So where do you stand?"
"On religion, or faith?"
"You tell me."
"I don't like religion for the same reason I don't like the Grateful Dead."
"And that is?"
"The fans."
He was fighting it, but I saw the corners of his mouth turn up a bit before focusing on his clipboard to regain his composure.
"Go on."
"They ruin everything for me. And it's not just the piousness or zealotry, which is enough to turn off any Doubting Thomas. It sours the whole prospect of salvation for me."
"So you're letting other people come between you and a higher power."
"I guess so, yeah. It used to make me sick, sitting in church, sandwiched between these big families trying to out-deed each other...I didn't want any part of it. I don't feel like those kinds of people are my 'brothers and sisters' in the Lord. I don't want them to be."
"You want to be the Lord's orphan child."
"Amen."
I drained my coffee during a pensive silence. I was surprised by how much we had in common. Surprised and a little encouraged. I think he was too.
"And then there are the hymns," I said. He nodded and rolled his eyes.
"Apparently, the Lord said, 'let the Caucasians have music, and let it lack melody, soul and rhythm.'"
"Right! Jesus turned water into wine, but even he couldn't help my congregation keep a 4/4 time beat." We both laughed, and the silence that followed wasn't awkward, but strangely peaceful.
"Well, it seems like your dislike of people is ruining your life."
"And your recommended treatment?"
"You seem to appreciate candor over psychobabble."
"Absolutely. Give me the straight dope, pun intended."
"The straight dope is..." he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Fuck 'em. Try living a week without allowing people to turn you off from the good things in life."
This was my kind of doctor, my kind of person. I shook his hand, and asked him to keep Stephan at bay a bit longer while I contemplated his advice and the most beautiful sunrise I can remember from that window on the third floor. It might have saved my life.
Since then, I've been training myself not to let people bother me as much as they used to. When something pisses me off now, I let it be known. Back when we were exchanging palindromes, Dr. Pomerantz told me to "doom a good deed, liven a mood," and he's right, because ultimately it's healthier to be a sober asshole than a likable drunk.
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