So I woke for work at 8:00 PM, stood in the shower for a minute, pulled on some clothes, and walked to the downtown bus station. It takes me seven to eight minutes to walk to the station, depending on how long I have to wait at crosswalks. I’ve timed this, obviously. I try to get there about one minute before my bus leaves, so I don’t have to hang around and tolerate the loudmouthed brain-damaged cigarette-mooching panhandlers who have taken up permanent residence there. I have a heart, but I don’t have much money. And a lot of these supposedly homeless men look like they eat better meals than I do.
As I walked up to the station, my bus was in the process of spilling its human load onto the sidewalk. But there was a minor disturbance in progress. A small group of bus drivers had gathered on board my bus, forming a tight huddle around a young black man. The black man was still seated on the bus and I saw that he was arguing with the drivers, waving his hands around and shouting incoherently. I leaned against the wall of the bus station, wearily, and lit a cigarette. I’d witnessed scenes like this before, and they can take some time to resolve. The police were almost certainly en route already.
Surprisingly, however, the Black Male Causing a Disturbance stood up a moment later and made his way to the door. As he stepped off the bus he nearly fell into the street, but managed to catch himself before he could take a header onto the sidewalk. Drunk, drunk. He teetered around, making animalistic noises, and called all of us “a buncha motherfuckers.” (No points for originality.) Following that declaration, he wobbled off down the sidewalk, occasionally pausing to regain his equilibrium and have an angry conversation with himself.
As we watched him go, one of the bus drivers got on the radio. “Base?” he said into the mike. “This is Three East. Our situation has been resolved. Police involvement won’t be necessary, over. Situation is under control.”
Fuckin’ Christ, I thought. This guy watches too much Law & Order.
“Okay, folks,” the driver told us. “You can get on now. Sorry for the holdup.”
Not much of a holdup--my cigarette was only half gone. I tossed it onto the ground and squished it with the toe of my shoe. As a group of us climbed onto the bus, I overheard the driver having a conversation with one of my fellow passengers, a nosy middle-aged woman: “He’s drunk almost every day,” the driver sighed, sounding both sad and angry. “I dunno what makes a guy do that to himself.”
Our bus driver, I decided, had not been paying attention to life. Walking to my seat, I looked at the depressed, irritated, tired faces of my fellow passengers. I could’ve used a drink right then.
We rolled down the street, the bus creaking, popping and groaning the way cheap city buses do. I watched the darkened scenery scroll past my window, not really seeing any of it. There were seven or eight other people on the bus, and none of us had anything to say to each other. Apparently.
There was a rather cute chubby blonde girl in front of me. She was sitting on one of those sideways benches in front of the bus, the fold-up seats that you’re supposed to surrender for the elderly or disabled. She looked like a nice enough girl--as if you can tell by looking--and I stole little glances at her as we rode along.
When you’re riding the bus, someone’s cell phone has to ring. It’s a rule of sorts: You aren’t allowed to ride the bus without listening to one half of a phone conversation. And as the bus rolled past the IU campus, it was Cute Chubby Girl’s phone that rang. Well, it didn’t ring. It played Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” For fucksake.
I wished death on Michael Jackson about twenty-five years ago. My voodoo is slow, but it works.
I sighed and looked out the window again. Outside, a longhaired kid in a tie-dyed shirt was attempting some kind of dynamic skateboard stunt. It didn’t turn out so well, and he nearly landed on his forty-years-outta-date scrawny ass.
I was trying to decide whether to laugh or not, when suddenly the Cute Chubby Girl exclaimed into her phone: “DADDY?!? Are you serious?”
Her tone was, to say the very least, distressed. All of us on the bus looked at her. And this girl proceeded to melt down right in front of us. Sobs, tears, the whole thing. She mumbled some more words into her phone, clicked off, and then put her face in her hands and let the grief happen.
We--that is, all the rest of us on the bus--looked at each other. And we looked at her. And none of us had a goddamned thing to say to her. We dropped our eyes, pretended nothing was happening whatsoever, and prayed for the bus to hurry along.
I wondered what in hell was wrong with us. What happened to the human species somewhere along the way? Why does it feel so impossible to reach out to someone in need, someone in pain who could use a comforting arm around her shoulder or a few shallow words of consolation? Where did we go wrong?
I didn’t have an answer. So I sat there, staring at the grimy floor of the bus, listening to the girl cry, and wishing I’d brought my iPod.
Cute Chubby Girl kept on sobbing until my stop finally arrived. Feeling grateful, I galloped off the bus, along with a skinny little Goth Girl. Goth Girl walked on down the sidewalk as I paused to light a cigarette and shake the bad feelings out of my skull. As if.
After a few moments, I started walking. Then I stopped. About twenty feet in front of me, the Goth Girl had stopped and bent down to inspect something on the sidewalk. I walked a little closer and saw that it was a small pile of bright yellow flowers that someone had discarded. (Don’t ask me to identify flowers, please.) The flowers had obviously been stepped on a few times. Flattened, smeared, ignored. But Goth Girl pulled one from the mess that was relatively unscathed. She stood up, and I watched her coax its petals back into something like a natural flower shape. She held it up to her nose, inhaled, and smiled softly. The fluorescent lights overhead made her silver nose ring glimmer.
She held the flower in her hand, seeming oddly childlike, and started walking again. I moved over to the pile of crushed flowers and stared at them. In the center, I spotted one that had suffered minimal damage. I bent down, pulled it from the paste of its fellows, and stared at it. It was very pretty, a vibrant yellow with long petals and black dots that looked like freckles. I’ve always like freckles.
I started walking again, cigarette dangling from my lips, flower in my hands. I played with the petals a little bit, arranging them into what seemed, to me, like a proper flower shape. And I must admit, it was soothing. There was something very comforting about prolonging the afterlife of that bright yellow flower. I felt as if I’d done something valuable.
Then my mind wandered back to the Cute Chubby Girl again. Sigh.
Flowers we can put back together. Human beings, I guess, are on their own.
____
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Slasher Movies and Spiritual Enlightenment
On Friday, February 13th, Jason was back. And I was so there, dudes. I mean, sort of. I didn’t make it to the theater until Saturday, February 14th. But I’m slow like that.
It’s a tradition that began when I was a pissed and dejected teenager, and it’s one that continues today in my weary and dejected thirtysomethings: Whenever a new Friday the 13th movie is released, I line up and buy my ticket. Eagerly. Since 1986, with the release of Part VI: Jason Lives, my unholy cinematic ritual has been interrupted only once. When Jason X came out in theaters, I was serving home detention for one of my numerous drunken misdemeanors. And my case officer felt that my desire to see a slasher movie was not a valid reason to let me out of the house. Of course, I didn’t really expect him to. But I made my request to him anyway, in a distinctly half-joking tone.
“It’s Jason in outer space,” I whined. “I can’t miss that! C’mon and go with me. I’ll even buy your ticket.”
My case officer studied me, quite rightly, as if I were an imbecile. “Don’t piss me off.”
Well. It made the DVD release that much sweeter, I suppose.
According to the Associated Press, the new Friday the 13th movie “nailed” (groan) the #1 box office spot for its opening weekend, pulling in an astounding $42.2 million. Pretty impressive for a thirty-year-old fright franchise. It pleases me that horror’s hardest-working homicidal maniac has butchered his way to the top of the mountain once again. And the new F13 is, in my opinion, one of the best.
It isn’t the sort of thing you mention when you introduce yourself to someone: “Hi, my name’s Milo, and I’m a Friday the 13th fan.” Matter of fact, it isn’t something I mention to people very much at all. Sometimes when I’m watching a F13 movie and realize how much I’m enjoying it, I feel like I should walk outside and apologize to a total stranger. My rational adult mind tells me I’m too intelligent to enjoy such brainless nonsense. But deep inside of me, there’s still a little boy who used to dismember G.I. Joe action figures with firecrackers. And that little boy looks on Jason’s works and calls them good.
The term “guilty pleasure” was practically invented for Friday the 13th and other films of its kind. Made on the cheap, devoid of substantial plot, filled with atrocious acting, and often downright incoherent, the never-ending saga of Jason Voorhees is almost totally free of redeeming qualities. It’s one of pop culture’s purest junk foods. So when I say the newest Jason flick is one of the best, I suppose that’s like congratulating a homeless guy for not stinking too much. But the film is good black fun, a mean-spirited thrill ride that knows what it is and suffers no pretensions of being anything more. Once in a while, it’s exhilarating to surrender to something so unapologetically stupid.
After my regrettable absence during Jason X’s theatrical run, I would not be denied the new F13 reboot. (Don't get me started on Freddy vs. Jason. Just don't.) I went to the theater nice and early so I could claim a good seat. There were fifteen minutes to waste before the movie began and only a handful of people were in the theater as I walked in. An oldies station was playing over the cinema’s sound system. I heard the Beatles caterwauling in prime nasal harmony: "All you need is love!" they demanded.
As a person sitting down to watch a Friday the 13th movie, the incongruity of this song was not lost on me.
Stranger still: It may sound unbelievable, but this particular fan of Jason Voorhees often carries a pocket-size version of Dhammapada: The Sayings of the Buddha. I am not a practicing Buddhist--or a practicing anything, for that matter--but I do enjoy reading the Buddha’s teachings. They have a calming effect on the out-of-control whirligig that is my psyche. Even if the effect is momentary and illusory, I’ll take what relief I can get.
I flipped open the Dhammapada and squinted my eyes in the dim light of the theater. The oldies station was playing Tom Jones now. “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone,” Tom declared.
Better than a thousand hollow verses
Is one verse that brings peace.
Some bored teenagers across the aisle were throwing popcorn and M&M’s at each other. One boy called another boy a “Fuckin’ pussy.” “Bring it, faggot!” was the reply.
It is better to conquer yourself
Than to win a thousand battles.
A few minutes passed this way. Then a very tall young man sat down directly in front of me. It was immediately obvious that I would be staring at the back of his head throughout the movie. Sigh. I stood up and moved to a different seat, grumbling profanities to myself.
Set your heart on doing good.
Do it over and over again,
And you will be filled with joy.
Finally, the lights went down and the previews began. First up was a glimpse of the forthcoming adaptation of Alan Moore’s brilliant Watchmen comic. The loud, flashy preview did nothing to sway my cynical opinion that this movie is a terrible idea fueled by simple greed. There is zero chance that a two-hour movie will be able to capture the depth that Moore layered into his original story. As the preview ended, I made up my mind to skip the movie entirely.
As the rich merchant with few servants
Shuns a dangerous road
And the man who loves life shuns poison,
Beware the dangers of folly and mischief.
The next preview was for a Disney movie starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. In this film, the Rock is teamed with a pair of excessively cute kids who (I guess) also happen to be aliens. The preview featured a lot of family-friendly explosions and wisecracking. I think the movie’s title had something to do with a Magic Mountain? Or was it Space Mountain? I could look it up, of course. But why would I?
Do not be reckless.
Meditate constantly.
Or you will swallow fire
And cry out: “No more!”
After that was a sneak peek at Confessions of a Shopaholic. I was going to make some snide comments about this preview as well, but I just…don’t want to talk about it. My capacity for cinematic horror has its limit.
At last, the New Line Cinema logo appeared onscreen, appropriately drenched in crimson red. (Cue the music: Ki-ki-ki, ma-ma-ma…) And it didn’t take long for matters to take shape, as a group of horny teens entered the Crystal Lake woods in search of a marijuana crop. As darkness fell, they set up camp and were soon engaged in the usual behavior of getting drunk, getting stoned, and fucking like beasts. They had heard the legend of Jason Voorhees, but didn’t believe it was true. Of course.
But bad men move unseen
Like arrows in the night.
Soon, a beautiful, naked brunette was tied up inside of her sleeping bag and roasted alive over a roaring campfire.
But the fool in his mischief forgets
And he lights the fire
Wherein one day he must burn.
The flame-broiled girl’s boyfriend returned to the scene, screamed in terror, and then stepped into a bear trap that Jason had carefully placed nearby. The boyfriend gaped in shock at the mangled red meat of his ankle. And, understandably, he screamed some more. But not for long.
All beings tremble before violence.
All fear death.
All love life.
And so it went. Arrow through the skull. Machete to the head. Screwdriver to the throat. I settled into my seat and let out a contented sigh. For me, watching Jason ply his trade was like slipping on that old pair of jeans with the ripped knees and frayed pockets. Familiar and comforting. Most of the people in the audience were teenagers, and I watched with amusement as many of them yelped, howled and cheered at all the proper moments. But, for me, the best moment was Jason’s discovery of his trademark hockey mask. After slipping it on for the first time, he stepped in front of a mirror and took a long look at himself in the dust-covered glass.
When the world dissolves
Everything becomes clear.
I offered a loud “YEAH!” and several others in the audience echoed my sentiment.
Satisfied with his new look, Jason picked up his machete and went back to work. Audience approval would not have mattered to him. He is beyond such concerns. Faceless, voiceless, calm, focused. It occurred to me that if Jason could only get rid of that one nagging earthly desire to kill all human beings, he would be very Zen indeed.
I pondered this notion briefly, until I watched Jason impale a big-breasted blonde onto the antlers of a very large deer trophy. And I decided that nirvana might be too much to expect of Jason Voorhees. But, like the rest of us in the theater that night, he’s only human.
___
It’s a tradition that began when I was a pissed and dejected teenager, and it’s one that continues today in my weary and dejected thirtysomethings: Whenever a new Friday the 13th movie is released, I line up and buy my ticket. Eagerly. Since 1986, with the release of Part VI: Jason Lives, my unholy cinematic ritual has been interrupted only once. When Jason X came out in theaters, I was serving home detention for one of my numerous drunken misdemeanors. And my case officer felt that my desire to see a slasher movie was not a valid reason to let me out of the house. Of course, I didn’t really expect him to. But I made my request to him anyway, in a distinctly half-joking tone.
“It’s Jason in outer space,” I whined. “I can’t miss that! C’mon and go with me. I’ll even buy your ticket.”
My case officer studied me, quite rightly, as if I were an imbecile. “Don’t piss me off.”
Well. It made the DVD release that much sweeter, I suppose.
According to the Associated Press, the new Friday the 13th movie “nailed” (groan) the #1 box office spot for its opening weekend, pulling in an astounding $42.2 million. Pretty impressive for a thirty-year-old fright franchise. It pleases me that horror’s hardest-working homicidal maniac has butchered his way to the top of the mountain once again. And the new F13 is, in my opinion, one of the best.
It isn’t the sort of thing you mention when you introduce yourself to someone: “Hi, my name’s Milo, and I’m a Friday the 13th fan.” Matter of fact, it isn’t something I mention to people very much at all. Sometimes when I’m watching a F13 movie and realize how much I’m enjoying it, I feel like I should walk outside and apologize to a total stranger. My rational adult mind tells me I’m too intelligent to enjoy such brainless nonsense. But deep inside of me, there’s still a little boy who used to dismember G.I. Joe action figures with firecrackers. And that little boy looks on Jason’s works and calls them good.
The term “guilty pleasure” was practically invented for Friday the 13th and other films of its kind. Made on the cheap, devoid of substantial plot, filled with atrocious acting, and often downright incoherent, the never-ending saga of Jason Voorhees is almost totally free of redeeming qualities. It’s one of pop culture’s purest junk foods. So when I say the newest Jason flick is one of the best, I suppose that’s like congratulating a homeless guy for not stinking too much. But the film is good black fun, a mean-spirited thrill ride that knows what it is and suffers no pretensions of being anything more. Once in a while, it’s exhilarating to surrender to something so unapologetically stupid.
After my regrettable absence during Jason X’s theatrical run, I would not be denied the new F13 reboot. (Don't get me started on Freddy vs. Jason. Just don't.) I went to the theater nice and early so I could claim a good seat. There were fifteen minutes to waste before the movie began and only a handful of people were in the theater as I walked in. An oldies station was playing over the cinema’s sound system. I heard the Beatles caterwauling in prime nasal harmony: "All you need is love!" they demanded.
As a person sitting down to watch a Friday the 13th movie, the incongruity of this song was not lost on me.
Stranger still: It may sound unbelievable, but this particular fan of Jason Voorhees often carries a pocket-size version of Dhammapada: The Sayings of the Buddha. I am not a practicing Buddhist--or a practicing anything, for that matter--but I do enjoy reading the Buddha’s teachings. They have a calming effect on the out-of-control whirligig that is my psyche. Even if the effect is momentary and illusory, I’ll take what relief I can get.
I flipped open the Dhammapada and squinted my eyes in the dim light of the theater. The oldies station was playing Tom Jones now. “It’s not unusual to be loved by anyone,” Tom declared.
Better than a thousand hollow verses
Is one verse that brings peace.
Some bored teenagers across the aisle were throwing popcorn and M&M’s at each other. One boy called another boy a “Fuckin’ pussy.” “Bring it, faggot!” was the reply.
It is better to conquer yourself
Than to win a thousand battles.
A few minutes passed this way. Then a very tall young man sat down directly in front of me. It was immediately obvious that I would be staring at the back of his head throughout the movie. Sigh. I stood up and moved to a different seat, grumbling profanities to myself.
Set your heart on doing good.
Do it over and over again,
And you will be filled with joy.
Finally, the lights went down and the previews began. First up was a glimpse of the forthcoming adaptation of Alan Moore’s brilliant Watchmen comic. The loud, flashy preview did nothing to sway my cynical opinion that this movie is a terrible idea fueled by simple greed. There is zero chance that a two-hour movie will be able to capture the depth that Moore layered into his original story. As the preview ended, I made up my mind to skip the movie entirely.
As the rich merchant with few servants
Shuns a dangerous road
And the man who loves life shuns poison,
Beware the dangers of folly and mischief.
The next preview was for a Disney movie starring Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. In this film, the Rock is teamed with a pair of excessively cute kids who (I guess) also happen to be aliens. The preview featured a lot of family-friendly explosions and wisecracking. I think the movie’s title had something to do with a Magic Mountain? Or was it Space Mountain? I could look it up, of course. But why would I?
Do not be reckless.
Meditate constantly.
Or you will swallow fire
And cry out: “No more!”
After that was a sneak peek at Confessions of a Shopaholic. I was going to make some snide comments about this preview as well, but I just…don’t want to talk about it. My capacity for cinematic horror has its limit.
At last, the New Line Cinema logo appeared onscreen, appropriately drenched in crimson red. (Cue the music: Ki-ki-ki, ma-ma-ma…) And it didn’t take long for matters to take shape, as a group of horny teens entered the Crystal Lake woods in search of a marijuana crop. As darkness fell, they set up camp and were soon engaged in the usual behavior of getting drunk, getting stoned, and fucking like beasts. They had heard the legend of Jason Voorhees, but didn’t believe it was true. Of course.
But bad men move unseen
Like arrows in the night.
Soon, a beautiful, naked brunette was tied up inside of her sleeping bag and roasted alive over a roaring campfire.
But the fool in his mischief forgets
And he lights the fire
Wherein one day he must burn.
The flame-broiled girl’s boyfriend returned to the scene, screamed in terror, and then stepped into a bear trap that Jason had carefully placed nearby. The boyfriend gaped in shock at the mangled red meat of his ankle. And, understandably, he screamed some more. But not for long.
All beings tremble before violence.
All fear death.
All love life.
And so it went. Arrow through the skull. Machete to the head. Screwdriver to the throat. I settled into my seat and let out a contented sigh. For me, watching Jason ply his trade was like slipping on that old pair of jeans with the ripped knees and frayed pockets. Familiar and comforting. Most of the people in the audience were teenagers, and I watched with amusement as many of them yelped, howled and cheered at all the proper moments. But, for me, the best moment was Jason’s discovery of his trademark hockey mask. After slipping it on for the first time, he stepped in front of a mirror and took a long look at himself in the dust-covered glass.
When the world dissolves
Everything becomes clear.
I offered a loud “YEAH!” and several others in the audience echoed my sentiment.
Satisfied with his new look, Jason picked up his machete and went back to work. Audience approval would not have mattered to him. He is beyond such concerns. Faceless, voiceless, calm, focused. It occurred to me that if Jason could only get rid of that one nagging earthly desire to kill all human beings, he would be very Zen indeed.
I pondered this notion briefly, until I watched Jason impale a big-breasted blonde onto the antlers of a very large deer trophy. And I decided that nirvana might be too much to expect of Jason Voorhees. But, like the rest of us in the theater that night, he’s only human.
___
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
A Special Place in Hell
Saturday, a man came into the auto parts store and gave me an important news update. He informed me that the earth is only six thousand years old.
I stared at him and pondered the obvious dilemma: Was it worthwhile to argue against such a dumbass statement? But before I could make up my mind, the man laid this declaration on me: A cornerstone of King Solomon’s castle was recently found, and this proves conclusively that Solomon was a true historical figure. Thus, it follows that everything written in the Holy Bible is fact.
The man kept a deadly serious face as he told me all of this. He arched one eyebrow, nodding his head slowly and knowingly. He was obese, sweaty, unshaven, and puffing on a cheap cigarette. His dark hair was in the process of graying, and it fell lank and greasy over his ears, clinging with apparent desperation to his neck. I was not comfortable sharing this planet with him.
I didn't respond quickly enough to suit the man, so he offered me another piece of very Christian sentiment: “Everyone who’s living in sin, man, they’re gonna regret it on Judgment Day. And y’know what? It’s gonna feel good to look at ‘em and say ‘Told ya so.’”
He laughed, puffing his cigarette, and (again) waited for me to respond.
I was repulsed, but I tried my best not to show it. The man had begun this topic of conversation earlier, with another customer in the parts store. But after a few minutes, the other customer had done the only sane thing and fled the store. Unsatisfied with this outcome, Mr. Unwashed Christian had directed the remainder of his sermon at me. I was not allowed to run away. I had to stand at my computer terminal and suffer, because it was my job to sell some brake pads to this stinky wacko.
“What do you think about it, man?” he asked.
“Does your car have drum brakes or disc brakes on the back?” I replied. “It makes a difference on which front pads you need.”
He opened his mouth to respond…and then twisted his lips into a puzzled knot. “I’m, uh, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have discs on the back.”
During the course of an average work day, I will hear the two words pretty sure from at least ten different customers. And those two words, when spoken together, always constitute a half-assed lie. How can you be pretty sure your car doesn’t have rear disc brakes? Questions concerning the design of an automobile are not invitations to philosophical discussion: You either know the answer or you don’t. This man didn’t know, but he was unwilling to confess his ignorance. It’s a peculiar pride that affects many American men. Some years ago, it was decided by persons unknown that American men are supposed to be born with an instinctive ability to repair cars. Most of us realize this is nonsense, but only a few of us will admit it.
“So you don’t know whether it has discs on the back,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question this time.
“Naw, naw, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” he said, without a trace of confidence. “Seems like it has drum brakes back there. Yeah.”
I grunted in a tone that I hoped was ambiguous, and studied my computer catalog screen.
“You got an ashtray, man?” Mr. Christian asked me.
I set an ashtray on the countertop in front of him. If it surprises you that smoking is allowed inside an auto parts store, remember that this story takes place in small town Indiana. Indiana. If people want to kill themselves in order to escape, I sympathize and I’m here to help.
The man smeared out his cigarette in the ashtray. “So, you go to church?”
“Looks like we have your brake pads in stock,” I told him. “I’ll get them for you.”
I walked to the stockroom and pulled the proper box of brake pads from a shelf. As I carried them back to the front of the store, I paused and farted on the box. A petty and ineffectual gesture, but it gave me a small feeling of satisfaction. Like the burning of an effigy.
Returning to the sales counter, I placed the brake pads in front of the man. “That’s a weird looking tattoo you got,” he said, pointing at my right forearm. “Whatta those symbols mean?”
For the record, my tattoo doesn’t mean much of anything. It’s a squiggly little symbol comprised of a stylized P and F. Pink Floyd used it to promote their Division Bell album and tour in 1994, and to my knowledge the symbol contains no deeper meaning than that. It looks kind of cool and mysterious, but it’s really just a corporate logo for a bunch of filthy rich English rock stars.
“It’s Taiwanese,” I deadpanned. “It says Made in Argentina.”
The man blinked a couple of times, frowning at me. You’re fucking with me, right? his eyes asked. He opened his mouth to respond…
…and I asked him, “Cash or charge?”
He pulled out his wallet and began rifling through its contents. “I notice you dodged my question about going to church, man. So howbout it?”
“I can’t tell a mosque from a kiosk,” I admitted. “I’m really not interested in any of it.”
He shook his head gravely. “You should give that some thought, brother. I’m serious.”
Brother? I tapped some buttons on my computer keyboard. And just like that, the price of this dickhead’s brake pads increased by 35%.
“The pads are $56.39,” I said, smiling proudly.
“Man!” he exclaimed. “I’m tellin’ ya, everything I buy for this car is outrageous on price.”
I filled my face with bullshit sympathy before replying. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the price of metals these days. Supply and demand, global economic crisis, all that stuff.”
“OH!” he roared. “OH, don’t even get me started on the Wall Streeters, man. Just don’t. There’s gonna be a special place in hell for those guys, and you better believe it. Trust me.”
I grunted again and processed his debit card. I wondered how this guy could know in advance who would be assigned to what district in hell? Had he sent off for a travel plan, some kind of package with an informative brochure?
The guy signed the credit card receipt and I handed his copy to him. Wheezing, he scooped up his brake pads. Then he pointed at me and winked. “First Church of Christ, brother. You know where it is?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to give me directions to the place. It would only extend our conversation and delay his exit.
“I’ll see you there,” he assured me. He nodded his head affirmatively, trying his best to appear sagelike.
“Thanks for your business,” I said. Unconvincingly.
He lumbered out the door, sucking and blowing wind. Ten minutes after he was gone, I could still smell him.
After that, I sold two quarts of oil to an underfed, underwashed thirtysomething woman. She paid me with nickels, dimes, and quarters. Mostly nickels. As I counted her change, the woman asked me if Dairy Queen accepted food stamp cards. I told her yes.
Then I walked to the back of the store and lit a cigarette. I was in Indiana.
_
I stared at him and pondered the obvious dilemma: Was it worthwhile to argue against such a dumbass statement? But before I could make up my mind, the man laid this declaration on me: A cornerstone of King Solomon’s castle was recently found, and this proves conclusively that Solomon was a true historical figure. Thus, it follows that everything written in the Holy Bible is fact.
The man kept a deadly serious face as he told me all of this. He arched one eyebrow, nodding his head slowly and knowingly. He was obese, sweaty, unshaven, and puffing on a cheap cigarette. His dark hair was in the process of graying, and it fell lank and greasy over his ears, clinging with apparent desperation to his neck. I was not comfortable sharing this planet with him.
I didn't respond quickly enough to suit the man, so he offered me another piece of very Christian sentiment: “Everyone who’s living in sin, man, they’re gonna regret it on Judgment Day. And y’know what? It’s gonna feel good to look at ‘em and say ‘Told ya so.’”
He laughed, puffing his cigarette, and (again) waited for me to respond.
I was repulsed, but I tried my best not to show it. The man had begun this topic of conversation earlier, with another customer in the parts store. But after a few minutes, the other customer had done the only sane thing and fled the store. Unsatisfied with this outcome, Mr. Unwashed Christian had directed the remainder of his sermon at me. I was not allowed to run away. I had to stand at my computer terminal and suffer, because it was my job to sell some brake pads to this stinky wacko.
“What do you think about it, man?” he asked.
“Does your car have drum brakes or disc brakes on the back?” I replied. “It makes a difference on which front pads you need.”
He opened his mouth to respond…and then twisted his lips into a puzzled knot. “I’m, uh, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have discs on the back.”
During the course of an average work day, I will hear the two words pretty sure from at least ten different customers. And those two words, when spoken together, always constitute a half-assed lie. How can you be pretty sure your car doesn’t have rear disc brakes? Questions concerning the design of an automobile are not invitations to philosophical discussion: You either know the answer or you don’t. This man didn’t know, but he was unwilling to confess his ignorance. It’s a peculiar pride that affects many American men. Some years ago, it was decided by persons unknown that American men are supposed to be born with an instinctive ability to repair cars. Most of us realize this is nonsense, but only a few of us will admit it.
“So you don’t know whether it has discs on the back,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question this time.
“Naw, naw, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t,” he said, without a trace of confidence. “Seems like it has drum brakes back there. Yeah.”
I grunted in a tone that I hoped was ambiguous, and studied my computer catalog screen.
“You got an ashtray, man?” Mr. Christian asked me.
I set an ashtray on the countertop in front of him. If it surprises you that smoking is allowed inside an auto parts store, remember that this story takes place in small town Indiana. Indiana. If people want to kill themselves in order to escape, I sympathize and I’m here to help.
The man smeared out his cigarette in the ashtray. “So, you go to church?”
“Looks like we have your brake pads in stock,” I told him. “I’ll get them for you.”
I walked to the stockroom and pulled the proper box of brake pads from a shelf. As I carried them back to the front of the store, I paused and farted on the box. A petty and ineffectual gesture, but it gave me a small feeling of satisfaction. Like the burning of an effigy.
Returning to the sales counter, I placed the brake pads in front of the man. “That’s a weird looking tattoo you got,” he said, pointing at my right forearm. “Whatta those symbols mean?”
For the record, my tattoo doesn’t mean much of anything. It’s a squiggly little symbol comprised of a stylized P and F. Pink Floyd used it to promote their Division Bell album and tour in 1994, and to my knowledge the symbol contains no deeper meaning than that. It looks kind of cool and mysterious, but it’s really just a corporate logo for a bunch of filthy rich English rock stars.
“It’s Taiwanese,” I deadpanned. “It says Made in Argentina.”
The man blinked a couple of times, frowning at me. You’re fucking with me, right? his eyes asked. He opened his mouth to respond…
…and I asked him, “Cash or charge?”
He pulled out his wallet and began rifling through its contents. “I notice you dodged my question about going to church, man. So howbout it?”
“I can’t tell a mosque from a kiosk,” I admitted. “I’m really not interested in any of it.”
He shook his head gravely. “You should give that some thought, brother. I’m serious.”
Brother? I tapped some buttons on my computer keyboard. And just like that, the price of this dickhead’s brake pads increased by 35%.
“The pads are $56.39,” I said, smiling proudly.
“Man!” he exclaimed. “I’m tellin’ ya, everything I buy for this car is outrageous on price.”
I filled my face with bullshit sympathy before replying. “Yeah, I know. But it’s the price of metals these days. Supply and demand, global economic crisis, all that stuff.”
“OH!” he roared. “OH, don’t even get me started on the Wall Streeters, man. Just don’t. There’s gonna be a special place in hell for those guys, and you better believe it. Trust me.”
I grunted again and processed his debit card. I wondered how this guy could know in advance who would be assigned to what district in hell? Had he sent off for a travel plan, some kind of package with an informative brochure?
The guy signed the credit card receipt and I handed his copy to him. Wheezing, he scooped up his brake pads. Then he pointed at me and winked. “First Church of Christ, brother. You know where it is?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. It was a lie, but I didn’t want him to give me directions to the place. It would only extend our conversation and delay his exit.
“I’ll see you there,” he assured me. He nodded his head affirmatively, trying his best to appear sagelike.
“Thanks for your business,” I said. Unconvincingly.
He lumbered out the door, sucking and blowing wind. Ten minutes after he was gone, I could still smell him.
After that, I sold two quarts of oil to an underfed, underwashed thirtysomething woman. She paid me with nickels, dimes, and quarters. Mostly nickels. As I counted her change, the woman asked me if Dairy Queen accepted food stamp cards. I told her yes.
Then I walked to the back of the store and lit a cigarette. I was in Indiana.
_
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Scatterations
I am unmotivated of late. Inspiration is difficult to come by. Sure, I have a list of potential writing topics--ideas that are waiting to be sculpted (or bludgeoned) into short stories. But I am looking at them now, and they’re barely more appealing than the Republican Party. I feel like playing with words, but not in a truly constructive way. So I’ll do what I usually do in this circumstance. I’ll let the bullshit flow wherever it wants to go.
As I type this, I am listening to Metallica’s new album Death Magnetic. I am also watching a Looney Tunes DVD with the sound turned off. This combination is more compelling than you might imagine. Check out some lyrics from “Broken, Beat and Scarred”:
Cutting your feet on the hard earth running
Show your scars
Spilling your blood in the hot sun’s glory
Show your scars
You rise, you fall
You’re down, then you rise again
What don’t kill ya make ya more strong
I feel confident that someone will create a Wile E. Coyote montage to go along with this song. Coming soon to YouTube. If it isn’t there already.
Death Magnetic is a surprisingly focused and intense album. It’s easily Metallica’s strongest effort since …And Justice for All, and it’s certainly better than 2003’s St. Anger. Of course, a band that typically takes FIVE YEARS to record new material should deliver a glittering holy masterpiece for the ages. Every album should be The Grapes of Wrath, Star Wars, chocolate chip cookies and cold beer made into heavy metal. Death Magnetic is not quite that. But it’s pretty good.
If the reviews and message boards I’ve read are indicative, then Metallica seem to be regaining some credibility with their longtime fans. Of course, there will always be those who condemn Metallica as a bunch of arrogant greedy corporate assholes. To these charges, I have only one reply: DUH. Metallica are rock stars. And hating a rock star for being an asshole is like hating an elephant for having a big nose. It’s simply the nature of the animal. If I threw out all of my music, books and movies that were created by assholes, I would be sitting in a nearly empty room right now.
() () ()
On the subject of music, I have been reading Eye Mind: The Saga of Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators, the Pioneers of Psychedelic Sound. (I’m reading it because I can’t resist a clean, concise book title.) Roky Erickson has long been one of my favorite songwriters, and I’m happy that he’s finally getting some mainstream recognition--and long overdue royalty checks--for his work.
Roky’s interviews are nearly as entertaining as his music. I love this excerpt from the book:
Roky: I was arrested for marijuana…when the policeman said he found the vial. I think I was set up for that.
Q: How?
Roky: Well, it doesn’t seem right that I would throw out a vial of grass into the weeds and a policeman would stop and set his flashlight on it and get it.
Q: Are you saying he planted it?
Roky: That sounds real good.
But my favorite quote from Roky Erickson is a question: “Who is Pink Floyd, anyway? Is he some kinda party clown or somethin’?”
() () ()
And with that clumsy segue, I must offer a tiny tribute to the recently deceased Richard Wright. He was, in my opinion, one of the most underrated forces in popular music. In Pink Floyd, he was the quietest member of a mostly faceless band, and consequently he was often forgotten in the background. Worse still, some dismissed him as little more than hired help. But he was an excellent musician and songwriter. “Us and Them.” “Echoes.” “The Great Gig in the Sky.” “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.” Richard’s contribution to the signature Pink Floyd Sound is inestimable. And his 1996 solo album, Broken China, is proof that he didn’t have to lean on the other Floyds to create powerful original music.
It’s hard to remember a time when his ghostly keyboards and soft, rasping vocals weren’t playing in the background of my life. Those must have been lousy days.
Shine on.
As I type this, I am listening to Metallica’s new album Death Magnetic. I am also watching a Looney Tunes DVD with the sound turned off. This combination is more compelling than you might imagine. Check out some lyrics from “Broken, Beat and Scarred”:
Cutting your feet on the hard earth running
Show your scars
Spilling your blood in the hot sun’s glory
Show your scars
You rise, you fall
You’re down, then you rise again
What don’t kill ya make ya more strong
I feel confident that someone will create a Wile E. Coyote montage to go along with this song. Coming soon to YouTube. If it isn’t there already.
Death Magnetic is a surprisingly focused and intense album. It’s easily Metallica’s strongest effort since …And Justice for All, and it’s certainly better than 2003’s St. Anger. Of course, a band that typically takes FIVE YEARS to record new material should deliver a glittering holy masterpiece for the ages. Every album should be The Grapes of Wrath, Star Wars, chocolate chip cookies and cold beer made into heavy metal. Death Magnetic is not quite that. But it’s pretty good.
If the reviews and message boards I’ve read are indicative, then Metallica seem to be regaining some credibility with their longtime fans. Of course, there will always be those who condemn Metallica as a bunch of arrogant greedy corporate assholes. To these charges, I have only one reply: DUH. Metallica are rock stars. And hating a rock star for being an asshole is like hating an elephant for having a big nose. It’s simply the nature of the animal. If I threw out all of my music, books and movies that were created by assholes, I would be sitting in a nearly empty room right now.
() () ()
On the subject of music, I have been reading Eye Mind: The Saga of Roky Erickson and the 13th Floor Elevators, the Pioneers of Psychedelic Sound. (I’m reading it because I can’t resist a clean, concise book title.) Roky Erickson has long been one of my favorite songwriters, and I’m happy that he’s finally getting some mainstream recognition--and long overdue royalty checks--for his work.
Roky’s interviews are nearly as entertaining as his music. I love this excerpt from the book:
Roky: I was arrested for marijuana…when the policeman said he found the vial. I think I was set up for that.
Q: How?
Roky: Well, it doesn’t seem right that I would throw out a vial of grass into the weeds and a policeman would stop and set his flashlight on it and get it.
Q: Are you saying he planted it?
Roky: That sounds real good.
But my favorite quote from Roky Erickson is a question: “Who is Pink Floyd, anyway? Is he some kinda party clown or somethin’?”
() () ()
And with that clumsy segue, I must offer a tiny tribute to the recently deceased Richard Wright. He was, in my opinion, one of the most underrated forces in popular music. In Pink Floyd, he was the quietest member of a mostly faceless band, and consequently he was often forgotten in the background. Worse still, some dismissed him as little more than hired help. But he was an excellent musician and songwriter. “Us and Them.” “Echoes.” “The Great Gig in the Sky.” “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.” Richard’s contribution to the signature Pink Floyd Sound is inestimable. And his 1996 solo album, Broken China, is proof that he didn’t have to lean on the other Floyds to create powerful original music.
It’s hard to remember a time when his ghostly keyboards and soft, rasping vocals weren’t playing in the background of my life. Those must have been lousy days.
Shine on.
_
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Odd Turns
Monday morning I was sitting outside my favorite record store, waiting for it to open. Because I have no life, that’s why. And because I’m an old-fashioned geek who still enjoys buying CDs, that’s why. Don’t gimme no grief about it.
As I sat there, enjoying the mid-morning sunshine and minding my own business, the local Bag Lady came walking by. The Bag Lady is something of a celebrity around town. She’s been here for at least the past twenty years, forever wandering the streets with her old shopping carts full of…bags. I have no idea who she truly is or what her name is. She is simply the Bag Lady. And she has the stereotype down perfectly: She’s short and thick-looking, always wrapped in a heavy coat, wearing a rain-wrinkled hat and a pair of deceased tennis shoes. At a moment’s notice, she could walk onto the set of Law & Order and be ready for her cameo appearance. There's something surreal about that. It's hard to believe that a real-life bag lady can look so much like a bag lady.
The record store had a faded copy of David Bowie’s Young Americans LP on display in the front window. I was staring at it when the Bag Lady came to a halt in front of me. She panted a little and wiped some sweat from her sunpeeled face. She looked up at the mostly clear blue sky and it seemed to confirm something for her.
“Gonna be a hot one today, young man," the Bag Lady said. She smiled at me with some very unpleasant teeth.
I was surprised by her words. I’d passed the Bag Lady on the sidewalk quite a few times over the years, but I’d never heard her speak before. “Well, yeah,” I said, examining the sky for myself. “But, y’know, it is July.”
She laughed and pointed her index finger at me, as if to tell me what a wise little rascal I was. After that, her smile turned into a curious frown. “You look sad,” she declared, sounding strangely cheerful about the topic.
“You think so?” I looked at my reflection in the record store's darkened window. I looked like me.
The Bag Lady made an affirmative noise in her throat and grabbed hold of her shopping carts again. “It’s okay,” she said happily.
“I suppose,” I said, still examining my face. I sensed that the old lady and I were having two separate conversations together. But that isn’t unusual for me.
“Gonna be a hot one today,” she said. Again. And then she looked at the sky. Again.
I nodded my head and smiled.
And that was the end of our conversation. Pushing one cart and dragging the other, the Bag Lady marched onward. She went to the end of the block and crossed the street. I watched her go until she was out of sight. Then I stared at my reflection in the window for a while. My lined face and thinning hair mocked me. No one should live to be thirty-four. It’s ridiculous.
Shortly afterward, the record store opened. Over time, I’ve become familiar with the store owner and we usually make conversation as I browse for music. He’s an interesting guy, and his knowledge of music history always impresses me. He also possesses an eerily precise memory of what his customers have purchased in the recent past.
I picked out two CDs, John Mellencamp’s Life Death Love and Freedom and Juliana Hatfield’s Beautiful Creature. As I handed them to the store owner, he shook his head in amused bewilderment. “Y’know, man, you are just all over the map.”
“Uh?” I asked, eloquently.
He waved the CDs around in the air, as if he were shooing a persistent fly. “Well, last time you bought a Slayer album. And the time before that, you bought the Flaming Lips. I mean, I think it’s cool, but you take some odd turns.”
I shrugged it off. “I like to have something for every mood, I guess.”
With a sardonic grin, he held up the Juliana Hatfield CD. “So let’s see, some guy broke your heart…” then he held up the Mellencamp CD, “and you’re probably not gonna vote for John McCain?”
I laughed and sighed at the same time. “Prick. You want my money or what?”
He did. I paid him, we said goodbye until next time, and I walked out.
I went to the bus stop and had a seat. I pulled out a cigarette, stared at it for a moment, and then put it back in the box. Before I could put the cigs back in my pocket, a chubby goth girl walked over to me and asked if she could have one. I would describe her, but why bother? She was a chubby goth girl. Everyone’s seen one.
I handed the girl a cigarette and she lit up. She inhaled deeply, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked at the cigarette. Peering out from behind her sweaty mascara, she said, “You should smoke full-flavored.”
I stared at her. “You’re welcome.”
Her nose wrinkled. Again. “Yeah, well, yeah. Thanks.”
With a huff, she turned her big ungrateful ass around and walked back over to her boyfriend. He was a large guy with a shaved head and a long goatee. He was wearing an ankle-length leather coat, decorated with various chrome spikes and buckles. Sweat was dribbling down his bald head as the late morning heat climbed toward ninety degrees. He was obviously suffering, but nonetheless determined to make his fashion statement. He looked like a leather-wrapped microwave burrito.
After a few minutes my bus showed up. I climbed on, with my sad face and odd turns and wimpy cigarettes. I felt normal.
-
As I sat there, enjoying the mid-morning sunshine and minding my own business, the local Bag Lady came walking by. The Bag Lady is something of a celebrity around town. She’s been here for at least the past twenty years, forever wandering the streets with her old shopping carts full of…bags. I have no idea who she truly is or what her name is. She is simply the Bag Lady. And she has the stereotype down perfectly: She’s short and thick-looking, always wrapped in a heavy coat, wearing a rain-wrinkled hat and a pair of deceased tennis shoes. At a moment’s notice, she could walk onto the set of Law & Order and be ready for her cameo appearance. There's something surreal about that. It's hard to believe that a real-life bag lady can look so much like a bag lady.
The record store had a faded copy of David Bowie’s Young Americans LP on display in the front window. I was staring at it when the Bag Lady came to a halt in front of me. She panted a little and wiped some sweat from her sunpeeled face. She looked up at the mostly clear blue sky and it seemed to confirm something for her.
“Gonna be a hot one today, young man," the Bag Lady said. She smiled at me with some very unpleasant teeth.
I was surprised by her words. I’d passed the Bag Lady on the sidewalk quite a few times over the years, but I’d never heard her speak before. “Well, yeah,” I said, examining the sky for myself. “But, y’know, it is July.”
She laughed and pointed her index finger at me, as if to tell me what a wise little rascal I was. After that, her smile turned into a curious frown. “You look sad,” she declared, sounding strangely cheerful about the topic.
“You think so?” I looked at my reflection in the record store's darkened window. I looked like me.
The Bag Lady made an affirmative noise in her throat and grabbed hold of her shopping carts again. “It’s okay,” she said happily.
“I suppose,” I said, still examining my face. I sensed that the old lady and I were having two separate conversations together. But that isn’t unusual for me.
“Gonna be a hot one today,” she said. Again. And then she looked at the sky. Again.
I nodded my head and smiled.
And that was the end of our conversation. Pushing one cart and dragging the other, the Bag Lady marched onward. She went to the end of the block and crossed the street. I watched her go until she was out of sight. Then I stared at my reflection in the window for a while. My lined face and thinning hair mocked me. No one should live to be thirty-four. It’s ridiculous.
Shortly afterward, the record store opened. Over time, I’ve become familiar with the store owner and we usually make conversation as I browse for music. He’s an interesting guy, and his knowledge of music history always impresses me. He also possesses an eerily precise memory of what his customers have purchased in the recent past.
I picked out two CDs, John Mellencamp’s Life Death Love and Freedom and Juliana Hatfield’s Beautiful Creature. As I handed them to the store owner, he shook his head in amused bewilderment. “Y’know, man, you are just all over the map.”
“Uh?” I asked, eloquently.
He waved the CDs around in the air, as if he were shooing a persistent fly. “Well, last time you bought a Slayer album. And the time before that, you bought the Flaming Lips. I mean, I think it’s cool, but you take some odd turns.”
I shrugged it off. “I like to have something for every mood, I guess.”
With a sardonic grin, he held up the Juliana Hatfield CD. “So let’s see, some guy broke your heart…” then he held up the Mellencamp CD, “and you’re probably not gonna vote for John McCain?”
I laughed and sighed at the same time. “Prick. You want my money or what?”
He did. I paid him, we said goodbye until next time, and I walked out.
I went to the bus stop and had a seat. I pulled out a cigarette, stared at it for a moment, and then put it back in the box. Before I could put the cigs back in my pocket, a chubby goth girl walked over to me and asked if she could have one. I would describe her, but why bother? She was a chubby goth girl. Everyone’s seen one.
I handed the girl a cigarette and she lit up. She inhaled deeply, then wrinkled her nose in disgust and looked at the cigarette. Peering out from behind her sweaty mascara, she said, “You should smoke full-flavored.”
I stared at her. “You’re welcome.”
Her nose wrinkled. Again. “Yeah, well, yeah. Thanks.”
With a huff, she turned her big ungrateful ass around and walked back over to her boyfriend. He was a large guy with a shaved head and a long goatee. He was wearing an ankle-length leather coat, decorated with various chrome spikes and buckles. Sweat was dribbling down his bald head as the late morning heat climbed toward ninety degrees. He was obviously suffering, but nonetheless determined to make his fashion statement. He looked like a leather-wrapped microwave burrito.
After a few minutes my bus showed up. I climbed on, with my sad face and odd turns and wimpy cigarettes. I felt normal.
-
Sunday, July 13, 2008
No-Touch
I was in the restroom at the mall Monday. And before I go any further, I have to brag on the restroom in my local mall. It’s newly constructed, and everything within is motion-sensitive. You walk away from the urinal and it flushes itself. You hold your hands under the faucet and the water flows. You walk in front of the paper towel dispenser and it spits out paper automatically--or you can opt for the air dryer. There is no door, so you don’t have to grab hold of a door handle and wonder if the last guy washed his hands. And on your way out, you can pause at the water fountain and it will offer a drink without the slightest touch. When you use this restroom, the only thing you have to touch is your own thing. It is a high-class high-tech Twenty-First Century shit house. I appreciate that.
Right. So. Having taken care of my business, I finished drying my hands and tossed my paper towel into the trash. I paused to admire my exquisitely handsome face in the mirror, and then I turned to leave.
A man was standing there. He was probably in his early sixties, short and potbellied, with long stringy wisps of gray hair. His eyeglasses were crooked and his blue polo shirt was too small. He was wearing green cargo shorts, but they were hilariously oversized, stopping just above his ankles. When I see a teenage boy wearing shorts like this, I don’t give it much thought. But on a sixty year old man, it’s a less than flattering look. On a sixty year old man it says, What in hell ever happened to me, anyway?
I make special note of this man’s cargo shorts, because he was fumbling with the belt on them. It was clear to me that he was preparing to drop his pants right there on the floor. And here is an important detail: The restroom is divided in two. One room contains toilets and urinals, one room has sinks and mirrors. We were in the room with sinks and mirrors.
I believe in an unspoken law of restroom etiquette: If you are not in the vicinity of an appliance which has been designated for bodily waste disposal, then you keep your damned pants on.
Clearly this man was oblivious to concepts of etiquette, because he continued to fumble with his belt right there in front of me. But since I was on my way out, I decided to let this old guy do what he wanted. If he wants to have a party with himself, fine. I’m gone.
Staying close to the wall, I slowly and quietly began to walk past the old man. Almost out, I told myself, almost safe from the sexagenarian exhibitionist….
The old man whirled around to face me. His eyes were bright with alarm and his face was filmed with sweat. He stretched the waistline of his gigantic shorts toward me with both hands, shaking the shorts up and down. He looked like a mentally handicapped matador, one who’d forgotten his red flag at home and had to make do.
“Do you know how to work these kinds of belts?!?” he asked me, his voice whiny and pleading. And he shook his pants up and down again, for emphasis.
I stared into this old man’s eyes for a moment, speechless, and I realized he was totally serious. He honestly expected me to just reach out and undo his belt for him. And while it’s hard to be sure, he didn’t seem like a sleazy restroom pervert or anything of the sort. No, I sensed that he was just a confused and senile old man who couldn’t grasp the mechanics of the young-dude cargo shorts he’d purchased.
After thirty-four years, these incidents really shouldn’t surprise me. As I’ve explained before, there is something about my personal aura that calls out to every freak, tweak, wacko and lunatic who currently lives on this planet. Somehow these people sense that I will be sympathetic and tolerant toward them. And I confess, that’s often true. But there is a limit, fergodsake.
So I stared at this poor befuddled old guy and shook my head. I pitied him, but not enough to undo his fucking belt. “How did you get the pants on to begin with?” I asked.
“Oh, well, they’re too big, y’see?” And he shook the waistline of his shorts yet again. “They’re too big. They were like this when I bought ‘em, so I just pulled ‘em on without undoing the belt.”
I’m sure I frowned at him. “Sooo…can’t you just pull them off without undoing the belt?”
The flash of realization in his eyes was both comical and pathetic. “Oh! You’re right! Thank you, sir!”
He spun around and sprinted into the other room, where the toilets and urinals awaited. And I got the hell out of there.
As I went, I heard his voice again, echoing off the glossy new tile and stone of the restroom: “THANK YOU!”
Yeah. God bless me.
-
Right. So. Having taken care of my business, I finished drying my hands and tossed my paper towel into the trash. I paused to admire my exquisitely handsome face in the mirror, and then I turned to leave.
A man was standing there. He was probably in his early sixties, short and potbellied, with long stringy wisps of gray hair. His eyeglasses were crooked and his blue polo shirt was too small. He was wearing green cargo shorts, but they were hilariously oversized, stopping just above his ankles. When I see a teenage boy wearing shorts like this, I don’t give it much thought. But on a sixty year old man, it’s a less than flattering look. On a sixty year old man it says, What in hell ever happened to me, anyway?
I make special note of this man’s cargo shorts, because he was fumbling with the belt on them. It was clear to me that he was preparing to drop his pants right there on the floor. And here is an important detail: The restroom is divided in two. One room contains toilets and urinals, one room has sinks and mirrors. We were in the room with sinks and mirrors.
I believe in an unspoken law of restroom etiquette: If you are not in the vicinity of an appliance which has been designated for bodily waste disposal, then you keep your damned pants on.
Clearly this man was oblivious to concepts of etiquette, because he continued to fumble with his belt right there in front of me. But since I was on my way out, I decided to let this old guy do what he wanted. If he wants to have a party with himself, fine. I’m gone.
Staying close to the wall, I slowly and quietly began to walk past the old man. Almost out, I told myself, almost safe from the sexagenarian exhibitionist….
The old man whirled around to face me. His eyes were bright with alarm and his face was filmed with sweat. He stretched the waistline of his gigantic shorts toward me with both hands, shaking the shorts up and down. He looked like a mentally handicapped matador, one who’d forgotten his red flag at home and had to make do.
“Do you know how to work these kinds of belts?!?” he asked me, his voice whiny and pleading. And he shook his pants up and down again, for emphasis.
I stared into this old man’s eyes for a moment, speechless, and I realized he was totally serious. He honestly expected me to just reach out and undo his belt for him. And while it’s hard to be sure, he didn’t seem like a sleazy restroom pervert or anything of the sort. No, I sensed that he was just a confused and senile old man who couldn’t grasp the mechanics of the young-dude cargo shorts he’d purchased.
After thirty-four years, these incidents really shouldn’t surprise me. As I’ve explained before, there is something about my personal aura that calls out to every freak, tweak, wacko and lunatic who currently lives on this planet. Somehow these people sense that I will be sympathetic and tolerant toward them. And I confess, that’s often true. But there is a limit, fergodsake.
So I stared at this poor befuddled old guy and shook my head. I pitied him, but not enough to undo his fucking belt. “How did you get the pants on to begin with?” I asked.
“Oh, well, they’re too big, y’see?” And he shook the waistline of his shorts yet again. “They’re too big. They were like this when I bought ‘em, so I just pulled ‘em on without undoing the belt.”
I’m sure I frowned at him. “Sooo…can’t you just pull them off without undoing the belt?”
The flash of realization in his eyes was both comical and pathetic. “Oh! You’re right! Thank you, sir!”
He spun around and sprinted into the other room, where the toilets and urinals awaited. And I got the hell out of there.
As I went, I heard his voice again, echoing off the glossy new tile and stone of the restroom: “THANK YOU!”
Yeah. God bless me.
-
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Monday Night War Zone
It was 1997 and I was mostly drunk most of the time. Drugged too, but mostly I was drunk and mostly I did it alone. But not always. There was Herman, after all.
Herman had moved to town a few months previous, having taken a truck driving job for a local hauling contractor. I met him when he came into the auto parts store, and we hit it off immediately. If you were fond of laughing, you could only like Herman. He was one of the funniest people I’d ever met, and humor was something I desperately needed in my life at that time. I was fucked up, half-starved, and very Generation X. That is, I was morose, lazy, and disgusted with everything you could put on a list. Suicide was like a thirsty mosquito buzzing in my ear, and I was tired of constantly shooing it away.
So it was good to have Herman around. He possessed an infinite supply of ridiculous, hilarious stories that he’d accumulated from his varied travels in life. Whether these stories were truthful or not didn’t rank as a matter of importance to me. Herman made me laugh, and hanging around with him was good for my soul. He was also, like me, an enthusiastic alcoholic with a particular taste for vodka. After I helped Herman acquire an apartment next door to my own, the local package store frequently ran out of 100 Proof Smirnoff. Hanging with Herman may have been good for my soul, but it didn’t do any favors for my liver.
Herman was, I think, fifty-nine years old at the time--although he confessed that he was unsure of his own birth date. He was tall, lanky and black. Really black. In point of fact, Herman was one of only two black people in the entire town. In small-town southern Indiana, that made him about as black as humanly possible. Predictably, the very white local townspeople hadn’t welcomed him with open arms and offers of friendship. I never heard Herman complain of any outright hostility directed toward him--his large physical stature probably discouraged all of that. But I saw the dark frowns on people’s faces when his back was turned. And I heard the growls and murmurings, which usually went something like this: “Fuckin’ Mexicans were bad enough, now we got niggers movin’ in.”
Well. I’d never liked the locals much anyway.
Even if the local racists had summoned the courage to curse Herman to his face, the odds are that they couldn’t have gotten a word in with him. This was a man who existed to communicate with others, and he was unwaveringly dedicated to his calling. As much as I adored the crazy bastard, his stream-of-consciousness jabbering did tend to wear me out after a few hours. If Herman had been a painting, he would have talked. If he’d been a stone or a bedpost he would have talked. Silence played no role in Herman’s life. Indeed, I don’t think he’d ever heard of the concept.
I am a quiet creature by nature, so I did a lot of listening. This was fine in the early evening, when Herman was sharing funny anecdotes and feeling mellow. But as the night wore on and the two of us consumed greater amounts of liquor, things would usually get more serious. Herman would begin complaining about all of his troubles in life, and he kept a long checklist of them in his head. First, he would usually complain about his lousy no-future job, which was a topic I could easily relate to. Likewise, I could sympathize with his complaints concerning money, and his general lack of it. But then he would move on to the world of his five ex-wives (!) and the large assortment of estranged children he had scattered across the Midwest. This was all foreign territory to me, the far-fetched stuff of movies and novels. I pretended to listen, nodded my head agreeably, and drank more vodka. Herman would go on an on, describing his many fuckups and regrets, and I would feel a little better about myself and my life. Friends should do that for each other.
Herman called me “Tricky” most of the time. It was my nickname. Everyone who lived in Herman’s world received a nickname.
“Tricky,” he would often say to me, “you a helluva man. Fo’ real. You always here whenever I need someone to talk to. Boy, I appreciate it.”
“Anything left to smoke?” I would ask.
Herman’s oldest son worked in a UPS distribution center somewhere. Every now and then, a nondescript brown box would land on Herman’s doorstep, and it would be stuffed full of green goodness. And these weren’t small boxes. Sometimes the kid even sent rolling papers in his care packages. I never asked Herman if his son, shall we say, supplemented his UPS salary with additional income.
Our friendship only became truly strained when the TV was on. Herman loved television, practically worshipped it. At that point in my life, I could hardly stand to watch it. I enjoyed movies and cartoons sometimes, but most of the programming on TV made me feel nauseous. I didn’t like sports, sitcoms, the news, or dramas about doctors, lawyers and policemen. I detested Letterman, Leno, Stern, Tom Brokaw, David Duchovny, OJ Simpson, Cindy Crawford, Michael Jordan, Bill and Hillary, and especially all those maddening dumbass commercials. When I watched TV, I felt as if the screen were assaulting me. Television was selling a bogus product, a bullshit vision of the American lifestyle, and I didn’t like the way it manipulated my emotions. My emotions were muddled enough already.
But it was important to Herman that we do our male bonding while watching TV, so I went along with it. It was normally a low-key affair, the two of us drunk and stoned and staring at the magic entertainment box. Sometimes I wondered how my life had come to such a state, but then I would take another drink and say to hell with it. And if that didn’t work, I would take yet another drink and say fuck it.
One Monday evening, this vegetative scenario was violently interrupted. We were watching professional wrestling. And let me tell you, watching pro wrestling with Herman was entertaining. He got into it, stomping and howling and cursing and cheering. When we watched wrestling, the whole neighborhood knew about it. And if Hulk Hogan was wrestling? Forget about it. Herman would be on his feet for the entire match, punching and jabbing and shaking his ass like a high school cheerleader. The Hulkster was his man, his hero. The "Real American," the Superman of wrestling.
But on this particular night, Hulk Hogan was different. He came to the ring wearing black clothing instead of his trademark yellow and red. His familiar Fu Manchu moustache was now set off with black beard stubble. The audience was booing him, and Hogan sneered arrogantly at them.
Herman looked at me, frowning and bewildered. “Tricky, what the hell…?”
I shrugged in my ignorance, having no idea what was going on. Clearly, we had missed last week’s episode. Or more likely, we had been too fucked up to remember it.
Herman was aghast as Hulk Hogan, the archetypal wrestling good guy, grabbed a microphone and informed everyone watching that we were looking at the new Hulk Hogan. “Hollywood” Hogan had arrived. Hogan told us that he and his gang, the New World Order, would rule wrestling forever. “And to all you fans out there,” he declared, “you can stick it!” Presumably, up our asses.
I laughed, and I laughed hard. Much like Anakin Skywalker, the Hulkster had succumbed to the Dark Side. Hollywood Hogan. This was funny shit.
Herman did not laugh. On the contrary, his drunken bloodshot eyes blazed with a fury that was frightening. I had seen Herman angry before, but this was something different. This was betrayal. Fully enraged, he leaped forward and shouted, “YOU NO-GOOD SORRY SON OF A BITCH!!!”
My poor old second-hand television never had a prayer. Herman kicked the screen dead center with his steel-toed work boot. The TV bounced off the wall, hit the floor, and belched out a quick, wretched death. A long jagged crack had formed across the darkened screen. In a matter of seconds, my apartment was filled with that distinctive fried-electronics odor. The stench lingered for a couple of days afterward.
Had I been sober, I probably would have leaped to my feet in alarm or outrage, something along those lines. But sober I was not, so I just stared down at my demolished television and thought about what an unusual evening this was turning out to be. I’d never seen anyone attack a television set before. Except, y’know, on TV.
Herman stood in the center of my living room for a time, staring at the wall, trembling and seething. I heard him mumble something to the effect of, “Even you, Hulk Hogan.” And I’m sure I heard a “motherfucker” and another “son of a bitch” in there somewhere.
I think my friend Herman had abandonment issues. Just a hunch.
Eventually, he cooled off and looked at me. The rage was gone, and now there was sadness and regret in his eyes. He looked down at my savaged television as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Aw no! Aw shit. Tricky, I’m sorry, boy. Damn, I’m sorry.”
“Herman,” I said, somewhat shell-shocked, “you just drop-kicked my fuckin’ TV. What the hell, man?”
He plopped onto the couch again, bent over and put his head in his hands. “C’mon Lord, I can’t believe I done that. I’m sorry, Tricky. Oh, I’m sorry. It just, I dunno, I dunno. Lord, my sorry ass, shit!”
It went something like that. And it went on for a minute or two. The whole display was so pitiful that I felt guilty for even mentioning that he’d destroyed my television. I felt guilty, if that makes any sense.
“It’s all right, Herman,” I finally said. “Don’t worry about it, man. It was an old TV anyway. No big deal.”
Sitting up straight and slowly shaking his head, Herman looked at me again. The grief in his face was, in my opinion, quite out of proportion to the circumstances at hand. But I also realized that, under the surface, we were no longer just dealing with Hulk Hogan’s new black tights and a broken television set. There was something bigger and nastier than that in the room with us. Neither of us was going to look it in the eye, but it was there.
“I’ll buy you a new one, Tricky,” Herman sighed, his voice gravelly with emotion. “I got to. Okay?”
I knew that would never actually happen, so I let it go. “Okay.”
I reached over and clicked on the radio, and then we drank some more. Sometime later that night, one of us unplugged the TV and set it on the front porch. I don’t remember doing it myself, but I may have. And soon after, I found another cheap used TV. Herman didn’t offer to pay for it, and I wouldn’t have accepted his money in any case.
Less than two years later Herman quietly skipped town, leaving behind a considerable number of angry bill collectors. The last time I saw him was around Christmas 1998. I was doing a stint in court-ordered drug and alcohol rehab, living in a halfway house and wondering how in hell anyone could withstand sobriety. Herman came to visit me one weekend. He greeted me with a huge smile and a crushing hug. It was damned good to see him.
Herman danced around, squeezing the air from my lungs and slapping my back affectionately. “Tricky!”
I laughed and savored the smell of liquor on his breath. “How ya been, Hollywood?”
_
Herman had moved to town a few months previous, having taken a truck driving job for a local hauling contractor. I met him when he came into the auto parts store, and we hit it off immediately. If you were fond of laughing, you could only like Herman. He was one of the funniest people I’d ever met, and humor was something I desperately needed in my life at that time. I was fucked up, half-starved, and very Generation X. That is, I was morose, lazy, and disgusted with everything you could put on a list. Suicide was like a thirsty mosquito buzzing in my ear, and I was tired of constantly shooing it away.
So it was good to have Herman around. He possessed an infinite supply of ridiculous, hilarious stories that he’d accumulated from his varied travels in life. Whether these stories were truthful or not didn’t rank as a matter of importance to me. Herman made me laugh, and hanging around with him was good for my soul. He was also, like me, an enthusiastic alcoholic with a particular taste for vodka. After I helped Herman acquire an apartment next door to my own, the local package store frequently ran out of 100 Proof Smirnoff. Hanging with Herman may have been good for my soul, but it didn’t do any favors for my liver.
Herman was, I think, fifty-nine years old at the time--although he confessed that he was unsure of his own birth date. He was tall, lanky and black. Really black. In point of fact, Herman was one of only two black people in the entire town. In small-town southern Indiana, that made him about as black as humanly possible. Predictably, the very white local townspeople hadn’t welcomed him with open arms and offers of friendship. I never heard Herman complain of any outright hostility directed toward him--his large physical stature probably discouraged all of that. But I saw the dark frowns on people’s faces when his back was turned. And I heard the growls and murmurings, which usually went something like this: “Fuckin’ Mexicans were bad enough, now we got niggers movin’ in.”
Well. I’d never liked the locals much anyway.
Even if the local racists had summoned the courage to curse Herman to his face, the odds are that they couldn’t have gotten a word in with him. This was a man who existed to communicate with others, and he was unwaveringly dedicated to his calling. As much as I adored the crazy bastard, his stream-of-consciousness jabbering did tend to wear me out after a few hours. If Herman had been a painting, he would have talked. If he’d been a stone or a bedpost he would have talked. Silence played no role in Herman’s life. Indeed, I don’t think he’d ever heard of the concept.
I am a quiet creature by nature, so I did a lot of listening. This was fine in the early evening, when Herman was sharing funny anecdotes and feeling mellow. But as the night wore on and the two of us consumed greater amounts of liquor, things would usually get more serious. Herman would begin complaining about all of his troubles in life, and he kept a long checklist of them in his head. First, he would usually complain about his lousy no-future job, which was a topic I could easily relate to. Likewise, I could sympathize with his complaints concerning money, and his general lack of it. But then he would move on to the world of his five ex-wives (!) and the large assortment of estranged children he had scattered across the Midwest. This was all foreign territory to me, the far-fetched stuff of movies and novels. I pretended to listen, nodded my head agreeably, and drank more vodka. Herman would go on an on, describing his many fuckups and regrets, and I would feel a little better about myself and my life. Friends should do that for each other.
Herman called me “Tricky” most of the time. It was my nickname. Everyone who lived in Herman’s world received a nickname.
“Tricky,” he would often say to me, “you a helluva man. Fo’ real. You always here whenever I need someone to talk to. Boy, I appreciate it.”
“Anything left to smoke?” I would ask.
Herman’s oldest son worked in a UPS distribution center somewhere. Every now and then, a nondescript brown box would land on Herman’s doorstep, and it would be stuffed full of green goodness. And these weren’t small boxes. Sometimes the kid even sent rolling papers in his care packages. I never asked Herman if his son, shall we say, supplemented his UPS salary with additional income.
Our friendship only became truly strained when the TV was on. Herman loved television, practically worshipped it. At that point in my life, I could hardly stand to watch it. I enjoyed movies and cartoons sometimes, but most of the programming on TV made me feel nauseous. I didn’t like sports, sitcoms, the news, or dramas about doctors, lawyers and policemen. I detested Letterman, Leno, Stern, Tom Brokaw, David Duchovny, OJ Simpson, Cindy Crawford, Michael Jordan, Bill and Hillary, and especially all those maddening dumbass commercials. When I watched TV, I felt as if the screen were assaulting me. Television was selling a bogus product, a bullshit vision of the American lifestyle, and I didn’t like the way it manipulated my emotions. My emotions were muddled enough already.
But it was important to Herman that we do our male bonding while watching TV, so I went along with it. It was normally a low-key affair, the two of us drunk and stoned and staring at the magic entertainment box. Sometimes I wondered how my life had come to such a state, but then I would take another drink and say to hell with it. And if that didn’t work, I would take yet another drink and say fuck it.
One Monday evening, this vegetative scenario was violently interrupted. We were watching professional wrestling. And let me tell you, watching pro wrestling with Herman was entertaining. He got into it, stomping and howling and cursing and cheering. When we watched wrestling, the whole neighborhood knew about it. And if Hulk Hogan was wrestling? Forget about it. Herman would be on his feet for the entire match, punching and jabbing and shaking his ass like a high school cheerleader. The Hulkster was his man, his hero. The "Real American," the Superman of wrestling.
But on this particular night, Hulk Hogan was different. He came to the ring wearing black clothing instead of his trademark yellow and red. His familiar Fu Manchu moustache was now set off with black beard stubble. The audience was booing him, and Hogan sneered arrogantly at them.
Herman looked at me, frowning and bewildered. “Tricky, what the hell…?”
I shrugged in my ignorance, having no idea what was going on. Clearly, we had missed last week’s episode. Or more likely, we had been too fucked up to remember it.
Herman was aghast as Hulk Hogan, the archetypal wrestling good guy, grabbed a microphone and informed everyone watching that we were looking at the new Hulk Hogan. “Hollywood” Hogan had arrived. Hogan told us that he and his gang, the New World Order, would rule wrestling forever. “And to all you fans out there,” he declared, “you can stick it!” Presumably, up our asses.
I laughed, and I laughed hard. Much like Anakin Skywalker, the Hulkster had succumbed to the Dark Side. Hollywood Hogan. This was funny shit.
Herman did not laugh. On the contrary, his drunken bloodshot eyes blazed with a fury that was frightening. I had seen Herman angry before, but this was something different. This was betrayal. Fully enraged, he leaped forward and shouted, “YOU NO-GOOD SORRY SON OF A BITCH!!!”
My poor old second-hand television never had a prayer. Herman kicked the screen dead center with his steel-toed work boot. The TV bounced off the wall, hit the floor, and belched out a quick, wretched death. A long jagged crack had formed across the darkened screen. In a matter of seconds, my apartment was filled with that distinctive fried-electronics odor. The stench lingered for a couple of days afterward.
Had I been sober, I probably would have leaped to my feet in alarm or outrage, something along those lines. But sober I was not, so I just stared down at my demolished television and thought about what an unusual evening this was turning out to be. I’d never seen anyone attack a television set before. Except, y’know, on TV.
Herman stood in the center of my living room for a time, staring at the wall, trembling and seething. I heard him mumble something to the effect of, “Even you, Hulk Hogan.” And I’m sure I heard a “motherfucker” and another “son of a bitch” in there somewhere.
I think my friend Herman had abandonment issues. Just a hunch.
Eventually, he cooled off and looked at me. The rage was gone, and now there was sadness and regret in his eyes. He looked down at my savaged television as if he were seeing it for the first time. “Aw no! Aw shit. Tricky, I’m sorry, boy. Damn, I’m sorry.”
“Herman,” I said, somewhat shell-shocked, “you just drop-kicked my fuckin’ TV. What the hell, man?”
He plopped onto the couch again, bent over and put his head in his hands. “C’mon Lord, I can’t believe I done that. I’m sorry, Tricky. Oh, I’m sorry. It just, I dunno, I dunno. Lord, my sorry ass, shit!”
It went something like that. And it went on for a minute or two. The whole display was so pitiful that I felt guilty for even mentioning that he’d destroyed my television. I felt guilty, if that makes any sense.
“It’s all right, Herman,” I finally said. “Don’t worry about it, man. It was an old TV anyway. No big deal.”
Sitting up straight and slowly shaking his head, Herman looked at me again. The grief in his face was, in my opinion, quite out of proportion to the circumstances at hand. But I also realized that, under the surface, we were no longer just dealing with Hulk Hogan’s new black tights and a broken television set. There was something bigger and nastier than that in the room with us. Neither of us was going to look it in the eye, but it was there.
“I’ll buy you a new one, Tricky,” Herman sighed, his voice gravelly with emotion. “I got to. Okay?”
I knew that would never actually happen, so I let it go. “Okay.”
I reached over and clicked on the radio, and then we drank some more. Sometime later that night, one of us unplugged the TV and set it on the front porch. I don’t remember doing it myself, but I may have. And soon after, I found another cheap used TV. Herman didn’t offer to pay for it, and I wouldn’t have accepted his money in any case.
Less than two years later Herman quietly skipped town, leaving behind a considerable number of angry bill collectors. The last time I saw him was around Christmas 1998. I was doing a stint in court-ordered drug and alcohol rehab, living in a halfway house and wondering how in hell anyone could withstand sobriety. Herman came to visit me one weekend. He greeted me with a huge smile and a crushing hug. It was damned good to see him.
Herman danced around, squeezing the air from my lungs and slapping my back affectionately. “Tricky!”
I laughed and savored the smell of liquor on his breath. “How ya been, Hollywood?”
_
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