From a dog's perspective, it is difficult to see a story unfold. The distractions that bound out of bushes and cause one to charge to the end of the lead - not to mention the sudden, sharp yank that results - make keen observation difficult. The beauty and wonder of the variety of smells defy the description of mere words. And the perplexing behavior of the giant, pink gods that control food, water, and access to the outdoors are frequently a mystery that only becomes clear at distant intervals.
Most of the time I lie around listening to them. The little ones babble and squabble, the bigger ones charge about, moving things and grumbling. There is a lot of noise, and little excitement. But there is something to be said for listening.
I have told some of the tales of the terrorist rabbits, and I shared some of my more embarrassing moments. I even told the story of my friend, the mouse, which was probably not one of the best series of choices I have made. Since then, a lot of waiting has gone on, and a lot of significant events.
The most significant thing, other than waiting for dead mice to show up, was this thing called "vacation". I have been to visit someone called Dr. Andrew several times, mostly to have my nails clipped, and to get shots. You would think this would spoil the allure of Dr. Andrew, but there is just something about him that I find enchanting. I think... maybe... I have a crush on Dr. Andrew.
But it's always been an intermittent thing, since I see him so rarely. But a few weeks ago, the people packed me and some of my things into the car, and took me to Dr. Andrew's office. I was thrilled, until they all hugged me, and petted me, and sent me back... and left me there!
My first thought was that they had gotten tired of me, or blamed me for the mouse situation, and I was being given away. But then Dr. Andrew came in, and it finally sank in that it wasn't supposed to be a "forever" kind of thing. Not that I have any concept of time, but it Dr. Andrew says it's alright, then it's alright.
We had a good time; I spent most of my days with the staff (since I still can't stand other dogs). And eventually, the family came back. We had a joyful/tearful reunion, and we came back to a house that felt... different.
Before leaving, I knew the big folks had made an extra effort to super-clean, and lock up and trace of food. And they set out extra poison and traps all over the place. But the poison was gone, and the traps had been empty when they got back. There were doots all over the usual places. At least they couldn't blame me, since I'd been in the klink.
Things were morose and tense, partly from "coming down" off their vacation high; partly from having to face the mouse problem. And then the other morning, the Hairy Guy went downstairs for a bag of human kibble - they call it "cereal" - and he came back up in a frenzied state of joy. He woke up the Mom Lady, so I knew it was serious.
"We got one!" he announced.
"What?"
"Dead mouse! Downstairs!"
"Ew! Throw it away!"
"I will," he said, chuckling. "Did you want to see it?"
"No!"
So, he grabbed a ziploc bag, and a few minutes later, he brought it upstairs. He didn't try to show it to me; he's not cruel that way. But I saw it. He was a little bigger than last time I saw him, but it was Doots.
The people are happy, now. There has been a victory, and a trophy, even if they did chuck it in the bin. But they're still waiting, and so am I. Because we all know there have to be more, hiding somewhere, working up the nerve to appear.
And what will happen when they do?
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
Lb4Lb#5: But We're Okay, We're Fine
I wanna clear my head,
I wanna drink that sun,
I'm gonna love you good and strong
While our love is good and young.
- Get Out The MapNormally, this "lb4lb" thing is about an album (or two) that particularly moved me in some way. Nothing is as frustrating as buying an entire CD that only has one or two tracks that you really like on it; and few things are as satisfying as finding a collection of songs that flow together and keep you coming back for the whole set.
But THIS time, I want to talk about a "lb4lb" career.
The best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life, after all.
- Closer to fineFolk music doesn't get paid the respect it deserves, partly because folk fans pay it FAR too much respect. It's an art form based on intimacy, and the fandom associated with other genres simply spoils the effect.
Nothing kills the joy of listening to Peter Paul and Mary like hearing someone blather on about the symbolism of Puff The Magic Dragon. (I know it's a work of subtle genius, man, you don't need to explain why!) Nothing makes a noble Woody Guthrie protest song more boring than hearing about how noble and historic it is.
(That's not to say covering folk isn't a great idea. Billy Bragg and Wilco paid a fine tribute to Woody with Mermaid Avenue and Mermaid Avenue Vol. 2; and Bruce Springsteen didPete Seeger proud with We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions.)
Folk is at its best when it is left alone; a troubadour with an instrument. A guitar, three chords, and the Truth. And a little bit of history.
All the shiny little trinkets of temptation
(make new friends)
Something new instead of something old
(but keep the old)
All you gotta do is scratch beneath the surface
(but remember what is gold)
And it's fools gold
- Power Of TwoThey've played with Michael Stipe of R.E.M. They toured with The B-52's bassist, Sara Lee. Stephen King set part of a novel around one of their concerts. They sell out tours around the world.
But, there is no reason on earth why the Indigo Girls should be so damned popular. They don't get airplay. They aren't "pretty". Their songs are arguably "all the same" (unless you're actually listening to them). If you're looking at surfaces, theirs is dusty, and someone has written, "Best Buy is that way" in the dust to help move you on.
Scratch beneath that surface, though... you see denim. You feel the calluses on your fingertips. You might smell some weed smoke. But you'll hear those voices. You'll look up to see two women with guitars, and you will swear they are angels giving you something that will change your life.
My friend tanner she says you know
Me and jesus were of the same heart
The only thing that keeps us distant
Is that I keep fuckin up
- Shame On YouI don't really know many facts about Amy Ray and Emily Saliers; I heard they were Christians, I heard they were lesbians. I heard they used to be a couple, and I heard...
I heard the music.
That's all that matters, in the end. There is nothing I can say as a fan that will matter, or make a difference to you. But if you listen to that music, those words.
It took a long time to
become the thing I am to you.
And you won't tear it apart
without a fight, without a heart.
- Become YouThey are tough, honest, beautiful. You won't care about every song on every album; at least, not at first. But they will speak to you, and you will feel something; and it will be like the realization that part of you was asleep. Something you didn't know was hurting will be soothed.
When we get a little distance some things get clearer
Give em the space our hearts grow nearer
I ran as hard as I could and still ended up here
but it's alright
- It's Alright
Friday, July 11, 2008
Part One: How did THAT happen?
Originally posted Saturday, July 17, 2004
I'd had a terrible year. 1993.
It might have made a great country song if I had changed a few of the details. My girlfriend completed a rather drawn-out breaking up process, my roommate went home to South Africa, I lost a great job, and my Datsun's transmission failed on the way home from Tucson (where the now-ex-girlfriend had given me the boot). I ended up moving back into my parents' house, which seemed to have shrunk a bit in the 9 months since I had moved out. And, most telling of all, walking the five miles to work at the Wards department store in the mall was the best prospect I had going.
Things dragged on, and steadily drifted downward over the course of that summer. I had a brief affair with a girl I didn't like, which alienated my best friend because he DID like her. My parents anxiously brooded off-stage, hoping I would pull my head out and grow up. I took small comfort from the small friends - one of the Southern variety, the other of the Philip Morris variety - which I pretended not to have, and my parents pretended not to notice. School started, and for the first time since I was five years old, I wasn't going.
Basically, I could do nothing right, and wasn't sure how to turn it all around.
I still had my dignity, though. Well, maybe not. But, as the song says, Ob-la-di Ob-la-da... and something about a bra. I mustered what professionalism I had, and tried to figure out how I was going to pay for the next semester of school while working in housewares. The job itself wasn't bad. It was a step and a half up from the bottom-feeding drudgery of telemarketing, or the series of grocery stores I had been working at for seven of the eight preceding summers.
With a little effort, I was able to deal with people cheerfully day after day. After a while, I became the "problem" guy; which didn't mean that I was the one causing trouble, for a change. Any customer that one of my co-workers couldn't handle would be thrust my way as though I had some imaginary authority. If I may brag a little, I was good at it.
One lady, for example, was a regular problem; she would bring in all of the junk mail she had collected every two weeks like clockwork. Because she had a store card, a large portion of that mail was from Wards, and she seemed to think that we were personally stuffing all of the envelopes there in our housewares department and sending them to her as some kind of personal attack.
She was wheelchair bound, immensely fat, and also a victim of throat cancer - which had left her with one of those voice boxes that generates a horrible mockery of human speech in lieu of an actual voice. Her husband acted the part of the tall, gaunt, and silent valet who propelled her wherever she wanted to go under a fusillade of unintelligible, computer-generated barks from the voice box. Whoever was at the counter when she arrived would be met with his blank, fishy stare and her robotic tirade compounded by the added assault of stacks of unopened fliers, circulars, coupon books, pre-approved applications, and full-color advertisements being hurled at the counter top. Invariably, they sent for me, because I could understand her.
One afternoon, while helping two flamboyantly homosexual men in matching ruffled leisure suits select throw pillows for their couch, I heard the bi-weekly cyber-attack starting up on Michelle, our newest employee. "Chintz!" I said, tossing an armful of pillows at the indecisive couple, and whirled to Michelle's rescue, leaving them to argue in lisping Spanish over the relative merits of magenta versus burgundy.
"NGET UZ OVF YERR GODDAMNG NGAILING LISZT!" I heard, followed by the soft thump of mail on formica.
"Let me help you, Mrs. Foster," I said, smoothly. She wouldn't be happy until I "called corporate" and set them straight. I dialled Gary, the owner of the tobacco shop next door, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't remove Mrs. Foster from our mailing list, I would testify in court that he wore women's undergarments and abused zoo animals. Or something like that. Mr. Foster nodded solemnly and eyed a pile of toaster ovens.
Meanwhile, a man had wandered over from the lighting department with a set of almost-matching lamp shades. I tried to ignore the brewing storm as Michelle began to argue with him about the price that came up on the register. I had my hands full appeasing the Robot Queen.
"You got the cyber-twins over there?" Gary was asking on the phone.
"Yes, sir," I replied in my sternest tone, "And if you don't stop sending them our fliers, we will lose their business forever!" (They had never bought a single thing from us that I was aware of.)
"Hee hee, thanks for the warning!" Gary said. "I'll take my break before they get here! Even I don't feel right selling her all those cigarettes!"
"But the sign says '20% off', and it's sitting there with these shades," the other man was insisting to Michelle.
"Well, it's ringing up at $10 each, that must be the sale price," Michelle said. She was casting me anguished looks, begging to be bailed out.
I hung up the phone, and turned back to the Fosters. "If you get any more mail from them, you let ME know," I told them, and sympathetically dumped their letters into the trash bin. They rolled away, satisfied... until the next mail delivery.
"Help me get rid of this guy," Michelle whispered at me behind her hand.
"Why don't you just give him the discount?" I asked. "It's only two bucks."
She paled at the suggestion. "Not on MY account! Won't they fire me for that?"
Not wanting to argue in front of him, I turned to the man with the shades. "Where was the sign, sir?" He showed me; it wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't even one of our signs; some joker had brought it over from another store. This guy didn't care about that, though. He by-God wanted those lampshades, and he by-God wanted a deal! I just wanted him to go away.
So, I logged in on a register, rang him up - with the discount - and took his money. "You have a nice day, sir," I said, as sincerely as I ever say it. Just between us, whenever I say the word "sir", it has a special meaning in my mind; an acronym suggesting a profane act combined with criticism of the mental capacity of the one being "sirred." Unless, of course, I respect you.
The man smiled, and cocked his head to one side. "You know," he said, "that showed a great deal of professionalism and leadership. Have you ever considered a career in the military?" I demurred, without laughing. He handed me a business card. "I'm an Air Force recruiter down at the Processing station in downtown Phoenix. Give me a call sometime, and we can talk about getting you out of retail." I politely tucked the card into my breast pocket.
Dad picked me up from work that night, and asked how my day went. I was dying for a cigarette, but didn't want him to know I had ever so much as seen one lit. I reflexively brushed the breast pocket of my shirt, where my smokes had formerly resided, and remembered the card.
"I was offered a job in the Air Force," I said, laughing.
Dad didn't laugh.
Next Week: Saying Goodbye
I'd had a terrible year. 1993.
It might have made a great country song if I had changed a few of the details. My girlfriend completed a rather drawn-out breaking up process, my roommate went home to South Africa, I lost a great job, and my Datsun's transmission failed on the way home from Tucson (where the now-ex-girlfriend had given me the boot). I ended up moving back into my parents' house, which seemed to have shrunk a bit in the 9 months since I had moved out. And, most telling of all, walking the five miles to work at the Wards department store in the mall was the best prospect I had going.
Things dragged on, and steadily drifted downward over the course of that summer. I had a brief affair with a girl I didn't like, which alienated my best friend because he DID like her. My parents anxiously brooded off-stage, hoping I would pull my head out and grow up. I took small comfort from the small friends - one of the Southern variety, the other of the Philip Morris variety - which I pretended not to have, and my parents pretended not to notice. School started, and for the first time since I was five years old, I wasn't going.
Basically, I could do nothing right, and wasn't sure how to turn it all around.
I still had my dignity, though. Well, maybe not. But, as the song says, Ob-la-di Ob-la-da... and something about a bra. I mustered what professionalism I had, and tried to figure out how I was going to pay for the next semester of school while working in housewares. The job itself wasn't bad. It was a step and a half up from the bottom-feeding drudgery of telemarketing, or the series of grocery stores I had been working at for seven of the eight preceding summers.
With a little effort, I was able to deal with people cheerfully day after day. After a while, I became the "problem" guy; which didn't mean that I was the one causing trouble, for a change. Any customer that one of my co-workers couldn't handle would be thrust my way as though I had some imaginary authority. If I may brag a little, I was good at it.
One lady, for example, was a regular problem; she would bring in all of the junk mail she had collected every two weeks like clockwork. Because she had a store card, a large portion of that mail was from Wards, and she seemed to think that we were personally stuffing all of the envelopes there in our housewares department and sending them to her as some kind of personal attack.
She was wheelchair bound, immensely fat, and also a victim of throat cancer - which had left her with one of those voice boxes that generates a horrible mockery of human speech in lieu of an actual voice. Her husband acted the part of the tall, gaunt, and silent valet who propelled her wherever she wanted to go under a fusillade of unintelligible, computer-generated barks from the voice box. Whoever was at the counter when she arrived would be met with his blank, fishy stare and her robotic tirade compounded by the added assault of stacks of unopened fliers, circulars, coupon books, pre-approved applications, and full-color advertisements being hurled at the counter top. Invariably, they sent for me, because I could understand her.
One afternoon, while helping two flamboyantly homosexual men in matching ruffled leisure suits select throw pillows for their couch, I heard the bi-weekly cyber-attack starting up on Michelle, our newest employee. "Chintz!" I said, tossing an armful of pillows at the indecisive couple, and whirled to Michelle's rescue, leaving them to argue in lisping Spanish over the relative merits of magenta versus burgundy.
"NGET UZ OVF YERR GODDAMNG NGAILING LISZT!" I heard, followed by the soft thump of mail on formica.
"Let me help you, Mrs. Foster," I said, smoothly. She wouldn't be happy until I "called corporate" and set them straight. I dialled Gary, the owner of the tobacco shop next door, and told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't remove Mrs. Foster from our mailing list, I would testify in court that he wore women's undergarments and abused zoo animals. Or something like that. Mr. Foster nodded solemnly and eyed a pile of toaster ovens.
Meanwhile, a man had wandered over from the lighting department with a set of almost-matching lamp shades. I tried to ignore the brewing storm as Michelle began to argue with him about the price that came up on the register. I had my hands full appeasing the Robot Queen.
"You got the cyber-twins over there?" Gary was asking on the phone.
"Yes, sir," I replied in my sternest tone, "And if you don't stop sending them our fliers, we will lose their business forever!" (They had never bought a single thing from us that I was aware of.)
"Hee hee, thanks for the warning!" Gary said. "I'll take my break before they get here! Even I don't feel right selling her all those cigarettes!"
"But the sign says '20% off', and it's sitting there with these shades," the other man was insisting to Michelle.
"Well, it's ringing up at $10 each, that must be the sale price," Michelle said. She was casting me anguished looks, begging to be bailed out.
I hung up the phone, and turned back to the Fosters. "If you get any more mail from them, you let ME know," I told them, and sympathetically dumped their letters into the trash bin. They rolled away, satisfied... until the next mail delivery.
"Help me get rid of this guy," Michelle whispered at me behind her hand.
"Why don't you just give him the discount?" I asked. "It's only two bucks."
She paled at the suggestion. "Not on MY account! Won't they fire me for that?"
Not wanting to argue in front of him, I turned to the man with the shades. "Where was the sign, sir?" He showed me; it wasn't supposed to be there. It wasn't even one of our signs; some joker had brought it over from another store. This guy didn't care about that, though. He by-God wanted those lampshades, and he by-God wanted a deal! I just wanted him to go away.
So, I logged in on a register, rang him up - with the discount - and took his money. "You have a nice day, sir," I said, as sincerely as I ever say it. Just between us, whenever I say the word "sir", it has a special meaning in my mind; an acronym suggesting a profane act combined with criticism of the mental capacity of the one being "sirred." Unless, of course, I respect you.
The man smiled, and cocked his head to one side. "You know," he said, "that showed a great deal of professionalism and leadership. Have you ever considered a career in the military?" I demurred, without laughing. He handed me a business card. "I'm an Air Force recruiter down at the Processing station in downtown Phoenix. Give me a call sometime, and we can talk about getting you out of retail." I politely tucked the card into my breast pocket.
Dad picked me up from work that night, and asked how my day went. I was dying for a cigarette, but didn't want him to know I had ever so much as seen one lit. I reflexively brushed the breast pocket of my shirt, where my smokes had formerly resided, and remembered the card.
"I was offered a job in the Air Force," I said, laughing.
Dad didn't laugh.
Next Week: Saying Goodbye
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The Bachelor Party
(originally posted July 04, 2004 - all names have been changed to protect the guilty)
The Smoke Deck was the focal point of social life for everyone in the U.S. Air Force squadron at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, CA. Even people who didn't smoke would go there as soon as their duties were done for the day, just to put in an appearance. Some were fresh out of Basic Training, and glad to spend their 20 minutes of freedom outside; some were "sharking", which involved circling amongst the newbies, looking for one that would be easily wowed by the "seniority" of someone who had been there for as long as three weeks already.
I know of several young men who got their first dates this way.
I was one of those who went to smoke. I had never been more than a pack-a-week kind of guy, but just being able to go out and have a cigarette after eight weeks of stress and mind games was a temptation that I couldn't even think of resisting. It was October, a month after I had arrived at DLI, and I was lighting up a couple of stogies to celebrate being allowed to wear civilian clothes again. I was relishing my flannel shirt and Detroit Tigers baseball cap (I've always been a big Magnum PI fan), and I had on a pair of jeans that seemed much looser than they had last time they were worn, four months before. Bert came up to me, took the cigar I offered, and said, "I got someone who wants to meet you."
Then she stepped out from behind him. "Hey, aren't you the guy that can put a quarter up his nose?" she said. It was that adorable girl I had been admiring in formation for the last four weeks.
"Got a quarter?" I replied dashingly. She laughed, and to make a long story short, by February we had decided to get married.
Of course, most of our friends were scandalized. After all, it is common knowledge that DLI marriages usually don't last more than six-months beyond the end of the couple's stay in Monterey. And most of those marriages are just a temporary arrangement for the sake of qualifying for off-base housing. The odds for a marriage like ours were not good. Maybe that explains why I was more nervous about telling people about the wedding than I had been proposing.
Most people who heard our happy news offered flaccid congratulations before moving on to more interesting subjects, and most of my close friends seemed worried when I told them. But not Glenn. He became visibly excited at the prospect, and his first words were, "Can I throw the Bachelor Party?" So I said, sure.
When the big night arrived, we borrowed my fiancee's Saturn, and swung by the liquor store on our way to the motel where the festivities would be held. Glenn had outdone himself. He'd secured a suite under the name "Nick Nefsik" (Arabic for "F*** yourself") which had a kitchenette, and a balcony overlooking the Chinese restaurant behind the motel.
People started to show up, and we all started to get blasted and watch porn. A typical night, for most of the guys, and a bit boring. Then someone suggested getting a stripper. Everyone ponied up a few bucks, and Don Law (whom everyone called "Dong") went to work with the phone book. She showed up about half an hour later with her bouncer; a beefy, sullen woman that stood in the corner of the room watching us watch her friend.
Then the fun really started.
And then, there was a knock on the door. Apparently, there was an Air Force girl in the room next door with her boyfriend, an Army sergeant. I probably don't need to point out that their relationship was not legal, but I will. They didn't let that stop them, though. They were so upset about all the noise coming from our room, that they came over to do something about it.
First, the guy came to the door and demanded to know who the "ranking NCO" was at the party. Dong explained that there wasn't an NCO in charge of Bachelor Parties, but that the stripper would be leaving before 10:30pm. All we asked was a little patience. The guy seemed to agree, and left.
The Stripper was quite good. She zeroed in on the Bachelor (me, of course) and did a very naughty dance, which I wasn't able to fully appreciate because I had misplaced my glasses, and was totally obliterated. When she was done with that, she made a little pitch about needing extra money to play a game called "Feed the Kitty", after which everyone bolted from the hotel to find the nearest cash machine. This was fortunate for most of them. While we waited for the bank roll patrol to return, the Stripper disappeared into the bathroom (where my roommate turned out to be hiding in the tub), and a few of the guys had gone out on the balcony for a smoke.
Fred Kreigler was by the window staring myopically at the porno on the TV, when there was a knock on the window behind him. There were about a dozen guys in the room, and I was by the wall dividing the bedroom area from the kitchenette when Fred pulled back the curtain to see a grinning death's head with a chin divot and a hair-line that was retreating like a Redskin's defensive line.
"IT'S SERGEANT KNIGHT!!!!!" he shouted... and mayhem ensued.
I don't know who opened the door, because Kreigler swore later that it wasn't him. Maybe TSgt Knight really was the supernatural being we all thought he was. That night he burst through the door, and grabbed as many people by the back of the shirt as he could reach. The stampede flowed by me in my place against the wall, and I stared stupidly into the panicked faces of my companions followed swiftly by the leering, gleeful face of retribution.
When the dust settled, there were about six of us left in the room with TSgt Knight, who looked around the room, smirking and braying threats into our faces. The Incarnation of Death was turning to each of us and trying to find out who had escaped his clutches by diving off the balcony.
"Who booked the room?" he shouted. "I want to know who 'Nick Nefsik' is." We were trying to make it look like we couldn't remember, but we were really just trying to figure out who we would have to turn in. I remember reluctantly giving Glenn's name, but tried to make it sound better by pointing out that he hadn't bought alcohol for anyone but me.
After much soul-thrashing, we managed to come out with only five names of people we were pretty sure he'd already seen. He had to be satisfied with that. Then it occurred to our Ranking NCO that one of our drunken runners might have been injured diving off that balcony, so he sent someone around to see.
Sure enough, the guy returned with Dong draped across his back. Dong looked around the room blearily, whether through pain, inebriation, or both. He looked hard at TSgt Knight for a few seconds, then burst out, "Who invited THIS asshole?"
We all froze, and our blood ran cold as the smile of the Grinch crept across his malignant mug. TSgt Knight leaned back, took a deep breath (as we held ours)... and laughed! "You're alright, then, Airman Law?"
In the end, it turned out pretty well. Nobody got into too much hot water, though a few of the people there had been student leaders, and had their positions of responsibility taken away. The two under age guys (including my roommate) were put back "on phase", which meant they had to keep a curfew and stay in uniform all the time.
Most importantly, my wedding went on as planned. My lovely, new bride was mad that I had worried her so much, but I was forgiven for not actually causing any damage to either our plans or her car. Fortunately, I had been able to convince our apprehender that I should stay at the motel that night, since I was unable to drive it.
Glenn showed up after everyone had been dragged off, and he helped me clean up the room.
"I'm sorry your Bachelor Party got busted," he said.
"I'm sorry I ratted you out," I said.
"That's alright. Everyone knew I'd set it up; someone would have told on me," he forgave me.
"Where were you, anyway?" I asked. "How did you get away?"
"Well, when everyone else was going off the balcony, me and Duke hopped over the dividing wall to the balcony of the room next door. We lit up a couple of smokes, and just watched. TSgt Knight didn't notice us, so we slid down the drain pipe. I've been at another party down at the other end of the motel." Typical Glenn!
And the chick that turned us in? We made sure everyone knew she and her boyfriend had made the call to TSgt Knight... including her husband.
The Smoke Deck was the focal point of social life for everyone in the U.S. Air Force squadron at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, CA. Even people who didn't smoke would go there as soon as their duties were done for the day, just to put in an appearance. Some were fresh out of Basic Training, and glad to spend their 20 minutes of freedom outside; some were "sharking", which involved circling amongst the newbies, looking for one that would be easily wowed by the "seniority" of someone who had been there for as long as three weeks already.
I know of several young men who got their first dates this way.
I was one of those who went to smoke. I had never been more than a pack-a-week kind of guy, but just being able to go out and have a cigarette after eight weeks of stress and mind games was a temptation that I couldn't even think of resisting. It was October, a month after I had arrived at DLI, and I was lighting up a couple of stogies to celebrate being allowed to wear civilian clothes again. I was relishing my flannel shirt and Detroit Tigers baseball cap (I've always been a big Magnum PI fan), and I had on a pair of jeans that seemed much looser than they had last time they were worn, four months before. Bert came up to me, took the cigar I offered, and said, "I got someone who wants to meet you."
Then she stepped out from behind him. "Hey, aren't you the guy that can put a quarter up his nose?" she said. It was that adorable girl I had been admiring in formation for the last four weeks.
"Got a quarter?" I replied dashingly. She laughed, and to make a long story short, by February we had decided to get married.
Of course, most of our friends were scandalized. After all, it is common knowledge that DLI marriages usually don't last more than six-months beyond the end of the couple's stay in Monterey. And most of those marriages are just a temporary arrangement for the sake of qualifying for off-base housing. The odds for a marriage like ours were not good. Maybe that explains why I was more nervous about telling people about the wedding than I had been proposing.
Most people who heard our happy news offered flaccid congratulations before moving on to more interesting subjects, and most of my close friends seemed worried when I told them. But not Glenn. He became visibly excited at the prospect, and his first words were, "Can I throw the Bachelor Party?" So I said, sure.
When the big night arrived, we borrowed my fiancee's Saturn, and swung by the liquor store on our way to the motel where the festivities would be held. Glenn had outdone himself. He'd secured a suite under the name "Nick Nefsik" (Arabic for "F*** yourself") which had a kitchenette, and a balcony overlooking the Chinese restaurant behind the motel.
People started to show up, and we all started to get blasted and watch porn. A typical night, for most of the guys, and a bit boring. Then someone suggested getting a stripper. Everyone ponied up a few bucks, and Don Law (whom everyone called "Dong") went to work with the phone book. She showed up about half an hour later with her bouncer; a beefy, sullen woman that stood in the corner of the room watching us watch her friend.
Then the fun really started.
And then, there was a knock on the door. Apparently, there was an Air Force girl in the room next door with her boyfriend, an Army sergeant. I probably don't need to point out that their relationship was not legal, but I will. They didn't let that stop them, though. They were so upset about all the noise coming from our room, that they came over to do something about it.
First, the guy came to the door and demanded to know who the "ranking NCO" was at the party. Dong explained that there wasn't an NCO in charge of Bachelor Parties, but that the stripper would be leaving before 10:30pm. All we asked was a little patience. The guy seemed to agree, and left.
The Stripper was quite good. She zeroed in on the Bachelor (me, of course) and did a very naughty dance, which I wasn't able to fully appreciate because I had misplaced my glasses, and was totally obliterated. When she was done with that, she made a little pitch about needing extra money to play a game called "Feed the Kitty", after which everyone bolted from the hotel to find the nearest cash machine. This was fortunate for most of them. While we waited for the bank roll patrol to return, the Stripper disappeared into the bathroom (where my roommate turned out to be hiding in the tub), and a few of the guys had gone out on the balcony for a smoke.
Fred Kreigler was by the window staring myopically at the porno on the TV, when there was a knock on the window behind him. There were about a dozen guys in the room, and I was by the wall dividing the bedroom area from the kitchenette when Fred pulled back the curtain to see a grinning death's head with a chin divot and a hair-line that was retreating like a Redskin's defensive line.
"IT'S SERGEANT KNIGHT!!!!!" he shouted... and mayhem ensued.
I don't know who opened the door, because Kreigler swore later that it wasn't him. Maybe TSgt Knight really was the supernatural being we all thought he was. That night he burst through the door, and grabbed as many people by the back of the shirt as he could reach. The stampede flowed by me in my place against the wall, and I stared stupidly into the panicked faces of my companions followed swiftly by the leering, gleeful face of retribution.
When the dust settled, there were about six of us left in the room with TSgt Knight, who looked around the room, smirking and braying threats into our faces. The Incarnation of Death was turning to each of us and trying to find out who had escaped his clutches by diving off the balcony.
"Who booked the room?" he shouted. "I want to know who 'Nick Nefsik' is." We were trying to make it look like we couldn't remember, but we were really just trying to figure out who we would have to turn in. I remember reluctantly giving Glenn's name, but tried to make it sound better by pointing out that he hadn't bought alcohol for anyone but me.
After much soul-thrashing, we managed to come out with only five names of people we were pretty sure he'd already seen. He had to be satisfied with that. Then it occurred to our Ranking NCO that one of our drunken runners might have been injured diving off that balcony, so he sent someone around to see.
Sure enough, the guy returned with Dong draped across his back. Dong looked around the room blearily, whether through pain, inebriation, or both. He looked hard at TSgt Knight for a few seconds, then burst out, "Who invited THIS asshole?"
We all froze, and our blood ran cold as the smile of the Grinch crept across his malignant mug. TSgt Knight leaned back, took a deep breath (as we held ours)... and laughed! "You're alright, then, Airman Law?"
In the end, it turned out pretty well. Nobody got into too much hot water, though a few of the people there had been student leaders, and had their positions of responsibility taken away. The two under age guys (including my roommate) were put back "on phase", which meant they had to keep a curfew and stay in uniform all the time.
Most importantly, my wedding went on as planned. My lovely, new bride was mad that I had worried her so much, but I was forgiven for not actually causing any damage to either our plans or her car. Fortunately, I had been able to convince our apprehender that I should stay at the motel that night, since I was unable to drive it.
Glenn showed up after everyone had been dragged off, and he helped me clean up the room.
"I'm sorry your Bachelor Party got busted," he said.
"I'm sorry I ratted you out," I said.
"That's alright. Everyone knew I'd set it up; someone would have told on me," he forgave me.
"Where were you, anyway?" I asked. "How did you get away?"
"Well, when everyone else was going off the balcony, me and Duke hopped over the dividing wall to the balcony of the room next door. We lit up a couple of smokes, and just watched. TSgt Knight didn't notice us, so we slid down the drain pipe. I've been at another party down at the other end of the motel." Typical Glenn!
And the chick that turned us in? We made sure everyone knew she and her boyfriend had made the call to TSgt Knight... including her husband.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Coyote Falls Again
"Most people leave in the summer, you know," Dad said with a grin.
"But it doesn't feel that hot," I told him. And I meant it, too. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit, but I didn't feel hot. I could feel the pressure of the heat on my arms, but that was all it was - a little pressure.
I know about the dangers of the heat. I grew up in Phoenix, after all. We came prepared with "camel packs" for carrying water, extra sunscreen, light clothing, hats, and plans that called for days full of swimming, hiking, driving, and fun sandwiched between days of visiting and sipping cool drinks in the air conditioning.
"And you really want to move back here?" he asked, incredulously.
The thing is, I do; but we tried it before and failed. I'll have to make sure I do it right this time, and I want to be sure that I have a job lined up - preferably one I like as much as my current job - and that all of the other things important to us are possible. I want to settle in Arizona, but I don't want to settle for Arizona.
It is a big state, and we wanted to see a lot of it. We budgeted for a rental car, and plenty of gasoline; we ran without the air on to conserve a bit, and to revel in the dryness and the scents of creosote and blooming cacti. Of course, it's a bit cooler up at the Grand Canyon, where we spent three days (two to travel, one to soak up the splendor) in the middle of the trip. Trade pine trees for creosote and lop 20 degrees off the thermometer; that definitely helps survive the heat.
Sunset was a priority at the Canyon. My lovely bride has photographic ambitions, and wanted to get some shots of the sun going down on that particular horizon. My job was to keep the children from running along (off) the edge while she focused on her task. I grabbed the two smaller ones physically, and they immediately protested.
"Wait, what do you see out there?" I asked excitedly, pointing west. "What's that?"
"It's the sun. Now let me go!" protested our little blond Hercules.
"But what's it made of?" I asked. The little princess was sulking on my lap, but I knew if I could get the boy to answer me, I'd have his attention.
"Burning hot gas," he said.
"Right, but what does it look like it's made of?"
"Gold?" answered the older boy, settling on my other side.
"It does," I said. "In fact, that's what Coyote thought it was made of. That's why he built those wings. But you guys already know about all that."
"No, we don't!" they cried. "What wings?"
I told them how Coyote, who spent most of his days trotting around in the desert, looking for something to eat or for someone to play a trick on, tried to fly to the Sun to steal the big, gleaming pile of gold when it touched the horizon. He knew he couldn't jump high enough to get to the Sun when it was high overhead, but it occurred to him that he should be able to get to it when it set each evening. At first, I had to explain, it was very frustrating for Coyote to figure out where the Sun would touch down. He would watch it set, mark the place with landmarks, and spend all the next day trying to get to the spot where it had landed, only to have it come down somewhere else each night!
He followed the Sun for weeks and weeks, until he came to the rim of the Canyon, and there - on the very spot where we were sitting! - he gave up. "I'll never figure out where the Sun is going to set if it keeps changing every night," he said, and he sat and watched the condors flying around. The next night, while he tried to figure out how to trick one of the condors into landing next to him for dinner, he noticed that the sun was setting on the lip of the Canyon across from him. And it was setting in the very same spot as the night before!
Now this is where Coyote showed how clever he was; he realized that if he tried to get over to that spot during the day, the Sun would see him, and would just set somewhere else. He would need to wait off to the side and then pounce at the last minute. But how to get across that huge Canyon and surprise the Sun?
That's when he got the idea to copy the condors. He went around the desert there, gathering sticky pitch and yucca leaves all day, and stuck the leaves together to make big wings that he could fit on his arms and back. Then he waited until the sun began to settle down on the rim across from him. He ran out to the edge and leapt high, catching the strong winds that up-drafted from the river at the bottom of the Canyon.
Coyote soared high and fast across the Canyon, startling the condors and confusing a cottontail that happened to look up just then. (The cottontail was so scared that he dove into his warren and started digging down so far that he eventually went blind and became a mole.) Coyote only saw his prize ahead of him, though. He reached out, greedily ready to snatch up as much gold as he could grab... but the closer he got to the sun, the hotter it got.
And, of course, you know what happened. The pitch melted, and his wings fell apart, and Coyote fell just short of his goal. Down, down, down into the river at the bottom of the Canyon he fell with a plop.
"Now, you would think Coyote would give up, but he still tries to get that gold. And sometimes, he thinks of a new way to make wings or some other trick to launch himself across the Canyon, so if you sit still and watch carefully, you might see him leap out there tonight."
They all looked out, just as I'd suggested; even the 11-year-old, who was still recovering from the disappointment of not being invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last year. We all watched as tourists snapped photos of squirrels and each other, and leaned precariously over rails and ledges. We watched the birds swirl far below us, and the tiny twist of river turned into molten copper.
"I see him!" cried the little one, pointing. There was nothing there, but they all started shouting and laughing until the sun was all the way down. And my lovely bride got her few moments of peace to snap her photos.
A couple of days later, we were at the Phoenix Zoo, where we were pleasantly surprised to see most of the animals awake and roaming around their pens despite the already oppressive heat. There were two shy coyotes skulking around in their area, but the littlest one had trouble spotting them until one came right up to the front and stopped to watch the human exhibit for a bit. When she saw him, she got very excited, and leaned forward to stage whisper at him:
"Next time, go for the MOON! It's silver, and won't melt you!"
She's a wise one, that littlest little.
"But it doesn't feel that hot," I told him. And I meant it, too. It was 115 degrees Fahrenheit, but I didn't feel hot. I could feel the pressure of the heat on my arms, but that was all it was - a little pressure.
I know about the dangers of the heat. I grew up in Phoenix, after all. We came prepared with "camel packs" for carrying water, extra sunscreen, light clothing, hats, and plans that called for days full of swimming, hiking, driving, and fun sandwiched between days of visiting and sipping cool drinks in the air conditioning.
"And you really want to move back here?" he asked, incredulously.
The thing is, I do; but we tried it before and failed. I'll have to make sure I do it right this time, and I want to be sure that I have a job lined up - preferably one I like as much as my current job - and that all of the other things important to us are possible. I want to settle in Arizona, but I don't want to settle for Arizona.
It is a big state, and we wanted to see a lot of it. We budgeted for a rental car, and plenty of gasoline; we ran without the air on to conserve a bit, and to revel in the dryness and the scents of creosote and blooming cacti. Of course, it's a bit cooler up at the Grand Canyon, where we spent three days (two to travel, one to soak up the splendor) in the middle of the trip. Trade pine trees for creosote and lop 20 degrees off the thermometer; that definitely helps survive the heat.
Sunset was a priority at the Canyon. My lovely bride has photographic ambitions, and wanted to get some shots of the sun going down on that particular horizon. My job was to keep the children from running along (off) the edge while she focused on her task. I grabbed the two smaller ones physically, and they immediately protested.
"Wait, what do you see out there?" I asked excitedly, pointing west. "What's that?"
"It's the sun. Now let me go!" protested our little blond Hercules.
"But what's it made of?" I asked. The little princess was sulking on my lap, but I knew if I could get the boy to answer me, I'd have his attention.
"Burning hot gas," he said.
"Right, but what does it look like it's made of?"
"Gold?" answered the older boy, settling on my other side.
"It does," I said. "In fact, that's what Coyote thought it was made of. That's why he built those wings. But you guys already know about all that."
"No, we don't!" they cried. "What wings?"
I told them how Coyote, who spent most of his days trotting around in the desert, looking for something to eat or for someone to play a trick on, tried to fly to the Sun to steal the big, gleaming pile of gold when it touched the horizon. He knew he couldn't jump high enough to get to the Sun when it was high overhead, but it occurred to him that he should be able to get to it when it set each evening. At first, I had to explain, it was very frustrating for Coyote to figure out where the Sun would touch down. He would watch it set, mark the place with landmarks, and spend all the next day trying to get to the spot where it had landed, only to have it come down somewhere else each night!
He followed the Sun for weeks and weeks, until he came to the rim of the Canyon, and there - on the very spot where we were sitting! - he gave up. "I'll never figure out where the Sun is going to set if it keeps changing every night," he said, and he sat and watched the condors flying around. The next night, while he tried to figure out how to trick one of the condors into landing next to him for dinner, he noticed that the sun was setting on the lip of the Canyon across from him. And it was setting in the very same spot as the night before!
Now this is where Coyote showed how clever he was; he realized that if he tried to get over to that spot during the day, the Sun would see him, and would just set somewhere else. He would need to wait off to the side and then pounce at the last minute. But how to get across that huge Canyon and surprise the Sun?
That's when he got the idea to copy the condors. He went around the desert there, gathering sticky pitch and yucca leaves all day, and stuck the leaves together to make big wings that he could fit on his arms and back. Then he waited until the sun began to settle down on the rim across from him. He ran out to the edge and leapt high, catching the strong winds that up-drafted from the river at the bottom of the Canyon.
Coyote soared high and fast across the Canyon, startling the condors and confusing a cottontail that happened to look up just then. (The cottontail was so scared that he dove into his warren and started digging down so far that he eventually went blind and became a mole.) Coyote only saw his prize ahead of him, though. He reached out, greedily ready to snatch up as much gold as he could grab... but the closer he got to the sun, the hotter it got.
And, of course, you know what happened. The pitch melted, and his wings fell apart, and Coyote fell just short of his goal. Down, down, down into the river at the bottom of the Canyon he fell with a plop.
"Now, you would think Coyote would give up, but he still tries to get that gold. And sometimes, he thinks of a new way to make wings or some other trick to launch himself across the Canyon, so if you sit still and watch carefully, you might see him leap out there tonight."
They all looked out, just as I'd suggested; even the 11-year-old, who was still recovering from the disappointment of not being invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last year. We all watched as tourists snapped photos of squirrels and each other, and leaned precariously over rails and ledges. We watched the birds swirl far below us, and the tiny twist of river turned into molten copper.
"I see him!" cried the little one, pointing. There was nothing there, but they all started shouting and laughing until the sun was all the way down. And my lovely bride got her few moments of peace to snap her photos.
A couple of days later, we were at the Phoenix Zoo, where we were pleasantly surprised to see most of the animals awake and roaming around their pens despite the already oppressive heat. There were two shy coyotes skulking around in their area, but the littlest one had trouble spotting them until one came right up to the front and stopped to watch the human exhibit for a bit. When she saw him, she got very excited, and leaned forward to stage whisper at him:
"Next time, go for the MOON! It's silver, and won't melt you!"
She's a wise one, that littlest little.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Lb4Lb#4: Where There's Smoke There's Fire and Trouble
Just got back from 2 weeks in Arizona, and I state for the record: I'll take 99.9 F° in Phoenix over 85 in Baltimore ANY time. When they say "it's a dry heat", they ain't kiddin'.
But now we're back, and the settling in process can begin: buying groceries, finishing chores that were left hanging (like blogging and posting music journals), and trying to absorb our fortnight of adventure. This includes, of course, scrobbling the 294 tracks played as we drove all over the Grand Canyon state, and ripping the CDs purchased and - so far - unscrobbled.
Great trip, full of music and family and food, and lots of driving. The lovely bride allowed me to pick up the new Weezer (Pork And Beans seemed to be the theme song of the trip), and the recent Lyle Lovett (It's Not Big It's Large), which impressed both my father and my 5-year-old daughter with both Up In Indiana and Up In Indiana (Acoustic Version).
To visit the Grand Canyon, we borrowed my aunt's cabin, which wasn't far from the famed Route 66, a road so famous it has a song ...which is also so famous that I can't link to all of the versions that I know and love in one journal. (I highly recommend comparing the Depeche Mode and John Mayer covers for a real kick in the head.)
But it was a small bit of serendipity that brought my favorite version up on the iPod as we drove along that stretch of road in Flagstaff, Arizona (don't forget Winona): Buckwheat Zydeco's cover on his album Where There's Smoke There's Fire.
Talk about an album made for the "lb4lb" tag; from the smokin' lead off question What You Gonna Do, to the gentle reminder that It's Getting Late, Buck doesn't let up. There's a healthy dose of rollicking blues, pure bayou madness (Pour Tout Quelque'un); Dwight Yoakum shows up to duet on Hey Good Lookin', and David Hidalgo of Los Lobos fame produces the whole shebang. It's simply 11 tracks of pure love & joy being squeezed out of a flaming accordion, and it is Good.
But it's short.
In fact, I'd feel like I was cheating you if I only gave you a taste of this stuff, so I'll mention Buck's more recent release, Trouble, which I'd dare say sounds even better (though none of the tracks are yet available yet on Last.fm).
Man... vacation rocks.
Great trip, full of music and family and food, and lots of driving. The lovely bride allowed me to pick up the new Weezer (Pork And Beans seemed to be the theme song of the trip), and the recent Lyle Lovett (It's Not Big It's Large), which impressed both my father and my 5-year-old daughter with both Up In Indiana and Up In Indiana (Acoustic Version).
To visit the Grand Canyon, we borrowed my aunt's cabin, which wasn't far from the famed Route 66, a road so famous it has a song ...which is also so famous that I can't link to all of the versions that I know and love in one journal. (I highly recommend comparing the Depeche Mode and John Mayer covers for a real kick in the head.)
But it was a small bit of serendipity that brought my favorite version up on the iPod as we drove along that stretch of road in Flagstaff, Arizona (don't forget Winona): Buckwheat Zydeco's cover on his album Where There's Smoke There's Fire.
Talk about an album made for the "lb4lb" tag; from the smokin' lead off question What You Gonna Do, to the gentle reminder that It's Getting Late, Buck doesn't let up. There's a healthy dose of rollicking blues, pure bayou madness (Pour Tout Quelque'un); Dwight Yoakum shows up to duet on Hey Good Lookin', and David Hidalgo of Los Lobos fame produces the whole shebang. It's simply 11 tracks of pure love & joy being squeezed out of a flaming accordion, and it is Good.
But it's short.
In fact, I'd feel like I was cheating you if I only gave you a taste of this stuff, so I'll mention Buck's more recent release, Trouble, which I'd dare say sounds even better (though none of the tracks are yet available yet on Last.fm).
Man... vacation rocks.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Virgin Oil, or, The Fats Out of the Bag
I haven't always been the calm, self-assured celebrity you see before you. In fact, I'm not now. But that's beside the point: I'm here to tell you how it all began. My "big break"; my "discovery"...
We lived out in the sticks when I was a child. I blame my lack of childhood friends on this. My school was the nearest one to us, and it was a good 15 miles - and that was on a cool day. Heat expansion often stretched the journey out to 16 miles. And while my parents were not poor, I certainly was. When I got to that certain, magical age, I wanted to drive to school. Funnily enough, my parents didn't want to drive me, either. But, insurance for a 16-year-old boy is astronomically high. (How astronomically high? Click here.) So my father determined that I should pay my own insurance. And, in order to pay for insurance, I needed a job.
Since I had a pretty full after-school schedule, between band, choir, theater productions, and - uh... something really tough and manly I used to do that would scare you too much to mention here - it was difficult to find the right job.
Then one day, I noticed that one of my fellow band-geeks was working behind the lines in the cafeteria. I asked about the job, liked the terms, and filled out an application. It didn't pay much, but it was enough to make my dad happy. And I got a free lunch every day that I worked. Sweet!
It didn't start out very glamorously. I was a dismal failure at kitchen duty. At home, mom would ask me to help, and after a few clatters, a couple of knife drops, and a little broken glass, she would invariably tell me the same thing: "Go tell your father he wants you." But a school cafeteria's cookware is very durable, and can survive quite a bit of abuse from a high schooler. So with a bit of persistence, patience, and a smidgen of yelling, I got the hang of things.
After a short while, I even found my niche, my place in the universe, my Special Purpose: They made me the fry guy.
It started with a simple task: put the french fries into the paper bowls, and hand them out. Somehow, this tiny bit of social interaction brought out the showman in me. I discovered, welling from deep within my bosom, this amazing gift of repartee! I found 1,000 ways to say "would you like fries with that" and provoke a giggle. My portions became famous ("Dude, he really piled them on!") and my delivery became as polished as the reachable sections of the Blarney Stone.
My God, it was a wonderful time that I looked forward to each day. Girls smiled at me! Guys did that super-cool head-nod thing (and refrained from threatening me with bodily harm). By and large, my classmates - most of whom wouldn't have dignified me with their loathing if I had asked for it, before - actually liked to be served by me. I became a minor high school celebrity. The Fry Guy.
This position of respect led to a few new skills, as well. The boss-lady let me operate the fryer, and I learned the importance of keeping clean, fresh oil heated to just the right temperature. I learned the exact right amount of time to leave the fries down, and how long they would need to drain before serving them up.
Not only did I have insurance money, respect, and a future in the food services, I had fun. I learned how valuable my "enjoy everything" attitude was by volunteering for the seemingly mundane tasks of washing up, and was rewarded by getting asked to do really prestigious jobs, like washing out the 50 gallon cook-pot on chili or beef stew days. (You haven't lived until you've sung "I Am the Pirate King" from inside a suds-filled cauldron. It is, it is a glorious thing!) Truly, I had "arrived".
One fine day, riding on a cresting wave of popularity, and feeling on top of the world as I handed out perfectly crisped and golden potato strings to my fans and admirers, a cloud crossed over the sun. A sulky blond-haired girl came through the line, and glumly took a basket of my now-famous fries... and didn't smile. I made some witty remark - I'm sure it was VERY suave and tasteful - and instead of warming to my charm, she stared into my face with widening eyes, dropped her tray and stormed out of the cafeteria line at a near run.
I shrugged it off; every comedian has to learn to deal with hecklers. No biggie, right? It wasn't, until she came back with three large friends. The largest (but not the tallest) of them leaned over the sneeze guard, seriously encroaching on my personal space.
"Is your name 'Tom'?" she demanded.
"No," I squeaked, manfully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, taken aback. She looked confused, like when a dog licks ice for the first time. Then she turned positively fierce, and snarled, "A guy named Tom got my friend, here, pregnant!" She put her fists on her hips and seemed to be challenging me to answer for my crimes. The other two moved up to flank her, and the blond cowered behind all three of them, peeking out at me furtively.
I was at a loss for words. And, truly, it was as much a sense of shock that I couldn't speak that was keeping me from speaking as anything else. I visualized my mouth as a logjam in the North country, with lots of bearded, en-flanneled miniature Tad-loggers stumbling and slipping on the conflicting idea-logs of fear, outrage, and ill-advised amusement that were trying to flume out of my throat.
One thing I knew: a joke at this point could be fatal.
The situation called for dignity and respect, and so I drew myself to my full 5' 2" height, and looking the bully straight in the eye. "Do you know what I would have to have done with your friend for her to be pregnant?" I asked her. She nodded, again looking surprised that things had not come to blows yet. "Well, I know what I would have to have done, and I have never done that. With anyone. And if I had, I most certainly would have done my best to remember it."
They looked at each other, and at the blond girl, who reappraised me with a bit more confidence, now. What had she to fear of a virgin? She shrugged, and left, her friends straggling out behind her. The big one turned around one more time, though, and stuck out a finger.
"I better not find out you're really Tom," she said. She never really looked away; she just slipped out backwards, and the last I ever saw of any of them was her menacing index finger, waggling in the doorway.
And that, my friends, is why to this very day, I am still not Tom.
We lived out in the sticks when I was a child. I blame my lack of childhood friends on this. My school was the nearest one to us, and it was a good 15 miles - and that was on a cool day. Heat expansion often stretched the journey out to 16 miles. And while my parents were not poor, I certainly was. When I got to that certain, magical age, I wanted to drive to school. Funnily enough, my parents didn't want to drive me, either. But, insurance for a 16-year-old boy is astronomically high. (How astronomically high? Click here.) So my father determined that I should pay my own insurance. And, in order to pay for insurance, I needed a job.
Since I had a pretty full after-school schedule, between band, choir, theater productions, and - uh... something really tough and manly I used to do that would scare you too much to mention here - it was difficult to find the right job.
Then one day, I noticed that one of my fellow band-geeks was working behind the lines in the cafeteria. I asked about the job, liked the terms, and filled out an application. It didn't pay much, but it was enough to make my dad happy. And I got a free lunch every day that I worked. Sweet!
It didn't start out very glamorously. I was a dismal failure at kitchen duty. At home, mom would ask me to help, and after a few clatters, a couple of knife drops, and a little broken glass, she would invariably tell me the same thing: "Go tell your father he wants you." But a school cafeteria's cookware is very durable, and can survive quite a bit of abuse from a high schooler. So with a bit of persistence, patience, and a smidgen of yelling, I got the hang of things.
After a short while, I even found my niche, my place in the universe, my Special Purpose: They made me the fry guy.
It started with a simple task: put the french fries into the paper bowls, and hand them out. Somehow, this tiny bit of social interaction brought out the showman in me. I discovered, welling from deep within my bosom, this amazing gift of repartee! I found 1,000 ways to say "would you like fries with that" and provoke a giggle. My portions became famous ("Dude, he really piled them on!") and my delivery became as polished as the reachable sections of the Blarney Stone.
My God, it was a wonderful time that I looked forward to each day. Girls smiled at me! Guys did that super-cool head-nod thing (and refrained from threatening me with bodily harm). By and large, my classmates - most of whom wouldn't have dignified me with their loathing if I had asked for it, before - actually liked to be served by me. I became a minor high school celebrity. The Fry Guy.
This position of respect led to a few new skills, as well. The boss-lady let me operate the fryer, and I learned the importance of keeping clean, fresh oil heated to just the right temperature. I learned the exact right amount of time to leave the fries down, and how long they would need to drain before serving them up.
Not only did I have insurance money, respect, and a future in the food services, I had fun. I learned how valuable my "enjoy everything" attitude was by volunteering for the seemingly mundane tasks of washing up, and was rewarded by getting asked to do really prestigious jobs, like washing out the 50 gallon cook-pot on chili or beef stew days. (You haven't lived until you've sung "I Am the Pirate King" from inside a suds-filled cauldron. It is, it is a glorious thing!) Truly, I had "arrived".
One fine day, riding on a cresting wave of popularity, and feeling on top of the world as I handed out perfectly crisped and golden potato strings to my fans and admirers, a cloud crossed over the sun. A sulky blond-haired girl came through the line, and glumly took a basket of my now-famous fries... and didn't smile. I made some witty remark - I'm sure it was VERY suave and tasteful - and instead of warming to my charm, she stared into my face with widening eyes, dropped her tray and stormed out of the cafeteria line at a near run.
I shrugged it off; every comedian has to learn to deal with hecklers. No biggie, right? It wasn't, until she came back with three large friends. The largest (but not the tallest) of them leaned over the sneeze guard, seriously encroaching on my personal space.
"Is your name 'Tom'?" she demanded.
"No," I squeaked, manfully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, taken aback. She looked confused, like when a dog licks ice for the first time. Then she turned positively fierce, and snarled, "A guy named Tom got my friend, here, pregnant!" She put her fists on her hips and seemed to be challenging me to answer for my crimes. The other two moved up to flank her, and the blond cowered behind all three of them, peeking out at me furtively.
I was at a loss for words. And, truly, it was as much a sense of shock that I couldn't speak that was keeping me from speaking as anything else. I visualized my mouth as a logjam in the North country, with lots of bearded, en-flanneled miniature Tad-loggers stumbling and slipping on the conflicting idea-logs of fear, outrage, and ill-advised amusement that were trying to flume out of my throat.
One thing I knew: a joke at this point could be fatal.
The situation called for dignity and respect, and so I drew myself to my full 5' 2" height, and looking the bully straight in the eye. "Do you know what I would have to have done with your friend for her to be pregnant?" I asked her. She nodded, again looking surprised that things had not come to blows yet. "Well, I know what I would have to have done, and I have never done that. With anyone. And if I had, I most certainly would have done my best to remember it."
They looked at each other, and at the blond girl, who reappraised me with a bit more confidence, now. What had she to fear of a virgin? She shrugged, and left, her friends straggling out behind her. The big one turned around one more time, though, and stuck out a finger.
"I better not find out you're really Tom," she said. She never really looked away; she just slipped out backwards, and the last I ever saw of any of them was her menacing index finger, waggling in the doorway.
And that, my friends, is why to this very day, I am still not Tom.
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