Back from the dead! After a brief hiatus following an extended hospital visit due to a penis-enlargement pump snafu, I'm now vertical and going to get back to doing what I enjoy doing the most: offending the judgemental. Prepare your sensibilities...
XOXO,
Jay
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Acid Rain: Part III
"The clouds are getting difficult to focus on" Anthony offered. "We're gonna head back to Bird's before we peak."
I shook my head and laughed in spite of myself.
"We smoked a ton of weed afterward we dropped, so it shouldn't be long" he continued, shooting a cautionary look at the sky.
"I'll grab some beer and come over right after I close the store" I replied as I returned to my post and watched them take leave. I sat in place and stared out the window, not noticing my eyes had fallen out of focus. I was lost in thought for what seemed like only minutes when I glance at the clock. 6:02 pm...Showtime.
I arrived at Bird's no more than 15 minutes after closing the store to an oddly humorous scene. Anthony sat straight up in a reclinder, absent-mindedly smoking a cigarette; oblivious to the cacaphony enveloping the already thick air. Bird, struck by a notion that the duplex was untidy, was circling the furniture with the vacuum. Little did I know he was approaching hour three pushing said appliance.
"Have you guys been here this whole time?" I asked, as a smile broke on my face at the odd hilarity of the situation.
Anthony now aware of additional company, nervously darted his eyes around the small living room, stopping occasionally at my face and the motorized dust collector.
"Umm, yeah" he answered, obviously disoriented by the humming.
I crossed the room, offering a refreshment to both as I fell into an open recliner with a relieved sigh and snapped open the top of a beer. I smiled again watching the two of them as I took a long pull from the malt beverage and lit a Marlboro. Even though I had missed the best parts, this would be my entertainment for the evening. I couldn't take my eyes away.
It wasn't until the following day, now Monday, that I would hear the entire story. I met Anthony at Subway, Bird acting as our sandwich artist, to hear the missing pieces.
Shortly after they returned from our beer store visit to the 2nd floor duplex, things began to take off.
"It was the weirdest thing I could imagine" Anthony began. "We sat there in silence, and Bird, out of nowhere, jumped up and started cleaning...he never stopped until you got there. It freaked the shit out of me."
Bird, hearing Anthony's recollection, came to our table and chimed in. "Dude, my spine was starting to twitch! I couldn't sit still! Anthony came into the kitchen to get a pop while I was cleaning but I don't remember saying a word to him. He opened the freezer and stood there staring into it like it was fuckin' game 7 of the Stanley Cup!"
He had my attention.
"I came back in the kitchen and he had moved from the freezer to the counter. I watched him watch the bubbles in his pop rise for 20 minutes." He continued.
"Hahaha, you guys are fuckin' retarded!" I said as I exhaled a lungful of Virginian tobacco smoke.
"Then it got weird" Anthony's face changed as he spoke. He was serious now. "I went from feeling happier than I've ever been to the deepest depression imagineable." My mood changed instantaneously as I found nothing humorous about that level of anxiety.
"So what did you do?" I was honestly intrigued by the intricacies of the drug-addled mind.
"Well" he let out an exasperated breath "I did the only thing I could think of at that moment...I went to the bathroom, without staring into the mirror, and rubbed one out!"
Ahh, yes...masturbation: a cure-all stress reliever, prostate exerciser and hallucinogenic drug stabilizer.
I shook my head and laughed in spite of myself.
"We smoked a ton of weed afterward we dropped, so it shouldn't be long" he continued, shooting a cautionary look at the sky.
"I'll grab some beer and come over right after I close the store" I replied as I returned to my post and watched them take leave. I sat in place and stared out the window, not noticing my eyes had fallen out of focus. I was lost in thought for what seemed like only minutes when I glance at the clock. 6:02 pm...Showtime.
I arrived at Bird's no more than 15 minutes after closing the store to an oddly humorous scene. Anthony sat straight up in a reclinder, absent-mindedly smoking a cigarette; oblivious to the cacaphony enveloping the already thick air. Bird, struck by a notion that the duplex was untidy, was circling the furniture with the vacuum. Little did I know he was approaching hour three pushing said appliance.
"Have you guys been here this whole time?" I asked, as a smile broke on my face at the odd hilarity of the situation.
Anthony now aware of additional company, nervously darted his eyes around the small living room, stopping occasionally at my face and the motorized dust collector.
"Umm, yeah" he answered, obviously disoriented by the humming.
I crossed the room, offering a refreshment to both as I fell into an open recliner with a relieved sigh and snapped open the top of a beer. I smiled again watching the two of them as I took a long pull from the malt beverage and lit a Marlboro. Even though I had missed the best parts, this would be my entertainment for the evening. I couldn't take my eyes away.
It wasn't until the following day, now Monday, that I would hear the entire story. I met Anthony at Subway, Bird acting as our sandwich artist, to hear the missing pieces.
Shortly after they returned from our beer store visit to the 2nd floor duplex, things began to take off.
"It was the weirdest thing I could imagine" Anthony began. "We sat there in silence, and Bird, out of nowhere, jumped up and started cleaning...he never stopped until you got there. It freaked the shit out of me."
Bird, hearing Anthony's recollection, came to our table and chimed in. "Dude, my spine was starting to twitch! I couldn't sit still! Anthony came into the kitchen to get a pop while I was cleaning but I don't remember saying a word to him. He opened the freezer and stood there staring into it like it was fuckin' game 7 of the Stanley Cup!"
He had my attention.
"I came back in the kitchen and he had moved from the freezer to the counter. I watched him watch the bubbles in his pop rise for 20 minutes." He continued.
"Hahaha, you guys are fuckin' retarded!" I said as I exhaled a lungful of Virginian tobacco smoke.
"Then it got weird" Anthony's face changed as he spoke. He was serious now. "I went from feeling happier than I've ever been to the deepest depression imagineable." My mood changed instantaneously as I found nothing humorous about that level of anxiety.
"So what did you do?" I was honestly intrigued by the intricacies of the drug-addled mind.
"Well" he let out an exasperated breath "I did the only thing I could think of at that moment...I went to the bathroom, without staring into the mirror, and rubbed one out!"
Ahh, yes...masturbation: a cure-all stress reliever, prostate exerciser and hallucinogenic drug stabilizer.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Blowguns and Golf Clubs: Part I
"Pain" isn't an accurate or fair description of the feeling of getting hit in the testicles. So many sensations are being downloaded into your nervous system that it's seemingly impossible to sort them all out. Words become difficult to annunciate and one can usually only allow merely a primal, gutteral exclamation from below the diaphragm.
"UGH!!! AUGH!!!"
It took only a fraction of a second for Donny to execute the attack in two fluid motions. A searing pain tore through my testicles and lower abdomen. The bamboo shaft of the old golf club came straight up between my legs, dividing my balls, followed quickly by the head of the wooden driver being pulled back, smashing the front of my coin purse and pathetic kid-weiner.
Nausea.
"Donny, you fucker!!!" I shrieked.
I shouldn't have said that. Granted, I'd heard my father use that word frequently as both a noun and adjective, but I knew my mom was in the very room above us and the subfloor of these cheap townhouses held no sound attenuation.
I chased after him, one hand cradling my now swollen bits, wielding the tennis racket above my head. He managed to elude me in that cramped basement due to my handicap, but I wouldn't forgive him until the day I was sure I could procreate.
That is my first memory of Donny.
We grew up a block apart in the same townhouse complex, yet we were from two different worlds. To say Donny had a difficult upbringing would be an insult to the obvious. Diane, his overbearing, horribly ignorant mother, spoke with a Tenessee drawl and prison vocabulary. Fair skinned like her children, her weathered face was accented by her clownishly large eyeglass frames. She aimed to please her husband, mostly to avoid a swollen lip, but kept the quarters squared away nonetheless. She would wake her sons up at 5 am, "screaming" being her favorite alarm, everyday of the week and insist they did household chores before school, a leather belt being her insurance they would completed to satisfaction.
Sancho, his violent, alcoholic step father, was 100% backwoods hillbilly. Picture Dwight Yoakum's character "Doyle Hargraves" in "Slingblade" for a spot on reference...right down to the ponytail and low-angry voice. I could never figure out, even when I was young, why Diane would marry a man like that. She often had to gather the boys and deceive or elude Sancho in the middle of the night; stealing off to the safe haven of the local motel or our apartment. Sancho loved his whiskey and had a propensity to load his Smith & Wesson .357 revolver and threaten to kill Diane and the kids when he had a head full.
A small fistful of miscreant siblings with a myriad of their own issues rounded out the family tree; each crammed into their own menial allotment of apartment living. Donny's older brother, Orson, was beaten almost daily for shitting his pants; a condition his stepfather was convinced was due to his insolence and disrespect for his ill-received paternal figure.. It wasn't until he hit his teens that they discovered Orson was epileptic and experienced frequent micro-seizures that accounted for his incontinence. Ray-Ray, the 3rd son from Diane's first marriage, had a minor speech impediment from putting his incisors through his tongue and lip, courtesy of a jungle gym mishap. Little Chris, or "Crispy" as we referred to him for his overly-sunburned ears, was no more than 3 yet allowed to freely roam the complex. Diane would occasionally notice Crispy's absence from their unit at various times of the day, drive around the block to find him sound asleep, his fair skin and blonde hair no match for the summer sun, on the front seat of his motorized mini-jeep.
Donny's bucolic life was marked by tragedy and hardship, a theme that would continue until the day he died.
(...to be continued)
"UGH!!! AUGH!!!"
It took only a fraction of a second for Donny to execute the attack in two fluid motions. A searing pain tore through my testicles and lower abdomen. The bamboo shaft of the old golf club came straight up between my legs, dividing my balls, followed quickly by the head of the wooden driver being pulled back, smashing the front of my coin purse and pathetic kid-weiner.
Nausea.
"Donny, you fucker!!!" I shrieked.
I shouldn't have said that. Granted, I'd heard my father use that word frequently as both a noun and adjective, but I knew my mom was in the very room above us and the subfloor of these cheap townhouses held no sound attenuation.
I chased after him, one hand cradling my now swollen bits, wielding the tennis racket above my head. He managed to elude me in that cramped basement due to my handicap, but I wouldn't forgive him until the day I was sure I could procreate.
That is my first memory of Donny.
We grew up a block apart in the same townhouse complex, yet we were from two different worlds. To say Donny had a difficult upbringing would be an insult to the obvious. Diane, his overbearing, horribly ignorant mother, spoke with a Tenessee drawl and prison vocabulary. Fair skinned like her children, her weathered face was accented by her clownishly large eyeglass frames. She aimed to please her husband, mostly to avoid a swollen lip, but kept the quarters squared away nonetheless. She would wake her sons up at 5 am, "screaming" being her favorite alarm, everyday of the week and insist they did household chores before school, a leather belt being her insurance they would completed to satisfaction.
Sancho, his violent, alcoholic step father, was 100% backwoods hillbilly. Picture Dwight Yoakum's character "Doyle Hargraves" in "Slingblade" for a spot on reference...right down to the ponytail and low-angry voice. I could never figure out, even when I was young, why Diane would marry a man like that. She often had to gather the boys and deceive or elude Sancho in the middle of the night; stealing off to the safe haven of the local motel or our apartment. Sancho loved his whiskey and had a propensity to load his Smith & Wesson .357 revolver and threaten to kill Diane and the kids when he had a head full.
A small fistful of miscreant siblings with a myriad of their own issues rounded out the family tree; each crammed into their own menial allotment of apartment living. Donny's older brother, Orson, was beaten almost daily for shitting his pants; a condition his stepfather was convinced was due to his insolence and disrespect for his ill-received paternal figure.. It wasn't until he hit his teens that they discovered Orson was epileptic and experienced frequent micro-seizures that accounted for his incontinence. Ray-Ray, the 3rd son from Diane's first marriage, had a minor speech impediment from putting his incisors through his tongue and lip, courtesy of a jungle gym mishap. Little Chris, or "Crispy" as we referred to him for his overly-sunburned ears, was no more than 3 yet allowed to freely roam the complex. Diane would occasionally notice Crispy's absence from their unit at various times of the day, drive around the block to find him sound asleep, his fair skin and blonde hair no match for the summer sun, on the front seat of his motorized mini-jeep.
Donny's bucolic life was marked by tragedy and hardship, a theme that would continue until the day he died.
(...to be continued)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Necessity is the Mother of Intervention: Part III
We often pretend to be something we're not. Inner reflection reveals the truth, providing we're prepared to accept it. I grew up a skinny kid with a big mouth. This led to frequent fights and altercations with neighbor kids that couldn't think of a witty comeback and had to use their size to attempt to intimidate me. I wanted to think of myself as a "tough guy", but I was often insecure, having no bulk or muscle to back my acid tongue. I found strength in music, using the channeled adrenaline to shore up my lack of confidence.
My transition into adulthood was much different. Surrounded daily by members of my parent's generation, I aged quickly. I spent my laborious workdays, which often streched into the late evening and weekend, testing limits between humor and insult, trading good-natured barbs with my weathered compatriots. In short time I carried my balls with two hands and led with my acerbic mouth.
"Let's hit Ernie's for a cold one, Kid!" Randy was in a mood to drink and at 19 years old I was not one to complain.
These moments made the long hours brainlessly moving thousands of pounds of block and mortar worth it. Budweiser is similar to llama musk in taste, but after eight hours of swallowing dust, it's the closest thing to utopia I've found. The first two went down quickly.
"Man, that guy won't stop staring at me...do I have something on my face?" I asked irritated, spinning my 12 oz longneck over the condensated napkin. I had developed somewhat of a short fuse and was growing tired of the overweight, balding creep at the other end of the bar dressing me down with his pedo-glasses. I had noticed him watching me for the better part of a half hour; which is approximately 5 minutes in sexual deviant time.
Randy, turned to glance behind him and returned his head to position, his features stoic.
"That's the neighborhood pervert" he delivered as if foreshadowing a future altercation with Chris Hansen's future acquaintance. "He's been out of the big house for awhile, but this whole town knows about him. Hell, he can't be within 1000 feet of an elementary school!" I think If I paced it off, we were about 1002 feet from the nearest daycare. A master of his own state-imposed limits.
"Well he's creeping me out." I shot back. I was getting visibly more agitated, but my focus was quickly diverted by a the fresh beer delivered by the waitress.
"Wait, did I already check your ID" she asked, eyeing me with an incompetent unsurety.
"Yeah, you checked it when we got in, remember?" Randy answered before I could speak and place another $20 on her tray. She retreated without another word.
The first thing I learned working construction wasn't reading blueprints or how trades interact...it was how to get served as an underaged kid. We'd go into the bar, Randy or Jack or Howard would order a round of beers, one extra for me, while I hung back or hit the head, and when I returned, the server would lose track and keep serving me. I figure we had about a 95% success rate with our little ruse. Everyonce in awhile you'd get the self-important "this is my world and you're just living in it" infant-dicked bartender that would throw a fit and kick me out. Keep in mind, this was typically the same guy you hear stories about getting hospitalized for injecting coke into his dong.
Feeling the urge to give back what I had taken in means of liquid ounces, I ambled to the men's room. Upon entering, it had completely escaped my attention that Chester the Molester was following close behind. No more than a half step inside the lavatory, I spun on my heels and exited. I had no interest in letting my lower colon become his Elysium.
(...to be continued)
My transition into adulthood was much different. Surrounded daily by members of my parent's generation, I aged quickly. I spent my laborious workdays, which often streched into the late evening and weekend, testing limits between humor and insult, trading good-natured barbs with my weathered compatriots. In short time I carried my balls with two hands and led with my acerbic mouth.
"Let's hit Ernie's for a cold one, Kid!" Randy was in a mood to drink and at 19 years old I was not one to complain.
These moments made the long hours brainlessly moving thousands of pounds of block and mortar worth it. Budweiser is similar to llama musk in taste, but after eight hours of swallowing dust, it's the closest thing to utopia I've found. The first two went down quickly.
"Man, that guy won't stop staring at me...do I have something on my face?" I asked irritated, spinning my 12 oz longneck over the condensated napkin. I had developed somewhat of a short fuse and was growing tired of the overweight, balding creep at the other end of the bar dressing me down with his pedo-glasses. I had noticed him watching me for the better part of a half hour; which is approximately 5 minutes in sexual deviant time.
Randy, turned to glance behind him and returned his head to position, his features stoic.
"That's the neighborhood pervert" he delivered as if foreshadowing a future altercation with Chris Hansen's future acquaintance. "He's been out of the big house for awhile, but this whole town knows about him. Hell, he can't be within 1000 feet of an elementary school!" I think If I paced it off, we were about 1002 feet from the nearest daycare. A master of his own state-imposed limits.
"Well he's creeping me out." I shot back. I was getting visibly more agitated, but my focus was quickly diverted by a the fresh beer delivered by the waitress.
"Wait, did I already check your ID" she asked, eyeing me with an incompetent unsurety.
"Yeah, you checked it when we got in, remember?" Randy answered before I could speak and place another $20 on her tray. She retreated without another word.
The first thing I learned working construction wasn't reading blueprints or how trades interact...it was how to get served as an underaged kid. We'd go into the bar, Randy or Jack or Howard would order a round of beers, one extra for me, while I hung back or hit the head, and when I returned, the server would lose track and keep serving me. I figure we had about a 95% success rate with our little ruse. Everyonce in awhile you'd get the self-important "this is my world and you're just living in it" infant-dicked bartender that would throw a fit and kick me out. Keep in mind, this was typically the same guy you hear stories about getting hospitalized for injecting coke into his dong.
Feeling the urge to give back what I had taken in means of liquid ounces, I ambled to the men's room. Upon entering, it had completely escaped my attention that Chester the Molester was following close behind. No more than a half step inside the lavatory, I spun on my heels and exited. I had no interest in letting my lower colon become his Elysium.
(...to be continued)
Friday, January 8, 2010
Acid Rain: Part II
I awoke Sunday morning with a heavy head, still dizzy from the inumerable pints of "Red 8 Ale", a microbrewed favorite, courtesy of the Mackinaw Brewing Pub. Taking a deep breath, I choked on the short wind, a detrimental effect of an expensive habit I was a slave to, but enjoyed thoroughly, and got myself ready to attack the day.
I squinted my eyes to the vibrant late summer morning sun as I climbed into the cramped cab of my "gently used" Toyota truck. Scanning through the tracks of the CD in my dash, I finally settled on a suitable, non-descript song and headed towards my place of temporary employment.
I arrived at the beer store, flicked on the "open" sign and took my post on the wooden bar stool behind the counter and settled in for a long day.
"We'll come see you at the store about 2" Anthony said over the phone with an air of excitement.
"You sure you're ready for this shit, Dude?" I asked him with a tone of uncertainty. You couldn't sell me on the the path he was about to take.
"Haha, yep. Bird and I are going to drop it in about a half hour....should be starting to feel it a little when we come see you."
"Good luck" I said through a chuckle and hung up.
After what seemed like mere minutes, I removed my glazed eyes from the small tv and raised my aching head off the heel of my hand to see two familiar faces came through the fully beer-advertisement-adorned glass door.
"Well?" I asked with skepticism.
"We ate 2 hits each off a Jolly Rancher about an hour ago" Anthony answered. "Things are just starting to get weird."
He had no idea.
I squinted my eyes to the vibrant late summer morning sun as I climbed into the cramped cab of my "gently used" Toyota truck. Scanning through the tracks of the CD in my dash, I finally settled on a suitable, non-descript song and headed towards my place of temporary employment.
I arrived at the beer store, flicked on the "open" sign and took my post on the wooden bar stool behind the counter and settled in for a long day.
"We'll come see you at the store about 2" Anthony said over the phone with an air of excitement.
"You sure you're ready for this shit, Dude?" I asked him with a tone of uncertainty. You couldn't sell me on the the path he was about to take.
"Haha, yep. Bird and I are going to drop it in about a half hour....should be starting to feel it a little when we come see you."
"Good luck" I said through a chuckle and hung up.
After what seemed like mere minutes, I removed my glazed eyes from the small tv and raised my aching head off the heel of my hand to see two familiar faces came through the fully beer-advertisement-adorned glass door.
"Well?" I asked with skepticism.
"We ate 2 hits each off a Jolly Rancher about an hour ago" Anthony answered. "Things are just starting to get weird."
He had no idea.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Acid Rain: Part I
"I think I want to try acid". Anthony said it so matter-of-factly between songs, Bird and I were unsure if he was serious.
"Ha, seriously? Go ahead, man, you're alone on this one" I said as I sipped my beer and set it on top of a PA speaker.
"If you're serious, I'll get some and do it with you" Bird replied.
Band practice was always like this; a few beers and stimulating conversation. It usually devolved into a battle of depravity, each of us saying the most base thing we could think of to illicit incredulous laughs from each other. This evening had taken a different turn.
"Seriously, dude, I'll get some from this guy I know at work...we'll do it Sunday because neither of us have to work".
This was going to make for an interesting weekend.
"Ha, seriously? Go ahead, man, you're alone on this one" I said as I sipped my beer and set it on top of a PA speaker.
"If you're serious, I'll get some and do it with you" Bird replied.
Band practice was always like this; a few beers and stimulating conversation. It usually devolved into a battle of depravity, each of us saying the most base thing we could think of to illicit incredulous laughs from each other. This evening had taken a different turn.
"Seriously, dude, I'll get some from this guy I know at work...we'll do it Sunday because neither of us have to work".
This was going to make for an interesting weekend.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Puddington's Revenge
"Wait, we can still save him!" I choked the words out in between fits of laughter.
"You really ARE an asshole, you know that?" she fired at me between sobs. Her red eyes were caught between sorrow for her now dead cat and her immediate anger for my insensitivity.
"Are you suggesting that my attempts at reviving Puddington are in jest?" I pushed the envelope a little further.
"Ugh, you can't perform CPR on a cat, Michael!!!"
"Well, I suppose not on one that has met it's demise introducing himself to the undercarriage of a Chevy Impala". It was getting harder to stifle my laughter. "Hey, we could get some dental floss and reanimate him as a marionette!" I pressed further. "Our little 'Puddington the Puppet!" I picked the now stiffening cat up by the front paws and made it dance on the porch.
"STOP IT!!! How could you joke about this??? I've had that cat since my freshman year!!! I can't believe what a heartless prick you are!!!" Her sobs had turned to wails.
I hated that Goddam cat. The jury was still out whether or not I was glad it was dead, but I was happy to be finally rid of it. My intense dislike for him stemmed from our initial introduction. He pissed on my favorite pair of Van's and I never forgave him. From that point on our territory battle raged like a complicated game of RISK and our relationship was perpetually strained. I had an irrational fear of being suffocated in my sleep by him laying on my face. Yeah, that's the same look my psychologist gave me.
"I'm sorry, Babe...what would you like me to do with Dear Puddington?"
"First of all, stop teasing me! I'm too upset to deal with your shit right now!" She continued.
"Ok, I'm sorry...what do you want me to do with him" I figured I needed to let up to ensure I wouldn't be needing a hotel room this evening.
"Well" she sniffled, "I think you should make him a nice little box so we can bury him under the black walnut tree."
"Bury him??? It's fuckin' February!!! The ground is frozen 2 foot down!!!" I exclaimed.
"Just PLEASE do it!!!" Her word was final and I decided to not press the issue.
I rolled my eyes and headed for the garage with the furry carcass in tow, carrying it by the tail. It's funny how one minute we can be hugging/petting an animal but handle it with surgical precision the moment it is dead. We deal with death with a stigma as if it is somehow going to spread to us. It now becomes "gross" and we don't want to touch it with our bare hands...regardless if we were ear scratching it minutes before it's death.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?" I mumbled. "I can't dig a hole in..." and it hit me. Recalling a story a coworker had told me when his cat had died suddenly one morning before leaving for the office, his wife was also too distraught to deal with the actual disposal. He did what any rational man late for work WOULD do: he gingerly stuffed it into a lawn and leaf bag and tossed it in the dumpster behind 7-11 on his morning coffee stop.
"Shit, she'll never know the difference if I just toss it in the can" I rationalized. "Hell, it's garbage day today anyway!"
I peaked around the corner of the garage to see if I was under surveillance and upon realizing I was free to move, executed my movements with military precision. I picked up the top bag from the first can, stuffed the tabby as deep as I could reach, replaced the bag and put the lid on. I quickly dragged the cans to the curb and returned to the garage for a shovel. It had been a relatively mild winter so there wasn't more than 3 or so inches of snow on the ground but the topsoil was rock hard underfoot. I quickly removed the top layer of snow from a section of ground beneath the looming walnut tree. Standing just out of frame of view, I scraped the top inch of grass and topsoil to give the appearance of disturbed soil. After a few minutes of toiling, I was satisfied with my ruse and returned to the house.
"Did you bury him?" she asked with pleading eyes.
"Yep, right next to the spot I have picked out for your Mom!" I shot back.
"MICHAEL!" She was too exasperated to finish her sentence.
The work day seemed to fly by as I regailed my tale of deceit to my fellow coworkers and passersby. All was well upon my return home as well...until the doorbell rang.
"Stevens, what's happenin'?" I asked Bill Stevens, my neighbor and occasional fishing partner.
"Hey, Man, I uhh, just got home and let Maizy out". Bill Stevens had over-sized labrador named "Maizy". Emily popped her head over my shoulder "Hey, Bill, what's up?" Her face turned from congenial to horror as Bill produced and now partially chewed, dead Puddinton. "I just let her back in and she had your cat in her mouth...hard as a rock. At first I thought maybe she had gotten ahold of him, but by the mess at the curb, it looks like she pulled him out of your garbage can." I could felt Emily's eyes burning holes in my cheek as she burst into tears and retreated into the house.
"Sorry about your cat, Em!" Bill called after her. It was too late. I was fucked.
I closed the door and felt the remorse begin to settle in over my inaffectionate treating of the former member of our household. "Then again, the son of a bitch DID make a habit of spraying my stuff with his butt-juice", I told myself.
I couldn't even lie my way out of this one. Maytag couldn't make place more frigid than our bedroom as I tried to feign sincerity in my apology and slid under the sheets.
I muttered a sea of apologies that stretched for light years, or at least sometime past midnight until she seemed convinced by my pleading.
As I rolled over attempting to conceal my smirk I caught the distinct smell of cat urine on my down pillow as the tip of my nose touched a wet spot. "SON OF A BITCH!!!!"
"You really ARE an asshole, you know that?" she fired at me between sobs. Her red eyes were caught between sorrow for her now dead cat and her immediate anger for my insensitivity.
"Are you suggesting that my attempts at reviving Puddington are in jest?" I pushed the envelope a little further.
"Ugh, you can't perform CPR on a cat, Michael!!!"
"Well, I suppose not on one that has met it's demise introducing himself to the undercarriage of a Chevy Impala". It was getting harder to stifle my laughter. "Hey, we could get some dental floss and reanimate him as a marionette!" I pressed further. "Our little 'Puddington the Puppet!" I picked the now stiffening cat up by the front paws and made it dance on the porch.
"STOP IT!!! How could you joke about this??? I've had that cat since my freshman year!!! I can't believe what a heartless prick you are!!!" Her sobs had turned to wails.
I hated that Goddam cat. The jury was still out whether or not I was glad it was dead, but I was happy to be finally rid of it. My intense dislike for him stemmed from our initial introduction. He pissed on my favorite pair of Van's and I never forgave him. From that point on our territory battle raged like a complicated game of RISK and our relationship was perpetually strained. I had an irrational fear of being suffocated in my sleep by him laying on my face. Yeah, that's the same look my psychologist gave me.
"I'm sorry, Babe...what would you like me to do with Dear Puddington?"
"First of all, stop teasing me! I'm too upset to deal with your shit right now!" She continued.
"Ok, I'm sorry...what do you want me to do with him" I figured I needed to let up to ensure I wouldn't be needing a hotel room this evening.
"Well" she sniffled, "I think you should make him a nice little box so we can bury him under the black walnut tree."
"Bury him??? It's fuckin' February!!! The ground is frozen 2 foot down!!!" I exclaimed.
"Just PLEASE do it!!!" Her word was final and I decided to not press the issue.
I rolled my eyes and headed for the garage with the furry carcass in tow, carrying it by the tail. It's funny how one minute we can be hugging/petting an animal but handle it with surgical precision the moment it is dead. We deal with death with a stigma as if it is somehow going to spread to us. It now becomes "gross" and we don't want to touch it with our bare hands...regardless if we were ear scratching it minutes before it's death.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?" I mumbled. "I can't dig a hole in..." and it hit me. Recalling a story a coworker had told me when his cat had died suddenly one morning before leaving for the office, his wife was also too distraught to deal with the actual disposal. He did what any rational man late for work WOULD do: he gingerly stuffed it into a lawn and leaf bag and tossed it in the dumpster behind 7-11 on his morning coffee stop.
"Shit, she'll never know the difference if I just toss it in the can" I rationalized. "Hell, it's garbage day today anyway!"
I peaked around the corner of the garage to see if I was under surveillance and upon realizing I was free to move, executed my movements with military precision. I picked up the top bag from the first can, stuffed the tabby as deep as I could reach, replaced the bag and put the lid on. I quickly dragged the cans to the curb and returned to the garage for a shovel. It had been a relatively mild winter so there wasn't more than 3 or so inches of snow on the ground but the topsoil was rock hard underfoot. I quickly removed the top layer of snow from a section of ground beneath the looming walnut tree. Standing just out of frame of view, I scraped the top inch of grass and topsoil to give the appearance of disturbed soil. After a few minutes of toiling, I was satisfied with my ruse and returned to the house.
"Did you bury him?" she asked with pleading eyes.
"Yep, right next to the spot I have picked out for your Mom!" I shot back.
"MICHAEL!" She was too exasperated to finish her sentence.
The work day seemed to fly by as I regailed my tale of deceit to my fellow coworkers and passersby. All was well upon my return home as well...until the doorbell rang.
"Stevens, what's happenin'?" I asked Bill Stevens, my neighbor and occasional fishing partner.
"Hey, Man, I uhh, just got home and let Maizy out". Bill Stevens had over-sized labrador named "Maizy". Emily popped her head over my shoulder "Hey, Bill, what's up?" Her face turned from congenial to horror as Bill produced and now partially chewed, dead Puddinton. "I just let her back in and she had your cat in her mouth...hard as a rock. At first I thought maybe she had gotten ahold of him, but by the mess at the curb, it looks like she pulled him out of your garbage can." I could felt Emily's eyes burning holes in my cheek as she burst into tears and retreated into the house.
"Sorry about your cat, Em!" Bill called after her. It was too late. I was fucked.
I closed the door and felt the remorse begin to settle in over my inaffectionate treating of the former member of our household. "Then again, the son of a bitch DID make a habit of spraying my stuff with his butt-juice", I told myself.
I couldn't even lie my way out of this one. Maytag couldn't make place more frigid than our bedroom as I tried to feign sincerity in my apology and slid under the sheets.
I muttered a sea of apologies that stretched for light years, or at least sometime past midnight until she seemed convinced by my pleading.
As I rolled over attempting to conceal my smirk I caught the distinct smell of cat urine on my down pillow as the tip of my nose touched a wet spot. "SON OF A BITCH!!!!"
Necessity is the Mother of Intervention: Part II
You learn a lot on a construction site. For example, I never knew it was possible for me to "stand there with my teeth in my mouth" or, thanks to a favorite jobsite prank, obtain the worst rash imagineable with a handful of dry mortar.
Let me explain: mortar is characterized as a combination of lime, portland cement, sand and water. Lime and portland cement are highly corrosive and caustic. When these dry chemicals are thrown down the back of a pair of work pants and met with upper-gluteal perspiration, horrific things happen to the surrounding skin. Things that would make a dermatologist wet and are only alleviated by a handful of diaper cream and possibly a steroid shot.
I also learned that even though you have a job to do, the neighbors in the surrounding subdivision may not share your superintentdent's enthusiasm for maintaining a schedule by allowing work to commence at 6:30am. Such was illustrated by fellow tender "Joe". Joe was a good guy, he had just been dealt a shit hand most of his life. Likely a high school dropout, Joe was a "lifer". Chances are he'd be wielding his laborer's shovel til he retired at 62 with a gold union card and a crippling case of arthritis.
That was life for Joe. Wasn't long after I first met him that he came home from work early one fall afternoon due to rain only to find his wife in his marital bed of their mobile home with another man. Deciding against confrontation, Joe exacted his revenge later that evening when he pulled into the local tavern and found his wife's penis du jour's full size truck in the parking lot. Methodically Joe smashed the entire driver's side of said gentlemen's truck; starting at the front quarter panel and working his way down in 3 consecutive runs. Much for words he wasn't.
Trouble seemed to find Joe. It wasn't long after the cheating incident when it came looking for him again.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!" Joe used his 28oz hammer to bang out mortar tubs of residual material as he had every morning in the years that preceeded this one.
"Hey! Asshole!!! It's 6:30 am! A little early for the banging, isn't it?"
Apparently "Starbuck's" as I like to refer to him by his apparent yuppie lifestyle, that lived in the 2 story colonial across the street wasn't pleased with our designated start time. "Look, Man, I'm just doing my job...if you need to complain, my foreman is over there in that trailer office".
"Just stop the Goddam hammering...it's too early for that bullshit!"
Joe shrugged and went back to his assigned duties, including the aforementioned hammering of metal tubs.
It took less than 10 minutes for him to return. This time Starbuck's was prepared to assert his alpha male posture and risk his potentially manicured hands just to show his imaginary gym buddies he wasn't really a pussy. "Come here, Motherfucker!"
Joe said not a word, just dropped his menial tool belt that held only a hammer and tape measure, set his hard hat on the ground next to his belt and planted his right fist into Starbuck's freshly shaven jawline. That punch was accompanied by another punch. And another. And another, before 3 of us pulled Joe up and helped him regain his composure. Starbuck's, with an ego broken worse than his carefully tanned face, gathered what I imagine was his dignity, and possibly a tooth, and promptly retreated into his 2 story...late for a board meeting, no doubt.
Let me explain: mortar is characterized as a combination of lime, portland cement, sand and water. Lime and portland cement are highly corrosive and caustic. When these dry chemicals are thrown down the back of a pair of work pants and met with upper-gluteal perspiration, horrific things happen to the surrounding skin. Things that would make a dermatologist wet and are only alleviated by a handful of diaper cream and possibly a steroid shot.
I also learned that even though you have a job to do, the neighbors in the surrounding subdivision may not share your superintentdent's enthusiasm for maintaining a schedule by allowing work to commence at 6:30am. Such was illustrated by fellow tender "Joe". Joe was a good guy, he had just been dealt a shit hand most of his life. Likely a high school dropout, Joe was a "lifer". Chances are he'd be wielding his laborer's shovel til he retired at 62 with a gold union card and a crippling case of arthritis.
That was life for Joe. Wasn't long after I first met him that he came home from work early one fall afternoon due to rain only to find his wife in his marital bed of their mobile home with another man. Deciding against confrontation, Joe exacted his revenge later that evening when he pulled into the local tavern and found his wife's penis du jour's full size truck in the parking lot. Methodically Joe smashed the entire driver's side of said gentlemen's truck; starting at the front quarter panel and working his way down in 3 consecutive runs. Much for words he wasn't.
Trouble seemed to find Joe. It wasn't long after the cheating incident when it came looking for him again.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!" Joe used his 28oz hammer to bang out mortar tubs of residual material as he had every morning in the years that preceeded this one.
"Hey! Asshole!!! It's 6:30 am! A little early for the banging, isn't it?"
Apparently "Starbuck's" as I like to refer to him by his apparent yuppie lifestyle, that lived in the 2 story colonial across the street wasn't pleased with our designated start time. "Look, Man, I'm just doing my job...if you need to complain, my foreman is over there in that trailer office".
"Just stop the Goddam hammering...it's too early for that bullshit!"
Joe shrugged and went back to his assigned duties, including the aforementioned hammering of metal tubs.
It took less than 10 minutes for him to return. This time Starbuck's was prepared to assert his alpha male posture and risk his potentially manicured hands just to show his imaginary gym buddies he wasn't really a pussy. "Come here, Motherfucker!"
Joe said not a word, just dropped his menial tool belt that held only a hammer and tape measure, set his hard hat on the ground next to his belt and planted his right fist into Starbuck's freshly shaven jawline. That punch was accompanied by another punch. And another. And another, before 3 of us pulled Joe up and helped him regain his composure. Starbuck's, with an ego broken worse than his carefully tanned face, gathered what I imagine was his dignity, and possibly a tooth, and promptly retreated into his 2 story...late for a board meeting, no doubt.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Necessity is the Mother of Intervention: Part I
I suppose it was inevitable that I would find my way into construction. My A.D.D. nature had a propensity towards creating rather than destroying. No, that part I kept for my liver and small pieces of my soul.
18 years old and 3 months out of high school found me working as a mason tender for a construction company in Northern Michigan. The hours were long, the language was salty, and the company I kept was irreplaceable. Bricklayers are their own special breed and I was in the presence of pedigrees.
"Kid, put down my fuckin' trowel and get me some fuckin' mud!!!"
I adopted many nicknames during my tenure, few of which actually contained portions of my birth name. There's no use fighting a nickname, as it only drives the creator to ensure it is used more frequently. Besides, there is a condition that exists amongst men when it comes to insults and name-calling. It is our nature to verbally abuse one another in order to show affection. The more insults, even the ones approaching taboo subjects, is a direct indication of how much you are liked by said people. I must have been loved at this job because the obscenities and requests for additional material precluded with "you little cocksucker", came in a constant stream.
18 years old and 3 months out of high school found me working as a mason tender for a construction company in Northern Michigan. The hours were long, the language was salty, and the company I kept was irreplaceable. Bricklayers are their own special breed and I was in the presence of pedigrees.
"Kid, put down my fuckin' trowel and get me some fuckin' mud!!!"
I adopted many nicknames during my tenure, few of which actually contained portions of my birth name. There's no use fighting a nickname, as it only drives the creator to ensure it is used more frequently. Besides, there is a condition that exists amongst men when it comes to insults and name-calling. It is our nature to verbally abuse one another in order to show affection. The more insults, even the ones approaching taboo subjects, is a direct indication of how much you are liked by said people. I must have been loved at this job because the obscenities and requests for additional material precluded with "you little cocksucker", came in a constant stream.
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