Enough time has passed that people don't ask that often anymore, but I used to get hit up all the time about why I didn't have a car. Most of my friends from high school and college will remember that I was always looking for a ride. You see, I didn't get my own ride until I was twenty-four. Why? Because I didn't have a license. There's no point in getting a car if you aren't allowed to drive it.
The problem started with my family. I come from a large family and I'm a middle child. By the time I was learning to drive my dad already had taught five of my siblings how to drive. He was done. No mas! I took Drivers Education with all my friends and I aced it. The problem was Driver's Training. My high school didn't have a program. I had to go pay for lessons or get my parents to teach me. I remember very specifically when I got my Learners Permit and asked my dad if he'd give me a lesson. He said, "Your sisters fucked you on that one, son."
So began my adventures in learning how to drive. Every little chance I'd get I'd jump all over. My sister Teresa showed me how to get a stick into first gear. My friend Drew let me drive his parents minivan around the block once. It was the kindness of friends that I really depended on. The problem was that all my friends were just learning how to drive too - probably not a good thing. Thus I begin the story about Monica.
Monica was (and still is) a very good friend of mine. Her mom loved her and taught her how to drive as soon as she could. I'd say early on that Monica was the one teaching me how to drive half the time. It didn't hurt that we hung out in the middle of the night all the time and that meant a lot of empty roads and parking lots to work with. Being that we were both in our punk phase it was totally cool to just hang out at three in the morning driving around. We were cool like that. There was one time when things didn't go so well, though.
It was the summer of 1991. I'd just graduated from high school and knew that I was going to to go college in the fall. I'm sure everyone has that summer. Hell, a million movies have been made out of that summer. Mine was no different. I could write for months solely on things that went down that summer. But this night still stands out. In fact, I still have souvenirs.
Back before the Internet, you had to actually wait in lines to buy tickets to a concert. They'd hand out numbered wrist bands to everyone in line and if you were lucky, you were one of the first dozen or so people to get tickets before the show sold out. Even though there was a logical system like that, we still felt at the time that it was important to spend the night in front of the Tower Records or, in this case Music Plus, and be the first in line to get a wrist band. The Red Hot Chili Peppers were going to play the Los Angeles Sports Arena with Nirvana opening and some band nobody ever heard of called Pearl Jam opening for them. Seemed like a concert we should go to so we showed up at 1:00 AM to get in line. Of course, in 1991 none of those bands were really all that popular so there was nobody else in line.
Monica decided that now was as good a time as any to give me some driving practice. Always looking to get some time in, I was really excited. We were in a great big parking lot in the San Fernando Valley that was totally empty. It was a white automatic Cadillac and I practiced turns and accelerating and braking gently. The natural progression was, of course, to practice parking. So, I pulled up in front of the Linens and Things and lined up the car to park. The next three seconds lasted about ten years.
Being "in the zone" and trying extra hard to pay attention to everything, it totally caught me off guard with I hit the curb. Where the fuck did that thing come from? All my confidence in turns and acceleration and blinkers and parking came to a crashing failure. The "oh!" that Monica let out didn't help my confidence either. Mad at myself I slammed on the brake with a curse on my tongue. The only problem with that was that I hit the gas instead of the brake.
I don't know if you've ever driven a Cadillac but those bitches got some torque. They've got torque enough to slam you back into that leather seat and keep you there until the blood rushes back to your hands. Instantly I felt the car hop that curb and get a runnin'. All sorts of thoughts started running through my head. Do I slam on the brakes? Do I slam the car into park? Do I open the door and just jump out? Before any of those thoughts even made it to my frontal cortex the glass started shattering.
Apparently the glass they use in store fronts is meant to not shatter. It'll crack and if it gets beat up enough it'll crack all over but it'll stay together. Until you put a fucking Cadillac though it, that is. I remember the headlights causing a beautiful glimmering effect on the shattering glass. The whole front of the store came down like a big blanket covering the front of the car. I was so taken back by the vision that I didn't even notice when I hit the first shelf of towels.
As it happens, the store was laid out with shelf after shelf after shelf of towels, blankets, sheets, and whatever else the hell Linens and Things sells. It also turns out that these ten foot shelves are not bolted to the floor. The first one I hit I only noticed because all the towels came flying at the windshield. The panic of seeing all those towels coming at me just made me flinch. I'd lost all comprehension of actually stopping the car at this point. I just threw my hands in front of my face to keep the towels from killing me and left my lead foot planted to the floor.
The Cadillac pushed the shelf back three or four feet into the next shelf. It then pushed both those shelves into the next shelf and then into the next shelf. I think it was at this point that I at least had enough presents of mind to take my foot off the gas. Maybe it was shock. Maybe I realized what was going one. Either way, it took three more shelves and then some for the car to finally stop. I'd shoved every shelf in that store all the way back to the far wall. The car was still revving but was no longer moving forward when Monica punched me square in the face as hard as I'd ever been hit.
"What the fuck?!?!?!"
(Dumbstruck. Jane's Additions still playing on the radio.)
"Oh my fucking God! Oh my fucking God! What the fuck?!?!!"
"holy shit."
"Dude! Dude! Dude! Dude. Dude. dude. dude. Fucking dude!"
"Holy fucking shit, right?"
"Fuck you, you fucking son of a bitch!"
"What?" (Jane Says going into chorus)
She hit me again. Reality starting coming to me. Had I just driven all the way into the Linens and Things? Holy shit! I totally just did that! Don't panic. Focus. Clear your head. Calm down. Focus.
"Dude!"
Huh? Oh shit! That's when it really dawned on me. I just fucking drove Monica's mom's car into a fucking Linens and Things. Yeah, this was not fucking cool at all.
"I am so fucking sorry, man.'
"Fucking drive!"
"Huh?"
Monica threw the car in reverse and threw her leg over the center console, slamming my foot to the gas and the gas to the floor. The seat belt was still locked in place and I felt it digging into my chest as the the wheels peeled out and the car roared out of the Linens and Things. In the blink of an eye we were flying across the parking lot in reverse. She let loose on my foot and I slammed on the brake. Before I could think a thought she was out of the car and had run to the drivers side. She opened the door and yelled at me to get over. Like a super hero with all the answers, she shoved me over the center console to the passenger seat, jumped in the car, and took over driving duties. She threw it into drive and peeled out of the parking lot; the sounds of Jane Says still playing on the radio.
Absolute panic was running through our veins for the next ten minutes. We were going to go to jail. We were going to get ass raped by murderers and drug dealers. We were both eighteen and totally liable for what had just happened. I don't think either of us said anything for thirty minutes. We'd driven from Reseda to Sylmar to Chatsworth before Monica pulled over and stopped. We just stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally I got out of the car to look at the damage.
You've got to hand it to General Motors. The grill was cracked and there were a few scratches on the hood, but the Cadillac was otherwise fine. Granted, we had no excuse that we could come up with as for why that damage was there, but it wasn't horrible.
So, what now?
"We're supposed to meet Pia at Music Plus right now."
Monica was right. We were supposed to meet our friend Pia at Music Plus to wait in line for tickets. That was the whole reason we were there in the first place. Do we leave our eighteen year old female friend to sit alone in front of a music store for five hours while who knows what sort of perverts come wandering by? We sat. We thought quietly. Personally, I didn't give a shit about Pia. I'm not about to get arrested for lord knows how many reasons because Pia was by herself. Eventually someone else would get in line. Hopefully it'd be some death rock kids who would provide company if nothing else.
"Let's go."
I'm sorry, what? "Are you fucking insane?" I asked. "That place had to have an alarm system. Hell, they probably had video cameras!" I argued. "There's no way we should go back there."
"Pia is waiting for us. Let's go."
I was dumbstruck. Part of me thought Monica was a total idiot, but most of me thought she was the baddest ass friend anyone could ever have. She was willing to go to jail just to make sure she kept her word to her friend that she'd be there at three to wait in line. How do you argue with that?
"Ok."
So we went back to the scene of the crime. Luckily the Music Plus was on the opposite side of the parking lot from the Linens and Things. Monica parked directly in front of the Music Plus. Pia was already there waiting. When she asked why we were late, Monica just said, "My bad."
We sat there for hours waiting for the sun to come up. Pia asked a few questions as it was obvious something was wrong. When dawn came she could see the Linens and Things and walked over to check it out. when she got back she was all giddy about the destruction and we eventually had to tell her. By 7:00 AM the police showed up and we were sure we were pinched.
After investigating the scene, they came over and asked if we'd seen anything. Monica immediately piped up, "Yeah. We saw the whole thing. It was about 2:30 AM when some drunk drove right into it. It was a small black car. Maybe a Porsche. I couldn't tell from all the way over here."
She was brilliant! I couldn't believe what a clear head she was keeping. They bought everything she said and took minimal notes. I don't think they really cared to be honest. They were taking their report and were going to move on. When they asked me what I saw I said, "Nothing. I was sleeping over here." They finished up their notes, took our names and contact info and left.
Not long after that, Monica's mom showed up. Monica had called her after the cops left. They went around the corner and talked for a bit. When they came back, her mom was crying. She looked at the car, tears running down her face and then said, "At least you're ok. Nothing came of this. Let's leave it at that." They both left. I ended up buying Monica's ticket but she was still grounded when the concert came about in early January. I don't think we really ever hung out again the way we used to but we always stayed friends.
....about a month later we finally had a chance to meet up. I stopped by Monica's house unannounced when I knew her mom was at work. We talked a little about that night but mostly I remember her apology.
"Sorry you still don't have your license."
Are you kidding me?! I'm sorry you've been grounded forever and you'll probably stay that way for a few more years! This was so my fault!
Turns out Monica took the blame for the damage to the car. She told her mom that she lost control while trying to learn how to do donuts in the parking lot. Needless to say, all of my friends knew the truth and none of them would ever let me practice in their cars (or their parents cars) again. If nothing else, I learned that night that there are some things that you just can't prepare for. One is driving twenty feet into a store. The other is that there are some things friends do that make you really question how far you'd go for your friends. When you see how far they'd go for you, you begin to realize that you'd go just as far for them.
I've never had to test how far I'd go for Monica, but if she ever calls me up with a body that she needs to get rid of, I know this place outside of Vegas....
.... but I digress. That's why I didn't have my license by the time I was eighteen.
Nineteen?
That was a whole other story. To be continued....
Friday, October 8, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
Ride That Big Wheel Like You Fucking Own the Place
Every now and again the topic of my memory comes up. There are some things that I should remember that are totally lost to me. I went to school with a chick named Marisol that for the life of me I remember nothing about. She remembers everything about me including all the times we hung out and went to parties, etc. I got nothing. Then there's the opposite situation - times when I remember the most minute details of the most obscure moments. What really trips people out is that I can remember moments from very early childhood. I'm talking about times when I couldn't even crawl yet. I remember the first time I was able to scoot my way across the living room into the hallway. I remember the first time I was given corn on the cob and I didn't even have the teeth to eat it. I remember vividly my first day of kindergarten. Nicole thinks I should write about some of these memories because I also remember what I thought at the time. So, here's a story for you about the first time I really took a chance in life. It was the first time I decided to go out on my own and risk my life for adventure. It's become a theme of mine later on in life, but this is where it all started....
I'm pretty sure I was three years old. Four tops. I don't remember if I was wearing normal underwear yet but I remember I wasn't at that point where I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself without someone checking to make sure I didn't make a mess of things. For some reason I remember it being early autumn - late September or early October. I remember my sister was wearing her school uniform that day but I also remember that it was close to sunset at dinner time. My dad worked an insane morning shift at work which meant that we ate dinner at 6:00 pm. No sooner; no later.
I come from a big family. In the end there were ten kids but at this time there were eight. Granted, my great grandmother, great grandfather and cousin all lived with us at the time. That and my parents made for a crowded house - thirteen of us in all. It also made for a strict ritual at dinner time. If it was your day, you had to set the table. I was too young for chores, but even then I remember that someone was pissed that it was their day to stop playing early because they had to set the table. Granted, it wasn't as bad as having to do the dishes after dinner, but it still sucked. I remember that my great grandma was in a wheelchair and my great grandpa used a walker. That meant that when dinner was "ready" you still had about five to ten minutes to play because it took them a while to get to the table. I remember that - being Catholic - we had to have everyone at the table to say grace before anyone could eat. That meant you had another couple of minutes you could stretch it before anyone really got pissed. It was those minutes that you picked your place, got your milk, and generally got settled. I remember knowing all this to a science at the time, even though I was only three.
When you've got that big of a family in that small of a house, you tend to work and play in groups. Being three, I couldn't ever really play on my own. I could only go outside if I went with a "big kid." Times were different back then. A "big kid" wasn't one of the kids in high school; it was one that was at least in elementary school. My sister Teresa is only two years older than me but she was considered an older child to me. When you get to Sandy (eight years my senior) then you were talking serious authority figure. On this particular day, Teresa, Jon (my cousin), and Mike were with me. Mike was one of the "big kids" because he was a good nine years older. To me he was an adult. My cousin Jon was about the same age. We were all playing in the front yard.
Times have changed and the neighborhood has changed, but there was a time in Canoga Park when you let your kids play in the street. We lived on a side street; three houses down from the end of the block. As a "little kid", I was allowed to go to the near corner but never around the corner. If I went in the other direction, I was allowed to go two houses over, but never any farther than that. It's not that I didn't know what was past that. We were a good Catholic family that went to church together every Sunday. I'd walked that way once a week and knew all the houses. Well, I knew the first five or six. After that it got confusing to me. That was until this particular fateful day.
It was late afternoon and the sun hadn't quite set yet. I was riding my Big Wheel. Red frame, blue seat and yellow handle bars. Big black wheel with the stick on rims. Tassels on the handle bars. I was cool like that. I was riding as fast as I could from the front gate to the near corner. I'd ride in circles as fast as I could when I got to the corner. I remember discovering centrifugal force at that age, but that's another story. I was on fire. I felt that burning inside me to push the limits of the Big Wheel. Fuck it!
I went around that corner. I rode all the way to the driveway of the corner house. It was only about twenty feet past the corner but it was no man's land to me. I'd never been there before. On the side of their driveway there was a flowerbed filled with raspberry bushes. I remember checking them out but being more interested in the paved driveway. Figure eights! I'm all over town, bitches! Check my ass out! I own this place! Feeling satisfied with my taste of freedom, I recognized that I needed to get my ass back around that corner. It was close to dinner time and Lord knows my ass was grass if anyone saw I went too far.
I kicked it into high gear and headed home. I spun around that corner with no regrets. I'd lived life and it was beautiful. Then I saw it as I headed home - my siblings were headed into the house. It was the unmistakable trot of kids who had just been called in for dinner. Oh shit. Busted! I'm screwed! As fast as I could I peddled to the house. Surely I would be able to get there before everyone was ready for grace and I'd be home free. Panic was rising in me so that I was almost in tears. My family was old school. You didn't get a time out, you got the fucking hairbrush to the ass. I knew I was too little to get the belt, but I also knew I was in big trouble. By the time I pulled up to the gate I could hear the start of the chant of the apocalypse as I knew it: "Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts..."
I was too late. Everyone was seated and they were already saying grace. I stopped. I didn't even ride into the yard. I just sat there on the Big Wheel looking down the street. Then it hit me. Just ride. Just keep on riding up and down the street like you didn't hear mom yell that dinner was ready. This could work! Just play dumb. Certainly they'd notice soon enough that I wasn't at the table. Everyone was worried about my baby sister, Carrie at the time. They'd already forgotten about little Tom and Tina. We were just rug rats that had to be taken care of. Mom would be worrying about getting everyone's plates full before she noticed I wasn't there. Oh, she'd notice, but I had a good two minutes until she'd start yelling. Just ride. Ride like a fucking lame ass until she came out and got me. This would SO work. So I did it. I started riding.
I rode to then end of our house. Normally I'd ride until the driveway and then turn around. Can't turn around now. I'm fucked if I'm this close. I needed a reason to not hear her first call for dinner. I kept riding. I rode until the end of the next house. An old couple lived there. I don't remember their names anymore but we knew them well enough that it'd be cool if i was only at their house. I kept riding. I rode until I got to Caroline's house. Caroline was a kid about my age. I only knew her because my parents knew her parents. I couldn't tell you anything about her except that she lived in that house two houses over. I rode all the way to their driveway and stopped.
I waited.
I listened.
Nothing.
Mom wasn't calling me. Had everyone forgotten about me? Maybe. Seriously, when you have that big of a family with as many issues as we had, you can't be expected to keep track of all those damn kids. I waited a little longer.
Nothing.
I looked ahead to the next house. They had an old blue car and a really nice garden in their front yard. They went to the same church as us and they always went the the 10:30 mass - same as us. They were old and had to drive their old car but we'd always see them. They'd drive away as we were walking by their house and they'd get home as we were walking back.
Somehow it felt right. Somehow it felt ok. I'd been here before. I've already gone farther than I ever should have. Fuck it. Let's ride.
It was at that point that something took over me. I didn't give a shit about dinner. I could give a damn about getting my ass spanked later. I'm riding, bitches. I rode past the old folks house. I kept on riding past the wide driveway house that I'd always wanted to do figure eights on. I kept riding to that house with the crazy ivy. I was back in new territory. I was on my own. I rode all the way to the house with the big dog. That was the first time I slowed down.
This house had the weakest ass gate you'd ever seen. It was loose enough of a gate that I could easily slip right through it. And they had the biggest fucking rottweiler you've ever seen. If it weren't so big, it would have been able to escape any time it wanted. It was only because it was so big it couldn't get through that gate. I slowed my pace. Maybe if I go slow enough it wouldn't hear me. The plastic of the Big Wheel on the cement sidewalk sounded like the rattling of bones on a jail cell. It was like the ringing of chow time for the beast. And there he is. Trotting calmly to the gate. Fear struck me like a bolt of lightning. I stopped peddling but the momentum kept me going forward. Then something amazing happened - nothing. The dog just looked at me. He knew as well as I did that I wasn't allowed to be here. His look said it all - "Where are your parents, boy?" I said nothing. I stopped the Big Wheel with the hand brake. This was my time.
I stared at the dog and he stared back. Fear dissipated into a calm understanding. He didn't want to eat me. Heck, he didn't even want to bark at me. He wanted to be me. He wanted to roam the streets free. He wanted to run until he couldn't run anymore. He knew it and I knew it. My heart jump-started. Fuck yeah! Who's going to stop us now? No one! I kicked the peddling into high gear. I didn't even check out the houses anymore. I just rode. Rode past the houses with the buganvilias in front. Didn't slow down for the oleander house. Before I knew it, it had happened.
I'd reached the far corner.
I had never in my life been there without my parents. At the far end of our block was a junior high. When you're my age, public school junior high kids might as well be Nazi's. I remember walking down there each Sunday for church and feeling the evil that emanating from that place. It's how I was brought up. They don't go to church - them public school kids. They are heathens.
But not this night. This night I was on my own. This night I was experiencing something new. I could care less about the empty school. I was fascinated by the corner. I threw on the hand brake of the Big Wheel and came to a skidding stop. I got off and stood at the corner. Being barefoot, I could feel the cement was still warm from the Valley sun beating on it. I walked to the curb. I was never allowed near the curb. I stared blankly at it. Without thinking I sat at the curb and put my feet in the street. I might as well have killed someone. I wasn't allowed in the street! Never! Ever! No how! No way!
Fuck it. Who's going to stop me? I'm on my own. I'm free. I let it soak in. It was quiet. I remember specifically noting how quiet it was. I'm not positive but I recall that it was the first time ever it being quiet while that sun was up. Coming from a big family, you notice these things. I just sat there. It was glorious. I don't remember how long I sat there but it seemed like an eternity.
For the first time ever I noticed that there was a street two blocks over that was really busy. Lots of cars were driving by. I stared and wondered where all those cars came from. I looked down at the gutter and noticed the wear the water had done to it. How many eons of rainstorms had flooded this gutter and worn it down. I would never know. I'd reached a state of nirvana. All was calm and right with the world. Then a car went rumbling by.
I snapped out of my trance. Who was that? That was the truck from three houses down across the street. Would they go to my house and tell on me? Would my mom suddenly be screaming down the street with the belt in her hand ready to whip me and then maybe kill me? FUCK!!! What am I doing here!?!? I am so fucking dead!!!!!
I hopped back on the Big Wheel and peeled out as I spun that bitch around. I peddled like my life depended on it because it probably did. The dog barked at me as I rode by but I paid it no mind. Nothing but absolute fear raced through my body. It may or may not be the first time, but I remember the feeling of adrenaline pumping through my body even at that early age. Tears started to form in my eyes at the thought of the beating I was about to take. I peddled and peddled as fast as I could. By the time I got to the old folks place, I didn't care anymore. Fuck it, right? That was so fucking cool. Who cares that I'm going to get the hair brush. It doesn't really hurt. I'd learned earlier in life that the louder I screamed, the sooner it'd stop. What if I got the belt? Could it really be that bad? Turns out I wouldn't learn for years how bad that hurts but it didn't seem like it was THAT bad that day.
A calm came over me. I'd take whatever punishment came my way. It was all worth it. I'd tasted what it meant to be alive and I was hooked. I was already thinking about how I'd get back to that corner again. I was plotting how I'd one day go all the way around the block and be able to stop to taste the victory of those raspberries on my way back around the other side of the near corner. Bring what hell you may, I have seen the glory of life and I will not be denied!!!
It was at about that moment when I came peddling up to my house. My mom had just come out to the porch. I was just at the edge of our property when I saw her come out. "Tom!" she yelled. I looked up dazed. This was it. It was time to face my punishment. A calmness took over me and I kept peddling. I'd just gotten to the gate when she yelled, "Where have you been?!"
"On my Big Wheel" I answered calmly. A stupid look came over my face. Instinct took over.
"It's dinner time. Didn't you hear me yelling?!"
"No."
"Well get in here!"
"Ok."
I turned and rode up the walkway to the front porch. I was sure she was going to grab me, lift me up, and tear every limb from my body. Instead she sighed and said, "Come on. Hurry up!" I got off the Big Wheel and took her hand as we trotted into the house.
"Go wash up."
I went to the bathroom and washed my hands. Did that just happen? No limbs missing. No sore red ass. No yelling. She didn't know I'd gone to the other side of the block. She thought I was just riding back and forth in front of the house and didn't hear her call for dinner. I'd gotten away with it.
I didn't say anything at dinner that night. I finished my tacos and took my plate to the sink. I went to my room and played with my Weeble Wobbles. In time Mom came in to put me to bed. I laid there with my green blankie and thought about the warm concrete of the far corner. I thought about that feeling of independence and solitude. I dreamed of the day I'd be able to do it again. But mostly, I thought about how I'd gotten away with it. I'd broken every rule I'd ever know except those involving fire. I'd lived life and lived to tell about it. It would become the foundation upon which I lived the rest of my life. It was the day I decided that I was going to ride that Big Wheel like I fucking owned the place.
I'm pretty sure I was three years old. Four tops. I don't remember if I was wearing normal underwear yet but I remember I wasn't at that point where I was allowed to go to the bathroom by myself without someone checking to make sure I didn't make a mess of things. For some reason I remember it being early autumn - late September or early October. I remember my sister was wearing her school uniform that day but I also remember that it was close to sunset at dinner time. My dad worked an insane morning shift at work which meant that we ate dinner at 6:00 pm. No sooner; no later.
I come from a big family. In the end there were ten kids but at this time there were eight. Granted, my great grandmother, great grandfather and cousin all lived with us at the time. That and my parents made for a crowded house - thirteen of us in all. It also made for a strict ritual at dinner time. If it was your day, you had to set the table. I was too young for chores, but even then I remember that someone was pissed that it was their day to stop playing early because they had to set the table. Granted, it wasn't as bad as having to do the dishes after dinner, but it still sucked. I remember that my great grandma was in a wheelchair and my great grandpa used a walker. That meant that when dinner was "ready" you still had about five to ten minutes to play because it took them a while to get to the table. I remember that - being Catholic - we had to have everyone at the table to say grace before anyone could eat. That meant you had another couple of minutes you could stretch it before anyone really got pissed. It was those minutes that you picked your place, got your milk, and generally got settled. I remember knowing all this to a science at the time, even though I was only three.
When you've got that big of a family in that small of a house, you tend to work and play in groups. Being three, I couldn't ever really play on my own. I could only go outside if I went with a "big kid." Times were different back then. A "big kid" wasn't one of the kids in high school; it was one that was at least in elementary school. My sister Teresa is only two years older than me but she was considered an older child to me. When you get to Sandy (eight years my senior) then you were talking serious authority figure. On this particular day, Teresa, Jon (my cousin), and Mike were with me. Mike was one of the "big kids" because he was a good nine years older. To me he was an adult. My cousin Jon was about the same age. We were all playing in the front yard.
Times have changed and the neighborhood has changed, but there was a time in Canoga Park when you let your kids play in the street. We lived on a side street; three houses down from the end of the block. As a "little kid", I was allowed to go to the near corner but never around the corner. If I went in the other direction, I was allowed to go two houses over, but never any farther than that. It's not that I didn't know what was past that. We were a good Catholic family that went to church together every Sunday. I'd walked that way once a week and knew all the houses. Well, I knew the first five or six. After that it got confusing to me. That was until this particular fateful day.
It was late afternoon and the sun hadn't quite set yet. I was riding my Big Wheel. Red frame, blue seat and yellow handle bars. Big black wheel with the stick on rims. Tassels on the handle bars. I was cool like that. I was riding as fast as I could from the front gate to the near corner. I'd ride in circles as fast as I could when I got to the corner. I remember discovering centrifugal force at that age, but that's another story. I was on fire. I felt that burning inside me to push the limits of the Big Wheel. Fuck it!
I went around that corner. I rode all the way to the driveway of the corner house. It was only about twenty feet past the corner but it was no man's land to me. I'd never been there before. On the side of their driveway there was a flowerbed filled with raspberry bushes. I remember checking them out but being more interested in the paved driveway. Figure eights! I'm all over town, bitches! Check my ass out! I own this place! Feeling satisfied with my taste of freedom, I recognized that I needed to get my ass back around that corner. It was close to dinner time and Lord knows my ass was grass if anyone saw I went too far.
I kicked it into high gear and headed home. I spun around that corner with no regrets. I'd lived life and it was beautiful. Then I saw it as I headed home - my siblings were headed into the house. It was the unmistakable trot of kids who had just been called in for dinner. Oh shit. Busted! I'm screwed! As fast as I could I peddled to the house. Surely I would be able to get there before everyone was ready for grace and I'd be home free. Panic was rising in me so that I was almost in tears. My family was old school. You didn't get a time out, you got the fucking hairbrush to the ass. I knew I was too little to get the belt, but I also knew I was in big trouble. By the time I pulled up to the gate I could hear the start of the chant of the apocalypse as I knew it: "Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts..."
I was too late. Everyone was seated and they were already saying grace. I stopped. I didn't even ride into the yard. I just sat there on the Big Wheel looking down the street. Then it hit me. Just ride. Just keep on riding up and down the street like you didn't hear mom yell that dinner was ready. This could work! Just play dumb. Certainly they'd notice soon enough that I wasn't at the table. Everyone was worried about my baby sister, Carrie at the time. They'd already forgotten about little Tom and Tina. We were just rug rats that had to be taken care of. Mom would be worrying about getting everyone's plates full before she noticed I wasn't there. Oh, she'd notice, but I had a good two minutes until she'd start yelling. Just ride. Ride like a fucking lame ass until she came out and got me. This would SO work. So I did it. I started riding.
I rode to then end of our house. Normally I'd ride until the driveway and then turn around. Can't turn around now. I'm fucked if I'm this close. I needed a reason to not hear her first call for dinner. I kept riding. I rode until the end of the next house. An old couple lived there. I don't remember their names anymore but we knew them well enough that it'd be cool if i was only at their house. I kept riding. I rode until I got to Caroline's house. Caroline was a kid about my age. I only knew her because my parents knew her parents. I couldn't tell you anything about her except that she lived in that house two houses over. I rode all the way to their driveway and stopped.
I waited.
I listened.
Nothing.
Mom wasn't calling me. Had everyone forgotten about me? Maybe. Seriously, when you have that big of a family with as many issues as we had, you can't be expected to keep track of all those damn kids. I waited a little longer.
Nothing.
I looked ahead to the next house. They had an old blue car and a really nice garden in their front yard. They went to the same church as us and they always went the the 10:30 mass - same as us. They were old and had to drive their old car but we'd always see them. They'd drive away as we were walking by their house and they'd get home as we were walking back.
Somehow it felt right. Somehow it felt ok. I'd been here before. I've already gone farther than I ever should have. Fuck it. Let's ride.
It was at that point that something took over me. I didn't give a shit about dinner. I could give a damn about getting my ass spanked later. I'm riding, bitches. I rode past the old folks house. I kept on riding past the wide driveway house that I'd always wanted to do figure eights on. I kept riding to that house with the crazy ivy. I was back in new territory. I was on my own. I rode all the way to the house with the big dog. That was the first time I slowed down.
This house had the weakest ass gate you'd ever seen. It was loose enough of a gate that I could easily slip right through it. And they had the biggest fucking rottweiler you've ever seen. If it weren't so big, it would have been able to escape any time it wanted. It was only because it was so big it couldn't get through that gate. I slowed my pace. Maybe if I go slow enough it wouldn't hear me. The plastic of the Big Wheel on the cement sidewalk sounded like the rattling of bones on a jail cell. It was like the ringing of chow time for the beast. And there he is. Trotting calmly to the gate. Fear struck me like a bolt of lightning. I stopped peddling but the momentum kept me going forward. Then something amazing happened - nothing. The dog just looked at me. He knew as well as I did that I wasn't allowed to be here. His look said it all - "Where are your parents, boy?" I said nothing. I stopped the Big Wheel with the hand brake. This was my time.
I stared at the dog and he stared back. Fear dissipated into a calm understanding. He didn't want to eat me. Heck, he didn't even want to bark at me. He wanted to be me. He wanted to roam the streets free. He wanted to run until he couldn't run anymore. He knew it and I knew it. My heart jump-started. Fuck yeah! Who's going to stop us now? No one! I kicked the peddling into high gear. I didn't even check out the houses anymore. I just rode. Rode past the houses with the buganvilias in front. Didn't slow down for the oleander house. Before I knew it, it had happened.
I'd reached the far corner.
I had never in my life been there without my parents. At the far end of our block was a junior high. When you're my age, public school junior high kids might as well be Nazi's. I remember walking down there each Sunday for church and feeling the evil that emanating from that place. It's how I was brought up. They don't go to church - them public school kids. They are heathens.
But not this night. This night I was on my own. This night I was experiencing something new. I could care less about the empty school. I was fascinated by the corner. I threw on the hand brake of the Big Wheel and came to a skidding stop. I got off and stood at the corner. Being barefoot, I could feel the cement was still warm from the Valley sun beating on it. I walked to the curb. I was never allowed near the curb. I stared blankly at it. Without thinking I sat at the curb and put my feet in the street. I might as well have killed someone. I wasn't allowed in the street! Never! Ever! No how! No way!
Fuck it. Who's going to stop me? I'm on my own. I'm free. I let it soak in. It was quiet. I remember specifically noting how quiet it was. I'm not positive but I recall that it was the first time ever it being quiet while that sun was up. Coming from a big family, you notice these things. I just sat there. It was glorious. I don't remember how long I sat there but it seemed like an eternity.
For the first time ever I noticed that there was a street two blocks over that was really busy. Lots of cars were driving by. I stared and wondered where all those cars came from. I looked down at the gutter and noticed the wear the water had done to it. How many eons of rainstorms had flooded this gutter and worn it down. I would never know. I'd reached a state of nirvana. All was calm and right with the world. Then a car went rumbling by.
I snapped out of my trance. Who was that? That was the truck from three houses down across the street. Would they go to my house and tell on me? Would my mom suddenly be screaming down the street with the belt in her hand ready to whip me and then maybe kill me? FUCK!!! What am I doing here!?!? I am so fucking dead!!!!!
I hopped back on the Big Wheel and peeled out as I spun that bitch around. I peddled like my life depended on it because it probably did. The dog barked at me as I rode by but I paid it no mind. Nothing but absolute fear raced through my body. It may or may not be the first time, but I remember the feeling of adrenaline pumping through my body even at that early age. Tears started to form in my eyes at the thought of the beating I was about to take. I peddled and peddled as fast as I could. By the time I got to the old folks place, I didn't care anymore. Fuck it, right? That was so fucking cool. Who cares that I'm going to get the hair brush. It doesn't really hurt. I'd learned earlier in life that the louder I screamed, the sooner it'd stop. What if I got the belt? Could it really be that bad? Turns out I wouldn't learn for years how bad that hurts but it didn't seem like it was THAT bad that day.
A calm came over me. I'd take whatever punishment came my way. It was all worth it. I'd tasted what it meant to be alive and I was hooked. I was already thinking about how I'd get back to that corner again. I was plotting how I'd one day go all the way around the block and be able to stop to taste the victory of those raspberries on my way back around the other side of the near corner. Bring what hell you may, I have seen the glory of life and I will not be denied!!!
It was at about that moment when I came peddling up to my house. My mom had just come out to the porch. I was just at the edge of our property when I saw her come out. "Tom!" she yelled. I looked up dazed. This was it. It was time to face my punishment. A calmness took over me and I kept peddling. I'd just gotten to the gate when she yelled, "Where have you been?!"
"On my Big Wheel" I answered calmly. A stupid look came over my face. Instinct took over.
"It's dinner time. Didn't you hear me yelling?!"
"No."
"Well get in here!"
"Ok."
I turned and rode up the walkway to the front porch. I was sure she was going to grab me, lift me up, and tear every limb from my body. Instead she sighed and said, "Come on. Hurry up!" I got off the Big Wheel and took her hand as we trotted into the house.
"Go wash up."
I went to the bathroom and washed my hands. Did that just happen? No limbs missing. No sore red ass. No yelling. She didn't know I'd gone to the other side of the block. She thought I was just riding back and forth in front of the house and didn't hear her call for dinner. I'd gotten away with it.
I didn't say anything at dinner that night. I finished my tacos and took my plate to the sink. I went to my room and played with my Weeble Wobbles. In time Mom came in to put me to bed. I laid there with my green blankie and thought about the warm concrete of the far corner. I thought about that feeling of independence and solitude. I dreamed of the day I'd be able to do it again. But mostly, I thought about how I'd gotten away with it. I'd broken every rule I'd ever know except those involving fire. I'd lived life and lived to tell about it. It would become the foundation upon which I lived the rest of my life. It was the day I decided that I was going to ride that Big Wheel like I fucking owned the place.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Just don't be a dumb ass.
Nicole and I were at a wedding once.
Not that it's a crazy thing that we were at a wedding. When you're as good looking and popular as we are, you get invited to a lot of weddings. This one was when we were in our late twenties. Everyone we knew was getting married at that time. We weren't. Either we were slackers or we didn't want our relationship to end in divorce like so many of our friends - who knows. The point is we were still dating and hadn't gone through the process yet and didn't understand everything that goes into a wedding.
In this case, I was the best man. That makes this wedding special in my memory. I've only ever been the best man once and this was the time. There's a lot that goes into being the best man. You have to plan the bachelor party for one. That's not really a minimal task when you take into consideration that most of the grooms friends are total losers.
It starts with you picking a cool hotel in Vegas and guessing how many guys are actually going to show up. Everyone says they're going so you book a half dozen rooms. Then only ten show up so some people have to share and some people don't. On top of that, it's all under your name and the $1,500 you put on your credit card somehow comes out to only $600 in cash that you get from everyone.
Then you're expected to somehow entertain these losers for a weekend. You have great plans for dinner and dancing, but it turns into trying to break the 100x100 record at the In-N-Out and then a strip club (why do we ALWAYS end up at Olympic Gardens? That's another story.) Next thing you know half the guys are missing and the other half show up with toothless chicks from Minnesota in the middle of the night and you have to hear - or worse see - what goes on there.
By Sunday morning you're all hung over, hate life, and really don't want anything to do with this wedding. But as the best man, there's no walking away. You're still responsible for making sure the groom has someone to hang out with the night before the wedding, bringing the flasks to the ceremony, and - the worst part - giving the toast.
The Best Man Toast is the worst past of being a best man. It's bad enough you're being asked to entertain everyone. But on top of that, you're expected to be sincere, personal, and generally asked to act like you have some special bond with this guy when in fact you're only the best man because you've spent the last few years getting drunk together, smoking out, and generally questioning what you're doing with your life.
Back to the point of this story - the speech. After getting the bachelor party out of the way and hanging out with my friend the night before his wedding, I finally started thinking about the speech. I know, I really should have started thinking about it sooner. It's not like you can pull a sentimental thought out of your ass on a whim. You've got to plant a seed, let it sit, bake it a while, and then you can pull something out of your ass. That shit doesn't appear overnight.
I waited literally until the morning of the wedding to try to write my speech. Did I think I was some sort of Hemingway or something? Like I could sit down and put into a five minute speech how the two of them were madly in love and life was going to be perfect for them for the next sixty years? Hardly. I decided I would be the drunk, woman hating Hemingway. I started with bourbon and worked my way to Scotch. The things I came up with were not pretty.
Should I mention the time he was faithful to you only because he got so drunk he couldn't get it up? Should I mention the time we smoked out and he explained in great detail to me how he ever really loved you? How about the time we got kicked out of a strip club because he smacked that strippers ass so hard you could see his hand print as she yelled for the bouncer to kill him? Every horrible story about him came to mind and nothing nice did.
I could have talked about the time he cried in front of me because he said something to her that hurt her feelings. Or how about the time he left work early so he could surprise her with a home cooked meal just because. What about the time we were stoned and he went into a ninety minute dissertation about how he knew she was the one because she made him believe in himself. Shit like that goes over great at weddings. No, sir. I got stuck on the time he banged the bartender in the bathroom and later told you that smell was his own vomit. (You bought that?!?!)
The point is I had nothing. The day seemed to fly in a way only prison inmates can dream of. I blinked once and it was noon. I blinked twice and it was three o'clock. Next think you know I need to be at the photo shoot before the wedding. I've got nothing. Total writers block. Screw it. I'm going to do this impromptu. I mean, really, what could go wrong? I'll speak from the heart. I'll just say the first nice thing I can think of and go with it. Even if it makes no sense I'll go with it and everyone will be taken in my my sincerity. I can't fail!
By the end of photos I'd already downed a fifth. This was after I'd been drinking all morning. In hindsight, I'm not really sure how I even got to the wedding. My head was spinning and I was in a total panic. This was stupid. This was a really really bad idea. When he came up to me ten minutes before the wedding and asked me if everything was OK, I said, "I'm fucking great! I'm so happy for you, man! You deserve all of this!" What was I even talking about? I don't know, but it was going over great. Glimmer of hope. Faith in my plan. This can happen, man. I can do this!
The wedding went off without a hitch. I didn't drop the ring or forget my lines or anything. I nailed it! Thoughts of a brilliant speech started coming to me. I'd talk about when they first met. I'd talk about the first time he told me he loved her. I'd talk about when I knew they were meant for each other. This is a piece of cake! What they hell was I worried about? This wedding is going off! A shot here. A shot there. Little bit of wine. Dinner looks delicious. On top of the world, ma! On top of the world!
At the end of dinner the priest gave a speech. It was pretty good. He talked about how he'd know them since they were kids. How it always seemed right that they were together. Damn, man! He's good! I'm feeling like crying he's so good. My eyes start watering and I'm thinking, "Fuck yeah, priest. Fuck yeah!" Down this wine, it's fucking my turn. But wait... it's not quite yet. That hottie of a bridesmaid decided to go first. Whatever, man. It's cool. More time for me to check her out. Shit, yeah.
Then it hit me.
I'm loaded. Oh, shit. I'm so fucking loaded. When did I start holding the table like it was trying to fly away? How did the room turn into a merry-go-round? When did my skin start tingling like that? No, dude! No way! No cool! This isn't happening. Pull yourself together! This is it! This is the big moment. Don't fuck with this. Why does my arm hurt?
Enter Nicole's nails digging into my arm. "Wwwwwtttt hhhhhh kkkkkk ssssss aaaaaa tttttttrrrrrr iiiiiiii uuuuuu?" What?! "What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you ok? Pull it together!"
I can't even think. I feel like I'm upside down. The room isn't just spinning around; its going sideways and frontways and rightways and wrongways all at once. I can't do this. Just hold onto the table and everything will be fine. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder. It's like a trigger. It's like the hand of God just made everything ok. No matter what happens now it's all cool. Without thinking, it happens.
I vomit all over the table.
It's bad enough that I'm at a wedding and I make a mess of the table. But when you're the best man, you're not at any old table. You're at the table of honor, next to the bride and groom and the bridesmaids and grooms men. You're RIGHT NEXT TO the bride and groom. I go into a complete panic.
When you're drunk and in a panic, everything seems like a good idea. The first thing I did was wipe my mouth with my arm. That looks great on that tux you rented from Men's Warehouse. The next think I did was try to grab the glass of water in front of me and drink it. Instead I got about a mouthful and the rest poured all over me. Then the crème de la crème. For some reason I thought that I could hide all of this by taking the tablecloth and pulling it over the mess.
The nice flower centerpiece, the plates, the silverware, the wedding favors everyone was excited about - they all went crashing to the floor. I grabbed to the left and I grabbed to the right and made a huge arching motion to pull the tablecloth not only over the mess but over my head as well. Surely everyone would continue on like nothing had happened. Turns out that's not the case. The scene itself was enough to ruin the wedding, but the smell! To this day I can't bump into anyone that was at that wedding without them talking about the smell. It permeated the entire room in the blink of an eye. They couldn't get rid of it.
Nicole, of course, immediately grabbed my arm, threw it around her neck, and dragged me outside. The first chance she got, she put me into the car and drove me home. God bless that angel! She didn't bother to apologize or talk to anyone. She told me to get the rest out of my system and then threw me in the car. I remember she left the windows down. It was probably for her own good. I got so cold with the wind blowing. When I mentioned it she said something about how I better enjoy it because I'll be missing the cold when I'm in hell.
I'm still friends with the groom, but his wife hates me. Who ca blame her? I was a dumb ass. I'd like to say there's a moral to this story. But really? There's not.
Just don't be a dumb ass.
Not that it's a crazy thing that we were at a wedding. When you're as good looking and popular as we are, you get invited to a lot of weddings. This one was when we were in our late twenties. Everyone we knew was getting married at that time. We weren't. Either we were slackers or we didn't want our relationship to end in divorce like so many of our friends - who knows. The point is we were still dating and hadn't gone through the process yet and didn't understand everything that goes into a wedding.
In this case, I was the best man. That makes this wedding special in my memory. I've only ever been the best man once and this was the time. There's a lot that goes into being the best man. You have to plan the bachelor party for one. That's not really a minimal task when you take into consideration that most of the grooms friends are total losers.
It starts with you picking a cool hotel in Vegas and guessing how many guys are actually going to show up. Everyone says they're going so you book a half dozen rooms. Then only ten show up so some people have to share and some people don't. On top of that, it's all under your name and the $1,500 you put on your credit card somehow comes out to only $600 in cash that you get from everyone.
Then you're expected to somehow entertain these losers for a weekend. You have great plans for dinner and dancing, but it turns into trying to break the 100x100 record at the In-N-Out and then a strip club (why do we ALWAYS end up at Olympic Gardens? That's another story.) Next thing you know half the guys are missing and the other half show up with toothless chicks from Minnesota in the middle of the night and you have to hear - or worse see - what goes on there.
By Sunday morning you're all hung over, hate life, and really don't want anything to do with this wedding. But as the best man, there's no walking away. You're still responsible for making sure the groom has someone to hang out with the night before the wedding, bringing the flasks to the ceremony, and - the worst part - giving the toast.
The Best Man Toast is the worst past of being a best man. It's bad enough you're being asked to entertain everyone. But on top of that, you're expected to be sincere, personal, and generally asked to act like you have some special bond with this guy when in fact you're only the best man because you've spent the last few years getting drunk together, smoking out, and generally questioning what you're doing with your life.
Back to the point of this story - the speech. After getting the bachelor party out of the way and hanging out with my friend the night before his wedding, I finally started thinking about the speech. I know, I really should have started thinking about it sooner. It's not like you can pull a sentimental thought out of your ass on a whim. You've got to plant a seed, let it sit, bake it a while, and then you can pull something out of your ass. That shit doesn't appear overnight.
I waited literally until the morning of the wedding to try to write my speech. Did I think I was some sort of Hemingway or something? Like I could sit down and put into a five minute speech how the two of them were madly in love and life was going to be perfect for them for the next sixty years? Hardly. I decided I would be the drunk, woman hating Hemingway. I started with bourbon and worked my way to Scotch. The things I came up with were not pretty.
Should I mention the time he was faithful to you only because he got so drunk he couldn't get it up? Should I mention the time we smoked out and he explained in great detail to me how he ever really loved you? How about the time we got kicked out of a strip club because he smacked that strippers ass so hard you could see his hand print as she yelled for the bouncer to kill him? Every horrible story about him came to mind and nothing nice did.
I could have talked about the time he cried in front of me because he said something to her that hurt her feelings. Or how about the time he left work early so he could surprise her with a home cooked meal just because. What about the time we were stoned and he went into a ninety minute dissertation about how he knew she was the one because she made him believe in himself. Shit like that goes over great at weddings. No, sir. I got stuck on the time he banged the bartender in the bathroom and later told you that smell was his own vomit. (You bought that?!?!)
The point is I had nothing. The day seemed to fly in a way only prison inmates can dream of. I blinked once and it was noon. I blinked twice and it was three o'clock. Next think you know I need to be at the photo shoot before the wedding. I've got nothing. Total writers block. Screw it. I'm going to do this impromptu. I mean, really, what could go wrong? I'll speak from the heart. I'll just say the first nice thing I can think of and go with it. Even if it makes no sense I'll go with it and everyone will be taken in my my sincerity. I can't fail!
By the end of photos I'd already downed a fifth. This was after I'd been drinking all morning. In hindsight, I'm not really sure how I even got to the wedding. My head was spinning and I was in a total panic. This was stupid. This was a really really bad idea. When he came up to me ten minutes before the wedding and asked me if everything was OK, I said, "I'm fucking great! I'm so happy for you, man! You deserve all of this!" What was I even talking about? I don't know, but it was going over great. Glimmer of hope. Faith in my plan. This can happen, man. I can do this!
The wedding went off without a hitch. I didn't drop the ring or forget my lines or anything. I nailed it! Thoughts of a brilliant speech started coming to me. I'd talk about when they first met. I'd talk about the first time he told me he loved her. I'd talk about when I knew they were meant for each other. This is a piece of cake! What they hell was I worried about? This wedding is going off! A shot here. A shot there. Little bit of wine. Dinner looks delicious. On top of the world, ma! On top of the world!
At the end of dinner the priest gave a speech. It was pretty good. He talked about how he'd know them since they were kids. How it always seemed right that they were together. Damn, man! He's good! I'm feeling like crying he's so good. My eyes start watering and I'm thinking, "Fuck yeah, priest. Fuck yeah!" Down this wine, it's fucking my turn. But wait... it's not quite yet. That hottie of a bridesmaid decided to go first. Whatever, man. It's cool. More time for me to check her out. Shit, yeah.
Then it hit me.
I'm loaded. Oh, shit. I'm so fucking loaded. When did I start holding the table like it was trying to fly away? How did the room turn into a merry-go-round? When did my skin start tingling like that? No, dude! No way! No cool! This isn't happening. Pull yourself together! This is it! This is the big moment. Don't fuck with this. Why does my arm hurt?
Enter Nicole's nails digging into my arm. "Wwwwwtttt hhhhhh kkkkkk ssssss aaaaaa tttttttrrrrrr iiiiiiii uuuuuu?" What?! "What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you ok? Pull it together!"
I can't even think. I feel like I'm upside down. The room isn't just spinning around; its going sideways and frontways and rightways and wrongways all at once. I can't do this. Just hold onto the table and everything will be fine. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder. It's like a trigger. It's like the hand of God just made everything ok. No matter what happens now it's all cool. Without thinking, it happens.
I vomit all over the table.
It's bad enough that I'm at a wedding and I make a mess of the table. But when you're the best man, you're not at any old table. You're at the table of honor, next to the bride and groom and the bridesmaids and grooms men. You're RIGHT NEXT TO the bride and groom. I go into a complete panic.
When you're drunk and in a panic, everything seems like a good idea. The first thing I did was wipe my mouth with my arm. That looks great on that tux you rented from Men's Warehouse. The next think I did was try to grab the glass of water in front of me and drink it. Instead I got about a mouthful and the rest poured all over me. Then the crème de la crème. For some reason I thought that I could hide all of this by taking the tablecloth and pulling it over the mess.
The nice flower centerpiece, the plates, the silverware, the wedding favors everyone was excited about - they all went crashing to the floor. I grabbed to the left and I grabbed to the right and made a huge arching motion to pull the tablecloth not only over the mess but over my head as well. Surely everyone would continue on like nothing had happened. Turns out that's not the case. The scene itself was enough to ruin the wedding, but the smell! To this day I can't bump into anyone that was at that wedding without them talking about the smell. It permeated the entire room in the blink of an eye. They couldn't get rid of it.
Nicole, of course, immediately grabbed my arm, threw it around her neck, and dragged me outside. The first chance she got, she put me into the car and drove me home. God bless that angel! She didn't bother to apologize or talk to anyone. She told me to get the rest out of my system and then threw me in the car. I remember she left the windows down. It was probably for her own good. I got so cold with the wind blowing. When I mentioned it she said something about how I better enjoy it because I'll be missing the cold when I'm in hell.
I'm still friends with the groom, but his wife hates me. Who ca blame her? I was a dumb ass. I'd like to say there's a moral to this story. But really? There's not.
Just don't be a dumb ass.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
That was a good fucking sandwich
Repost of my original Facebook note from Friday, July 16, 2010 at 11:34am
Today I'm in Philly with Nicole. She's off presenting at some English Nerd Conference so I decided to tour the city and try some of this world famous cheesesteak I've heard so much about. Apparently two of the best places out here, Geno's and Pat's are only two miles away from the hotel we're staying at. What better way to get to know the city than to walk over there and try them out?
The news has been whining all morning about how hot it's going to be today. When I first stepped out, I immediately thought these people are a bunch of wusses. This is not hot. This is moderately warm. Hot is 105 in the San Fernando Valley in the summer. Really hot is 120 in Vegas in the summer. Hot is opening the door and feeling the heat smack you in that face. That's the Valley. Really hot is opening the door and feeling the moisture in your eyeballs vanish while you have visions of your death pass over you. That's Vegas. Today was, "It's warm out; glad I wore shorts." And so I began my tour with a hop in my step ready to check this town out.
Now, we're staying in Society Hill which is apparently the historic area. The buildings are pretty neat - at least for this kid from the Valley. But there's something off about this place. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first but about half a mile in I figure it out. The ratio of hot chicks to even moderately good looking guys here is like forty to one. Am I hallucinating? Is this moderately warm day getting to my head? Nope. It's weird but true. There are really hot chicks all over the place. Walking their dogs (which, by the way, are almost exclusively pitbull here) and shopping and socializing. Granted, it's moderately warm so everyone is in their summer outfits, but as I look around I'm noticing all the guys are generally pretty ugly. I know, this is a really odd observation, but it was real and it was distracting me from the architecture.
About halfway there a light breeze picked up. This made the weather very nice. Seriously, I could love this place. I can't believe the people here are such pansies. No wonder they can't win in sports. Man up people!
The second half of the trip out there made me realize something else about the people here. They're all tattooed. I mean EVERYONE! Little kids were inked up and giving me attitude. Grandma's out for a walk with their other grannie friends were inked up chatting up a storm. I felt like a freak for my pure skin. Even all the hot chicks walking by looked like they might cut me if I didn't smile at them. Maybe they are tough here? No time to think about it. We're here!
I stopped by Geno's first because it was on my side of the street. The person in line in front of me kept asking the lady questions and was pissing the lady off. Then she tried to pay with a credit card and the lady ordered her to leave and come back with cash. She was with her little boy of about six so I manned up and said, "I got her." The mean lady behind the counter snapped back, "Then what do you want?" I quickly replied "provolone with" and paid the lady with cash. The lady in front of me thanked me very much and then asked what it was I ordered. I explained the cheeses and the with/without onions, etc. She asked what you're supposed to say if you want mushrooms or peppers and I told her I had no idea - this was my first time in Philly. She laughed, thanked me again and we went our separate ways. All in all, it was an ok sandwich. Nothing really special about it. I know a bunch of you are going to say I should have gone with the whiz, but I felt I should go classic my first time.
Now, the plan at this point was to go back to the hotel. I'd decided I was going to do one place today and the other tomorrow. But while posting pictures on Facebook, Rocky Zamora challenged me to compare both today. As most of you know, I generally don't back down from a challenge. You probably also know that challenges rarely work out well for me.
Going from Geno's to Pat's was like going from McDonalds to In-N-Out. There's really no comparison. Geno's has all the tourist crap you can buy to tell your friends you were in Philly. Pat's has none of that but they do have an old grouchy guy taking your order and inked up juice heads giving you your drink. The sandwich here had at least twice the meat and the quality of that meat was at least twice as good. The bread was probably better at Geno's but the way it all came together at Pat's made this a first round KO. I was actually a little worried after eating at Geno's that I would be biased towards them because I was kinda full when I went to Pat's. I ended up scarfing down the sandwich and getting another soda for the walk back to the hotel. I hadn't stretched my stomach like this in a while!
This is where I realized what a huge mistake I'd made. First, it's gone from moderately warm to kinda hot. It's true that humidity makes things worse, but that wasn't what was getting to me. I didn't make it two blocks before I realized my stomach was about to rip open and I had two miles to walk. Whose stupid idea was it to walk? And why the hell did I decide to wear an absorbent dark blue shirt today? I'm only barely starting to sweat but it's getting highlighted on this shirt. Stupid Nike wardrobe!
Halfway back and I was ready to vomit. I'm sweating like a slob and I'm cramping up from walking while too full. There was a small bench next to one of the buildings I was walking by and it was in the shade so I decided to rest. Turns out that people here consider this part of the sidewalk their porch. An older lady named Angie came out to talk to me. She's retired and has lived there for almost 30 years. I told her my story and she laughed. She said she was proud of me for being committed, then told me to keep walking. I'm not sure if she was trying to encourage me to finish my journey or just telling me to get the fuck off her porch. Either way, I smiled, said thanks for the shade and kept walking.
By the time I got back to the hotel, I looked like I'd just ran a half marathon. I was completely drenched in sweat and was out of soda. My stomach didn't hurt as much so that was fine, but the doormen were laughing when I walked up and said, "Hot out there?" What am I going to say? I wanted to say "No you fucking pussies! Stop complaining about the heat!" Unfortunately, the sweat pouring down my face lead me to reply, "It's a little warm." When I got back to my room I downed a $500 bottle of water (or whatever they charge for it) and splashed water in my face to cool off and stop sweating.
Moral of the story? If I'd have just gone to Geno's I'd be fucking pissed at walking all the way down there for a half-ass sandwich. While going to Pat's may have made the trip back an exercise in endurance, I'm sitting here now thinking, "I'm going to have to go back tomorrow. That was a good fucking sandwich."
Today I'm in Philly with Nicole. She's off presenting at some English Nerd Conference so I decided to tour the city and try some of this world famous cheesesteak I've heard so much about. Apparently two of the best places out here, Geno's and Pat's are only two miles away from the hotel we're staying at. What better way to get to know the city than to walk over there and try them out?
The news has been whining all morning about how hot it's going to be today. When I first stepped out, I immediately thought these people are a bunch of wusses. This is not hot. This is moderately warm. Hot is 105 in the San Fernando Valley in the summer. Really hot is 120 in Vegas in the summer. Hot is opening the door and feeling the heat smack you in that face. That's the Valley. Really hot is opening the door and feeling the moisture in your eyeballs vanish while you have visions of your death pass over you. That's Vegas. Today was, "It's warm out; glad I wore shorts." And so I began my tour with a hop in my step ready to check this town out.
Now, we're staying in Society Hill which is apparently the historic area. The buildings are pretty neat - at least for this kid from the Valley. But there's something off about this place. I couldn't quite put my finger on it at first but about half a mile in I figure it out. The ratio of hot chicks to even moderately good looking guys here is like forty to one. Am I hallucinating? Is this moderately warm day getting to my head? Nope. It's weird but true. There are really hot chicks all over the place. Walking their dogs (which, by the way, are almost exclusively pitbull here) and shopping and socializing. Granted, it's moderately warm so everyone is in their summer outfits, but as I look around I'm noticing all the guys are generally pretty ugly. I know, this is a really odd observation, but it was real and it was distracting me from the architecture.
About halfway there a light breeze picked up. This made the weather very nice. Seriously, I could love this place. I can't believe the people here are such pansies. No wonder they can't win in sports. Man up people!
The second half of the trip out there made me realize something else about the people here. They're all tattooed. I mean EVERYONE! Little kids were inked up and giving me attitude. Grandma's out for a walk with their other grannie friends were inked up chatting up a storm. I felt like a freak for my pure skin. Even all the hot chicks walking by looked like they might cut me if I didn't smile at them. Maybe they are tough here? No time to think about it. We're here!
 |
| I almost forgot pictures for you guys! This is Geno's. |
Now, the plan at this point was to go back to the hotel. I'd decided I was going to do one place today and the other tomorrow. But while posting pictures on Facebook, Rocky Zamora challenged me to compare both today. As most of you know, I generally don't back down from a challenge. You probably also know that challenges rarely work out well for me.
 |
| And this is Pat's... |
This is where I realized what a huge mistake I'd made. First, it's gone from moderately warm to kinda hot. It's true that humidity makes things worse, but that wasn't what was getting to me. I didn't make it two blocks before I realized my stomach was about to rip open and I had two miles to walk. Whose stupid idea was it to walk? And why the hell did I decide to wear an absorbent dark blue shirt today? I'm only barely starting to sweat but it's getting highlighted on this shirt. Stupid Nike wardrobe!
Halfway back and I was ready to vomit. I'm sweating like a slob and I'm cramping up from walking while too full. There was a small bench next to one of the buildings I was walking by and it was in the shade so I decided to rest. Turns out that people here consider this part of the sidewalk their porch. An older lady named Angie came out to talk to me. She's retired and has lived there for almost 30 years. I told her my story and she laughed. She said she was proud of me for being committed, then told me to keep walking. I'm not sure if she was trying to encourage me to finish my journey or just telling me to get the fuck off her porch. Either way, I smiled, said thanks for the shade and kept walking.
By the time I got back to the hotel, I looked like I'd just ran a half marathon. I was completely drenched in sweat and was out of soda. My stomach didn't hurt as much so that was fine, but the doormen were laughing when I walked up and said, "Hot out there?" What am I going to say? I wanted to say "No you fucking pussies! Stop complaining about the heat!" Unfortunately, the sweat pouring down my face lead me to reply, "It's a little warm." When I got back to my room I downed a $500 bottle of water (or whatever they charge for it) and splashed water in my face to cool off and stop sweating.
Moral of the story? If I'd have just gone to Geno's I'd be fucking pissed at walking all the way down there for a half-ass sandwich. While going to Pat's may have made the trip back an exercise in endurance, I'm sitting here now thinking, "I'm going to have to go back tomorrow. That was a good fucking sandwich."
Hello
Earlier this summer I went on vacation and wrote about it on Facebook. A ninja friend of mine complained that while one particular story was entertaining, she couldn't send a link to her friends to read it. Not wanting to upset a ninja, I began thinking of options. My wife happens to teach writing and uses blogs to allow her students to share their writing. When I suggested it as an option she replied, "Do it, clown!"
So, here we are - a place for me to give you short stories and anecdotes about whatever entertains me at the time.
So, here we are - a place for me to give you short stories and anecdotes about whatever entertains me at the time.
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