Words fail to illustrate how intense fasting can be when you've lived an all too American lifestyle. Eating at least three times a day with interludes of cheeses, breads, and alcohol make it hard on the body to deal with the stress involved in little or no caloric intake.
This story begins after a week long fast, medically induced, with only half of a Taco Bell seven layer burrito to protect me from the ravishes of alcohol.
I had only been at work for four hours when my pals decided that it was time to punch the clock right at the absolute minimum of a work day and head to the bowling alley for some beer and rollin'. I was down for a game and with the recent influx of nutrients was feeling almost myself again. On the way to the bowling alley I made a pit stop at the gas station and bought a six pack of Sam Adams and cracked one in the bowling alley parking lot while waiting for everyone to arrive. I poured it right down my throat and opened the 2nd when the first car pulled in.
I have to note here that I wasn't drinking so soon because I was in the constant thrall of booze but was being my usual cheap self by drinking before we got inside so I didn't have to pay the crazy mark up of the bar. I still drink beforehand to this day in order to avoid huge bills in restaurants, parties, bars, and other events that require concession stands.
Back to the second beer.
I was halfway done with it but my shrunken stomach wouldn't allow that much volume and my coworker was fast approaching my car and I didn't want to appear like a drunken driver so I stashed it in the space between my console and the seat and exited.
We went inside and got our shoes and balls while everyone else slowly poured in. When all the boys were present and accounted for we started to roll and drink our first round of brews. Somewhere in the lapse of time it took us to bowl one round with six guys on two lanes that beer and a half hit me like a shot of heroin. I started to get loud and obnoxious with my friends. Pushing everyone as they were trying to bowl. I even threw my ball down (overhand) the lane making a terrible noise when it slammed in to the polished wood like a shot from a small cannon.
I drank a beer from the round someone bought while we were bowling and that is the last thing I remember.
Everything I am about to share with you comes from the witnesses and victims of that night. I don't have any personal memories.
The guys were fed up with my antics and assumed I had been drinking quite a bit before they arrived and wanted to be rid of me so they ended the second game after just a few frames. They wouldn't believe it had they known that I only had two and a half beers in my system. This extreme effect was only because my system had nothing else to process or digest but half a burrito and alcohol for calories so it was feasting on everything I gave it like a starving roach.
Everyone began putting on their street shoes and replacing the lane balls in those silly racks while my two best buds started walking to the counter to turn in their bowling shoes. I got up and closed in behind them having decided to tackle and hold them to the ground with some fantastic wrestling moves that I had just invented. They were able to overpower me in short order and stood me back up with exasperated complaints about my douche-ness.
Another digression in order to provide relevant back story: at the time of this event I was working with explosives in a career field that necessitated that everyone employed in the same line of work to yell/call themselves AMMO (as in ammunition).
The whole time I was attempting to physically restrain my buddies to the dirty carpet of the bowling alley I was yelling "AMMO" at the top of my lungs. When the three of us were finally standing up and preparing to return our shoes to the counter an elderly gentleman walked up to the whole group and said "I couldn't help but hear you all call out AMMO. Are you all AMMO troops?"
In short discourse we revealed that we were indeed AMMO troops and that this elderly chap was our newly arrived commanding chief fresh from another assignment. He had landed at the airport unannounced and without fanfare and went to the only safe haven that served booze early in the day without suspicion...the bowling alley. He proceeded to introduce himself to my five other buddies while one on each side of me were dutifully holding me back from spilling back on to the ground. Everyone did their handshake and greeting leaving me in the center of the circle without introduction. After a second or two he hesitantly asked who I was as he reached his hand out to complete his first welcome and introduction to the team when instead of shaking his hand I did the ol' slap the balls. You know, like best buds do when they want to catch a bro unawares. An old fashion nut slap.
He looked at everyone else and said "You need to get this guy out of here."
They did. To my car.
Only to decide that everyone should go to the club together and bring me along.
Now, this wasn't just any club. This was a super club. Inside its gilded halls (seriously) was a country bar, a sports bar, a banquet hall, a dance club, and a rock-n-roll bar. All separate from each other but accessible via long and elegant halls with couches interspersed for the walk weary.
Once we arrived, in some carriage that has never been explained to me, everyone headed straight for the sports bar. I walked in behind the whole group, who may or may not have grown in number, as they headed for the bartender to start a new round. Everyone was already gathering around a corner of the bar and talking to two guys who were taller than the rest. I pushed my way past the guys in front and stood toe to toe with a 6'8" man with a shock of white hair and mustache. My instincts told me this was Santa Claus and so I yelled out "Santa!" and tried to throw my arms around the towering figure before me. You can imagine my surprise when he pushed me down to the floor and said "Someone get this motherfucker off a me!". You see, this wasn't Santa at all, in fact this was our chief. The most important dude to anyone in AMMO is the AMMO chief and here he was being accosted by a drunken underlying. Someone must have pulled me out of the bar and away from the scene only to deposit my carcass on a couch in the long hallway just outside the sports bar. They abandoned me there to my own devices.
Sleep came over me. Deep and dark was my slumber.
Whatever length of time had elapsed from the moment I met Santa until I came back to consciousnesses is still unknown to me. I do know I was sitting next to my buddy Smiley. He too was inebriated and coming back out of a short alcoholic coma. In each hand was a drink to which he offered me one while he drank the other. Darkness swept back over me after drinking the somewhat warm beverage.
When I came to for the final time I found myself sitting slumped over on a toilet seat in the male bathroom of the same club. My pants were down around my ankles and many forms of human waste encircled me. I blinked away the daze and looked back down at my pants piled on top my shoes when I noticed something that did not make sense. Another pair of shoes and pants in my stall. The door to my stall was shut, yet there were two pair of legs with pants and shoes intact sticking out underneath the stall I was in. Blinking and staring at the scene allowed me to finally surmise that someone was passed out in the stall next to me and had fallen which left them half in their stall and half in mine. Relief passed over me as I realized there hadn't been any hanky panky going on. Still, the alarming sight prompted me to make a quick change to my surroundings and so I began to stand up while pulling up my pants. The vertigo that ensued as I bent over caused me to vomit into my own pant legs. I became distraught over the idea of puke filled pants and decided to reach over and grab several handfuls of toilet paper to clean them out. As I bent back over to wipe away the vomit I started to retch again. I bent over further to avoid my pants and puked upon the legs of the stranger in my toilet stall. The reality of my situation hit me full force; here I was in some bathroom covered in puke, puking on someone I didn't know. A fight could occur at any moment if this guy wakes up and I was a sitting duck, literally.
I stuffed the toilet paper in to my pant legs to help with the soaking process and hiked up my pants to make double time out of the locale. Once out in the hallway I felt a lot better what with groups of intensely drunk people all around and no one yelling "Stop him!". I shuffled out of the main entrance and in to the parking lot only to realize that my car was not there. The odor of my own vomit was beginning to make me nauseous and further destabilizing my already precarious state so I took off across the street, through some trees, in to a dorm, up some stairs, and down a hall. If you can picture all of this happening with the fuzziest of visions while grasping at everything from cars to trashcans for stability, that's how I made my way.
On the third floor I stumbled down to each of my friend's doors and knocked. No one answered and all were locked save one. When I turned the knob to her door it opened easily and I practically fell in. There in front of me were my two buds (one male and one female) in coitus. She was riding her partner with the table lamp illuminating the whole scene behind them, almost beautifully. It took one second for her to dismount and wrap up under the covers screaming "What the hell are you doing?" to which I slurred "Where the fuck are my keys?" (referring to my car keys). She replied that they didn't know what I was talking about or where these keys I was referring to were. So I walked out, cursing their names and continued on my way to the bowling alley from whence this adventure started. I walked in the dark, using the word "walk" loosely, about two miles to get from superbar to bowling alley and never once crossing paths with a police officer.
When I finally crossed the distance from the club where I was abandon to the bowling alley parking lot my pants were completely wet and disgusting with vomit and my shirt was no better for wear. I stood in front of my car and stripped naked in hopes of freeing myself of the Earthly bonds that held me. When I fell in to my car seat I discovered that my keys were in the ignition. In a moment of ignorance and willful adventure I decided to drive home. The drive was not without incident as I went downtown, naked, and demanded to know where the party was only to be dismissed. Once I arrived home my roommate came downstairs and caught me trying to act nonchalant sitting at the computer like I was surfing....naked and covered in vomit.
In a few hours after the sun had risen my phone rang and the chief demanded my immediate presence at the munitions area. I arrived showered, shaven, and in bad shape to explain my unusual predicament of the fast and several beers. Understanding was had by all, I was not put in jail, but penance was required so mowing the lawn all weekend alone listening to the sounds from the band moe. tempered my sadness...and hangover.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
The Week Long Fast, and Furious
For several years back in the day I suffered from strange bouts of stomach pain and other troublesome symptoms. The doctors had tried giving me different prescriptions and diet plans without success. Several exploratory surgeries later and I was still no closer to gastronomic salvation. Sitting in yet another doctor's office, through referral, I was answering the familiar round of questions and allowing cold equipment to be thrust in to my eyes and ears as if somehow my problems were located in those cavities instead of down in my warm gutty wuts. I began wondering what this guy was getting at with the old rigamarole and if I was ever going to find a doctor that cared enough to look at my problems in a new way when all of a sudden he piped up that he wanted to look at my whole "tract". We began talking about how the digestive system works and where things go after they've passed over your taste buds and with that hope begin to spring in my mind. He explained the procedure, the cameras, the fasting, and the resulting images they would have for the first time. It sounded good and I said it was a deal.
That following Monday I began my fast. I couldn't eat anything but was allowed to drink any clear liquid I wanted. All the Gatorade, water, broth, and apple juice I ever wanted could be mine. I had to let all the material in my body clear out before they could photograph my innards. The fasting would make me clean as a whistle. Little did I know that it would make me hallucinate, lose control of my faculties, and go all Edgar Allan Poe as well.
Day 1 was pretty uneventful with only murmurs from underneath my shirt to remind me that something was going on. The night was a little rough with nightmares waking me up and a fridge waiting down stairs in the dark to unfold all of her chill-preserved delights. Like a demon beckoning the sinful to commit a crime the appliance worked my every nerve until dawn. I felt much better showering and putting on my work clothes for a full day of distraction and mild labor.
Day 2 was all about channeling my energy. Every time I saw a buddy eat a handful of mixed nuts or sandwich from a Ziploc bag I wanted to non-nonchalantly ask for a portion under the ruse "I forgot my lunch." but this wasn't about losing weight or for a dare, it was for my health. I had to do it! And so the day wore on, and I do mean wore on...me. I thought of food incessantly. Everyone seemed to be eating constantly. Snacks. Lunch. Early dinner. Noonsies. For the love of all that is holy, why?! I went to bed after I got home and drank vegetable broth and a 20 oz lemon flavored Gatorade. I was hoping that sleep would save me from my suffering. I was wrong. Again the nightmares plagued me, night sweats too.
Day 3 was the end of my fast. I went to the doctor's bright and early with bells on my toes. I sat in the waiting room looking at everyone with a vengeful eye. The thought that each one of them was here to see my doctor tortured my mind while I wished for each stranger to have cold sores or warts. I need everyone in that room to get the hell out of my way so we could get this motherlovin' procedure over with. Thoughts of bean burritos and crackers loaded with cheese filled the spaces between my anguish and hatred for the other patients. Each named called by the nurse at the desk elicited a spike of excitement followed by the deepest darkness when it wasn't my name. Finally she called my name and it might as well have been an ice cream truck 19 years earlier the way I ran passed her in to the hallway towards the doctor's private room. We went through the "How are you?" and "Let's check you out." quickly so I could get under the x-ray and off to eat. After disrobing and getting my picture taken I sat on the ugly green upholstered inspection table awaiting his return for what seemed like an hour. About 10 minutes later he walked in and informed me that my "tract" wasn't clear yet and that I would have to continue to fast. I almost wept. I almost got up and told him to shove a tongue depressor up his rectum. I almost said screw it all. Instead, I hung my head and thanked him. Off to work to starve all day long and avoid the world as they ate what seemed like a cornucopia of tender vittles. Mer de noms shoveling bite after bite into each hungry hole while my own sad hole went empty.
I went to bed immediately after work. I had to hide from everyone and everything, including myself.
Day 4 was like a dream from the moment I woke up. I felt like cellophane and lighter than a dust bunny. Trying to work was the worst and every action I tried to command of my body was met with resistance. All my thoughts seemed to be melting in a heat of hunger and left me without aim or ability. Everyone either made fun of me for my obvious weakened state or pitied me like a leper standing on the other side of the fence. I achieved very little that day and shouldn't have driven home as I don't remember operating any machinery. I had begun drinking Gatorade and vegetable broth by the gallon in hopes that it would fill me up or make me explode. Freedom from this mortal coil was all that I wished for that night as I did not kneel before my bed and if I did it was from weakness and the inability to reach the mattress before my legs gave out. I slept in a dry sea. Not rolling on the waves of dreams but resting still as a corpse on the cracked, but smooth, surface of an ancient sea. Rest came for me but not peace.
Day 5 was the last I was going to do no matter what the doctors said or what I needed to do for my health. It was a sunny Friday and the week had passed slow like a death row sentence. I barely made it to the doctor's office for the final check-in. A quick scan showed me clear and ready for the procedure so off they sent me in the pale blue gown. I walked in to a larger than normal x-ray room with a what can only be described as Dr. Evil's death ray machine pointing down at a little metal table. Two young and attractive nurses began to prep items on a table and provide me instructions.
I was to lie face down on the table and keep my arms stretched above my head. They were going to open the back of my gown and expose my rump to the air. In intervals they were going to insert a tube in my glory hole and force a white reactive liquid in to my bowels followed by blasts of air. I was not to fight against the pressure or anything else of that matter and listen to their softly spoken commands throughout the event.
Meanwhile, I am trying to maintain composure through my delirious state and not notice the 10 foot long mirror at the other side of the room. The nurses made me blush, the tubes made me uncomfortable, and that mirror made me extremely self conscious.
As the first of the liquid filled my cavity (sorry folks, this is my story!) followed by an air burst I wanted to call foul! My body was demanding that I force everything right back out and I was about to when the image of those two young nurses standing behind me getting inadvertently painted white by the reactive stuff they were filling my bottom with stopped my urges. The table began to tilt my head down and my feet up. The death ray whirred to life and the air kept pumping in me. I could feel my stomach getting larger and the inevitable was upon me. From somewhere behind me a heard a lovely voice say "You can release now Mr. Davis." and I did.
What a mess!
The table returned to a flat position and one of the nurses came over to wipe me up. I decided two things: I was never going to look these women in the face, and I was never going to be old and incontinent.
The nurse spoke similar words of instruction and reassurance as she came along my side to adjust something which attracted my attention to the side. I felt the need to make sure whatever she was doing to my anus was not painful or too revealing. What I saw when I turned my head was that mirror was no longer an opaque reflection of the torment I was enduring but was now a window back lit with several men standing as audience. No Greek choir were these men, here to sing the troubled song of my tragedy, but doctors virgin to the procedure I was conceding to and here to bare first witness, like my butt-hole.
On and on the nauseating tilting of the table and filling of my cavity went.
"Mr. Davis, don't..." and "It's ok now Mr. Davis..."
Finally, it was over and the tube were extracted and the nurses stepped away from my broken and useless body. The blonde one pointed towards a door and said "The bathroom is right there. Go on in and just let everything out. You can go get dressed after that. Thank you."
I goosed stepped to that bathroom using my butt cheeks like vices to hold in every last bit of dignity I had until I could sit down on the toilet.
Once I sat down on the toilet I had about two seconds left of will when I noticed that the door I came in had about a three inch gap from the floor to the bottom of the door and the same for the door I was supposed to exit from.
It didn't matter at that point. My butt, weakened from the labor I had just demanded of it, and opened up the flood gates. Sounds of moose in rut, a Pacific island volcano erupting from the sea, and semi's tractor trailer tire impacting a steel shard filled the small bathroom. The x-ray room echoed a dull return of my outbursts. Much to my horror the door I was to exit through didn't go to the dressing room but in to the hallway connecting the many doctor's private rooms and the waiting room I was in not 30 minutes ago.
In between the deafening roar of my ass I heard people gasp, make sounds of astonishment, anguish, and laughter. I decided there was no way I could exit through that door and in to what could only be a crowd of people waiting to mock me then burn my carcass like a witch.
When I finally had expelled everything they had put in me and cleaned what there was to clean off the floor, toilet seat, toilet back, and my legs, I stood up and tried to open the door I came in through. It was locked.
You heartless hinds! You sick practitioners of human torment! A one way street of shame eh?
I had to walk through that hallway door and in to my humiliation. So I opened it and walked out like the broken piece of trash that I was towards the room where my clothes hung and got dressed. I skulked out of that hospital like a pervert getting therapy and ran to my car.
I couldn't drive my car fast enough to Taco Bell. I ordered a Double Decker Taco and a 7 Layer Burrito and tried to eat them like a hyena eating its first zebra in weeks. I got about halfway through the burrito when max capacity was reached in my shrunken stomach. I looked wistfully at the remainders of my food and promised to devour them soon enough.
Off to work I went with a renewed since of humility and love of mastication.
Only 4 hours later I would be entering in to a whole new realm of experience. An all new low in human behavior and depravity.
This story will be told in the continuation as "Drinking With Santa Claus".
That following Monday I began my fast. I couldn't eat anything but was allowed to drink any clear liquid I wanted. All the Gatorade, water, broth, and apple juice I ever wanted could be mine. I had to let all the material in my body clear out before they could photograph my innards. The fasting would make me clean as a whistle. Little did I know that it would make me hallucinate, lose control of my faculties, and go all Edgar Allan Poe as well.
Day 1 was pretty uneventful with only murmurs from underneath my shirt to remind me that something was going on. The night was a little rough with nightmares waking me up and a fridge waiting down stairs in the dark to unfold all of her chill-preserved delights. Like a demon beckoning the sinful to commit a crime the appliance worked my every nerve until dawn. I felt much better showering and putting on my work clothes for a full day of distraction and mild labor.
Day 2 was all about channeling my energy. Every time I saw a buddy eat a handful of mixed nuts or sandwich from a Ziploc bag I wanted to non-nonchalantly ask for a portion under the ruse "I forgot my lunch." but this wasn't about losing weight or for a dare, it was for my health. I had to do it! And so the day wore on, and I do mean wore on...me. I thought of food incessantly. Everyone seemed to be eating constantly. Snacks. Lunch. Early dinner. Noonsies. For the love of all that is holy, why?! I went to bed after I got home and drank vegetable broth and a 20 oz lemon flavored Gatorade. I was hoping that sleep would save me from my suffering. I was wrong. Again the nightmares plagued me, night sweats too.
Day 3 was the end of my fast. I went to the doctor's bright and early with bells on my toes. I sat in the waiting room looking at everyone with a vengeful eye. The thought that each one of them was here to see my doctor tortured my mind while I wished for each stranger to have cold sores or warts. I need everyone in that room to get the hell out of my way so we could get this motherlovin' procedure over with. Thoughts of bean burritos and crackers loaded with cheese filled the spaces between my anguish and hatred for the other patients. Each named called by the nurse at the desk elicited a spike of excitement followed by the deepest darkness when it wasn't my name. Finally she called my name and it might as well have been an ice cream truck 19 years earlier the way I ran passed her in to the hallway towards the doctor's private room. We went through the "How are you?" and "Let's check you out." quickly so I could get under the x-ray and off to eat. After disrobing and getting my picture taken I sat on the ugly green upholstered inspection table awaiting his return for what seemed like an hour. About 10 minutes later he walked in and informed me that my "tract" wasn't clear yet and that I would have to continue to fast. I almost wept. I almost got up and told him to shove a tongue depressor up his rectum. I almost said screw it all. Instead, I hung my head and thanked him. Off to work to starve all day long and avoid the world as they ate what seemed like a cornucopia of tender vittles. Mer de noms shoveling bite after bite into each hungry hole while my own sad hole went empty.
I went to bed immediately after work. I had to hide from everyone and everything, including myself.
Day 4 was like a dream from the moment I woke up. I felt like cellophane and lighter than a dust bunny. Trying to work was the worst and every action I tried to command of my body was met with resistance. All my thoughts seemed to be melting in a heat of hunger and left me without aim or ability. Everyone either made fun of me for my obvious weakened state or pitied me like a leper standing on the other side of the fence. I achieved very little that day and shouldn't have driven home as I don't remember operating any machinery. I had begun drinking Gatorade and vegetable broth by the gallon in hopes that it would fill me up or make me explode. Freedom from this mortal coil was all that I wished for that night as I did not kneel before my bed and if I did it was from weakness and the inability to reach the mattress before my legs gave out. I slept in a dry sea. Not rolling on the waves of dreams but resting still as a corpse on the cracked, but smooth, surface of an ancient sea. Rest came for me but not peace.
Day 5 was the last I was going to do no matter what the doctors said or what I needed to do for my health. It was a sunny Friday and the week had passed slow like a death row sentence. I barely made it to the doctor's office for the final check-in. A quick scan showed me clear and ready for the procedure so off they sent me in the pale blue gown. I walked in to a larger than normal x-ray room with a what can only be described as Dr. Evil's death ray machine pointing down at a little metal table. Two young and attractive nurses began to prep items on a table and provide me instructions.
I was to lie face down on the table and keep my arms stretched above my head. They were going to open the back of my gown and expose my rump to the air. In intervals they were going to insert a tube in my glory hole and force a white reactive liquid in to my bowels followed by blasts of air. I was not to fight against the pressure or anything else of that matter and listen to their softly spoken commands throughout the event.
Meanwhile, I am trying to maintain composure through my delirious state and not notice the 10 foot long mirror at the other side of the room. The nurses made me blush, the tubes made me uncomfortable, and that mirror made me extremely self conscious.
As the first of the liquid filled my cavity (sorry folks, this is my story!) followed by an air burst I wanted to call foul! My body was demanding that I force everything right back out and I was about to when the image of those two young nurses standing behind me getting inadvertently painted white by the reactive stuff they were filling my bottom with stopped my urges. The table began to tilt my head down and my feet up. The death ray whirred to life and the air kept pumping in me. I could feel my stomach getting larger and the inevitable was upon me. From somewhere behind me a heard a lovely voice say "You can release now Mr. Davis." and I did.
What a mess!
The table returned to a flat position and one of the nurses came over to wipe me up. I decided two things: I was never going to look these women in the face, and I was never going to be old and incontinent.
The nurse spoke similar words of instruction and reassurance as she came along my side to adjust something which attracted my attention to the side. I felt the need to make sure whatever she was doing to my anus was not painful or too revealing. What I saw when I turned my head was that mirror was no longer an opaque reflection of the torment I was enduring but was now a window back lit with several men standing as audience. No Greek choir were these men, here to sing the troubled song of my tragedy, but doctors virgin to the procedure I was conceding to and here to bare first witness, like my butt-hole.
On and on the nauseating tilting of the table and filling of my cavity went.
"Mr. Davis, don't..." and "It's ok now Mr. Davis..."
Finally, it was over and the tube were extracted and the nurses stepped away from my broken and useless body. The blonde one pointed towards a door and said "The bathroom is right there. Go on in and just let everything out. You can go get dressed after that. Thank you."
I goosed stepped to that bathroom using my butt cheeks like vices to hold in every last bit of dignity I had until I could sit down on the toilet.
Once I sat down on the toilet I had about two seconds left of will when I noticed that the door I came in had about a three inch gap from the floor to the bottom of the door and the same for the door I was supposed to exit from.
It didn't matter at that point. My butt, weakened from the labor I had just demanded of it, and opened up the flood gates. Sounds of moose in rut, a Pacific island volcano erupting from the sea, and semi's tractor trailer tire impacting a steel shard filled the small bathroom. The x-ray room echoed a dull return of my outbursts. Much to my horror the door I was to exit through didn't go to the dressing room but in to the hallway connecting the many doctor's private rooms and the waiting room I was in not 30 minutes ago.
In between the deafening roar of my ass I heard people gasp, make sounds of astonishment, anguish, and laughter. I decided there was no way I could exit through that door and in to what could only be a crowd of people waiting to mock me then burn my carcass like a witch.
When I finally had expelled everything they had put in me and cleaned what there was to clean off the floor, toilet seat, toilet back, and my legs, I stood up and tried to open the door I came in through. It was locked.
You heartless hinds! You sick practitioners of human torment! A one way street of shame eh?
I had to walk through that hallway door and in to my humiliation. So I opened it and walked out like the broken piece of trash that I was towards the room where my clothes hung and got dressed. I skulked out of that hospital like a pervert getting therapy and ran to my car.
I couldn't drive my car fast enough to Taco Bell. I ordered a Double Decker Taco and a 7 Layer Burrito and tried to eat them like a hyena eating its first zebra in weeks. I got about halfway through the burrito when max capacity was reached in my shrunken stomach. I looked wistfully at the remainders of my food and promised to devour them soon enough.
Off to work I went with a renewed since of humility and love of mastication.
Only 4 hours later I would be entering in to a whole new realm of experience. An all new low in human behavior and depravity.
This story will be told in the continuation as "Drinking With Santa Claus".
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Ms. Campbell
2nd grade is such a shift in reality for kids in general. Kindergarten is more like baby-sitting with daily goals. 2nd grade is wear the rubber starts to meet the road. Teachers start to assign classwork, things are graded, competition begins in almost every venue.
Ms. Campbell was my 2nd grade teacher. A single mother with a daughter one year younger than I. A rather serious woman with mousy brown hair and nondescript features hardly registering on anyone's dial, especially us kids. Her classroom was mostly bare walls and big windows. Not a lot of posters and fun learning artifacts to draw the imagination out. The windows were big but high up the wall as if the serious teacher instructed the builders to make sure no wandering eyes could stare off in to the world outside. Desks, books, and stacks of paper, that was Ms. Campbell's classroom.
Little did I know that fall day in the 80s when I walked in to her classroom at the end of the 2nd floor hall we both would be starting something memorable. This was the start of my career as a diabolical boy and Ms. Campbell was about to witness the butterfly being born from its wicked cocoon.
I was trouble and with little provocation I'd commit dirty deeds. For instance, one day while taking one of the many tests Ms.Campbell gave I decided to only do the first page and walk to the back of the room and grade my failing test (the teacher had decided that she would post the answer key for every test on the back wall heater and each student was responsible for grading their own work). I stood there looking at the answer key for the two page test. As I stood there with pencil in hand prepared to defeat myself it slowly dawned on me that what is and what should never be did not carry the same weight. I could fill in my answers from the key instead of writing terrible, red X's on each wrong question. I made the choice to kill "what is" and make "what should never be" my new standard.
I can't say it felt like a switch that was flipped and I moved forward without regret. No, I can't at all. Thoughts of my grandma telling me stories of growing up on the farm in Nebraska and how much struggle there was for every little thing she wanted. I worried that my crime wasn't only going to be discovered but that I would be a bad guy like Chris Noe (one of the many white trash Noe brothers bullying the town) or Darth Vader.
It made no difference. I turned around and faced the room with my completed test in one hand and the lying pencil in the other. I walked passed all the other kids who were still wracking their brains for traces of memory and logical paths that could bring them to an answer that they earned. I didn't feel the weight of their eyes on me. My guilt started to wane as I neared the teacher's desk and victory began to seep in.
I placed that test on Ms. Campbell's desk and walked back to my seat and waited. Waited for cops. Waited for Ms. Campbell to confront me and call me a liar. What happened instead was that I sat at my desk and thought about building a fort in the woods and what it would be like if I was the captain of a ship that hunted serpents of the deep.
When everyone finished, shortly after me, the day went on and I got on the bus and rode home with everyone screaming and causing a ruckus like they always did. I ate dinner and went outside to play with my friends. Sleep came just as easy as it did to any other 7 year old in America that night. Even the next day at school was without merit or memory. Only the following day when the class was given back their collective tests that what I did really hit home. I had gotten 83% on the test. I didn't fail. No one knew what I had done.
So, I did it again.
And again.
Not only did I cheat on tests but I taught other kids in the class how to cheat.
Ms. Campbell didn't catch me that year cheating, but she did catch me fighting, breaking her decorations, pretending to be sick and going to the Principal's office never to return, setting a fake flower on fire, running in the hallways, lying, making girls cry, and releasing her pet birds free in class while everyone was trying to learn about multiplication.
I was the worst student possible for many reasons. Sadly, for my 2nd grade teacher she only knew part of it.
On the last day of a very long school year Ms. Campbell sat on the edge of her desk and talked with each of the students about what they were going to do for summer. We were all just filling time until the final bell rang. Kids were talking about planned travels to zoos, other states, seeing grandparents, learning to be spacemen, and all the things seven year old boys and girls think about when asked what they are going to do by an adult. At last Ms. Campbell came to me, and I say at last because I was literally the last kid she called on in the room. Not that she was saving the best for last or avoiding me at all costs, but I was sitting in the corner most chair the farthest from her in the whole room. This was her way of keeping me away from the other kids and hopefully out of trouble.
Her question was the same for me as the other kids but her face was veiled. I could tell that just looking at me and interacting one on one in a room full of people made her uneasy. I had pushed her buttons for many months and now this was her final goodbye. She was going to be free of me and the problems I caused would be some other teachers next year.
When she asked me the obligatory question I replied back with a question of my own instead, "What would you do if I was in your class again next year Ms. Campbell?".
She didn't look down. She didn't pause.
Without any emotion she replied, "I would commit suicide."
I was happy at first that she knew I ruled her classroom. Then it hit me. My shame and hurt was more than I could bear. I had become a monster. Possibly an idiot that was made to pass the 2nd grade so she could move me out and on. I was smart enough to understand some of this but not altogether and not for many years.
I let the summer mute my worries and pain like in kid would. Games in the woods, hide and go seek, sleepovers, imagination, dreaming, forts, kissing a girl, finding snakes, and all that was green and wonderful filled me up to the brim in the sweet summer, country style.
About a month before school started a letter came to my parents from the school district. It contained information about a Parent Teacher Conference and a meet and greet two weeks before school. It also showed my 3rd grade class assignment.
Ms. Campbell.
Ms. Campbell was my 2nd grade teacher. A single mother with a daughter one year younger than I. A rather serious woman with mousy brown hair and nondescript features hardly registering on anyone's dial, especially us kids. Her classroom was mostly bare walls and big windows. Not a lot of posters and fun learning artifacts to draw the imagination out. The windows were big but high up the wall as if the serious teacher instructed the builders to make sure no wandering eyes could stare off in to the world outside. Desks, books, and stacks of paper, that was Ms. Campbell's classroom.
Little did I know that fall day in the 80s when I walked in to her classroom at the end of the 2nd floor hall we both would be starting something memorable. This was the start of my career as a diabolical boy and Ms. Campbell was about to witness the butterfly being born from its wicked cocoon.
I was trouble and with little provocation I'd commit dirty deeds. For instance, one day while taking one of the many tests Ms.Campbell gave I decided to only do the first page and walk to the back of the room and grade my failing test (the teacher had decided that she would post the answer key for every test on the back wall heater and each student was responsible for grading their own work). I stood there looking at the answer key for the two page test. As I stood there with pencil in hand prepared to defeat myself it slowly dawned on me that what is and what should never be did not carry the same weight. I could fill in my answers from the key instead of writing terrible, red X's on each wrong question. I made the choice to kill "what is" and make "what should never be" my new standard.
I can't say it felt like a switch that was flipped and I moved forward without regret. No, I can't at all. Thoughts of my grandma telling me stories of growing up on the farm in Nebraska and how much struggle there was for every little thing she wanted. I worried that my crime wasn't only going to be discovered but that I would be a bad guy like Chris Noe (one of the many white trash Noe brothers bullying the town) or Darth Vader.
It made no difference. I turned around and faced the room with my completed test in one hand and the lying pencil in the other. I walked passed all the other kids who were still wracking their brains for traces of memory and logical paths that could bring them to an answer that they earned. I didn't feel the weight of their eyes on me. My guilt started to wane as I neared the teacher's desk and victory began to seep in.
I placed that test on Ms. Campbell's desk and walked back to my seat and waited. Waited for cops. Waited for Ms. Campbell to confront me and call me a liar. What happened instead was that I sat at my desk and thought about building a fort in the woods and what it would be like if I was the captain of a ship that hunted serpents of the deep.
When everyone finished, shortly after me, the day went on and I got on the bus and rode home with everyone screaming and causing a ruckus like they always did. I ate dinner and went outside to play with my friends. Sleep came just as easy as it did to any other 7 year old in America that night. Even the next day at school was without merit or memory. Only the following day when the class was given back their collective tests that what I did really hit home. I had gotten 83% on the test. I didn't fail. No one knew what I had done.
So, I did it again.
And again.
Not only did I cheat on tests but I taught other kids in the class how to cheat.
Ms. Campbell didn't catch me that year cheating, but she did catch me fighting, breaking her decorations, pretending to be sick and going to the Principal's office never to return, setting a fake flower on fire, running in the hallways, lying, making girls cry, and releasing her pet birds free in class while everyone was trying to learn about multiplication.
I was the worst student possible for many reasons. Sadly, for my 2nd grade teacher she only knew part of it.
On the last day of a very long school year Ms. Campbell sat on the edge of her desk and talked with each of the students about what they were going to do for summer. We were all just filling time until the final bell rang. Kids were talking about planned travels to zoos, other states, seeing grandparents, learning to be spacemen, and all the things seven year old boys and girls think about when asked what they are going to do by an adult. At last Ms. Campbell came to me, and I say at last because I was literally the last kid she called on in the room. Not that she was saving the best for last or avoiding me at all costs, but I was sitting in the corner most chair the farthest from her in the whole room. This was her way of keeping me away from the other kids and hopefully out of trouble.
Her question was the same for me as the other kids but her face was veiled. I could tell that just looking at me and interacting one on one in a room full of people made her uneasy. I had pushed her buttons for many months and now this was her final goodbye. She was going to be free of me and the problems I caused would be some other teachers next year.
When she asked me the obligatory question I replied back with a question of my own instead, "What would you do if I was in your class again next year Ms. Campbell?".
She didn't look down. She didn't pause.
Without any emotion she replied, "I would commit suicide."
I was happy at first that she knew I ruled her classroom. Then it hit me. My shame and hurt was more than I could bear. I had become a monster. Possibly an idiot that was made to pass the 2nd grade so she could move me out and on. I was smart enough to understand some of this but not altogether and not for many years.
I let the summer mute my worries and pain like in kid would. Games in the woods, hide and go seek, sleepovers, imagination, dreaming, forts, kissing a girl, finding snakes, and all that was green and wonderful filled me up to the brim in the sweet summer, country style.
About a month before school started a letter came to my parents from the school district. It contained information about a Parent Teacher Conference and a meet and greet two weeks before school. It also showed my 3rd grade class assignment.
Ms. Campbell.
My First Time Making Salsa
My friend, and supervisor at the time, had a real green thumb. When you entered his house it was through the garden. It didn't matter if you came in through the back or front door. The man had plants, vegetables, flowers, and spices growing everywhere. It was truly amazing to watch him do his thing. So much life.
My buddy's overabundance one year in peppers led me to write this tale. I had stopped by to drink some beer on a sunny day when he offered me a box full of peppers of all varieties covering the whole scoville scale to take home, otherwise they were going to rot and become compost if I didn't. He threw in a bunch of tomatoes as well since we had come up with the idea of me making a big thing of salsa with it.
I went back to my little Japanese house and began researching the different ways to make salsa.
I know, I know. Salsa is pretty basic but I wanted this to be more than just pepper and tomato puree. The internet in my little neighborhood was pretty slow at the time waiting for the modem to dial out and for the limited amount of cooking sites to appear after clicking through AltaVista for like a million years was almost enough to stop me from completing this mission. Search engines and published cooking sites weren't the norm. However, I pushed through the dark age of web surfing and got a nice recipe from a cooking forum in AOL...where all the old people still are! Ha!
So, back to the kitchen and chopping my peppers up I made sure to wash my hands after handling the habanero peppers. I knocked out the onions and tomatoes and gave them a short sizzle in the pan with garlic to get the flavor up. In went the ten varieties of peppers to the pot to get them soft and steam out a little juice so the base wouldn't be runny. My stove didn't have an overhead fan so I would occasionally take off the lid to the pot and fan away the steam so the paint on my ceiling wouldn't peel away.
I had just transferred the onions and tomatoes in to the big pot with all the peppers when the aroma really picked up. I didn't even have to fan anything to smell all those sweet treats simmering together. It was too much to resist so I lifted up the lid and leaned in to the simmering pot and took a deep smell. The steam rolled up and around my face. My hair was even a little damp from the burst of steam.
I replaced the lid and straightened up. I blinked my eyes twice as they were a little fuzzy and my face a bit tingly. I rubbed both my eyes with my fingertips (since I thought washing my hands once would be enough to get rid of all the capsaicin) and immediately felt the heat building in my eyes. I went to the sink to splash my eyes when my whole face began to burn. I tried to open my eyes to see where the knobs were and grab the soap but my face was quickly turning in to a three alarm fire and I could barely see. I took off for the bathroom to get cleaned and try to cool my face off. I began splashing soapy water all over my face and rubbing it in my eyes and things seemed to get better.
I decided to sit down on the toilet and relieve myself after having been in the kitchen cooking for almost two hours and drinking beer.
Hey, I sit down because I don't like making a mess and I was married at the time so it's just easier to do that than have an argument about the toilet seat being up!
I reached down and gave my solider a shake or two before standing up.
That's when everything hit me.
The burning sensation on my face returned and my eyes started to close up again. And now, adding color, my groin was rapidly joining the forest fire raging on my body. There was no time to lose! I flushed the toilet and turned around to use the little sink that was built right in to the top to try and extinguish the flames (seriously, toilets in Japan have a little sink right on the top so when you flush they automatically turn on practically demanding that you wash your hands every time).
There was no putting out this fire no matter how much I was splashing water on my face and nether regions.
I ran through the house with my pants off straight for the shower room (another cool part about Japanese culture is your bath and shower are all in the same enclosed room so you can have a full on water party with up to six people).
I turned on the shower head and took off the rest of my clothes.
Sitting there on the floor with the water and soap bubbles circling around me, whimpering, is where my ex-wife found me. I'm sure she was interested in knowing why I was taking a shower at 4 in the afternoon and hence why she checked on me. It must have been a site. Me red as a tomato scrubbing myself repeatedly with soap like a man in the grips of an OCD attack and only half my clothes piled up in a wet corner of the shower room.
I tried to explain to her what had happened. I tried to explain why my junk was on fire too. None of it came out right.
When at last the fire abated and I returned to the world of the living I was red-faced again but this time out of embarrassment. I had a full pot of salsa that tasted delicious, if a bit too warm for most people, and a back story that I shouldn't share with any one. Except you, my dear reader.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
My buddy's overabundance one year in peppers led me to write this tale. I had stopped by to drink some beer on a sunny day when he offered me a box full of peppers of all varieties covering the whole scoville scale to take home, otherwise they were going to rot and become compost if I didn't. He threw in a bunch of tomatoes as well since we had come up with the idea of me making a big thing of salsa with it.
I went back to my little Japanese house and began researching the different ways to make salsa.
I know, I know. Salsa is pretty basic but I wanted this to be more than just pepper and tomato puree. The internet in my little neighborhood was pretty slow at the time waiting for the modem to dial out and for the limited amount of cooking sites to appear after clicking through AltaVista for like a million years was almost enough to stop me from completing this mission. Search engines and published cooking sites weren't the norm. However, I pushed through the dark age of web surfing and got a nice recipe from a cooking forum in AOL...where all the old people still are! Ha!
So, back to the kitchen and chopping my peppers up I made sure to wash my hands after handling the habanero peppers. I knocked out the onions and tomatoes and gave them a short sizzle in the pan with garlic to get the flavor up. In went the ten varieties of peppers to the pot to get them soft and steam out a little juice so the base wouldn't be runny. My stove didn't have an overhead fan so I would occasionally take off the lid to the pot and fan away the steam so the paint on my ceiling wouldn't peel away.
I had just transferred the onions and tomatoes in to the big pot with all the peppers when the aroma really picked up. I didn't even have to fan anything to smell all those sweet treats simmering together. It was too much to resist so I lifted up the lid and leaned in to the simmering pot and took a deep smell. The steam rolled up and around my face. My hair was even a little damp from the burst of steam.
I replaced the lid and straightened up. I blinked my eyes twice as they were a little fuzzy and my face a bit tingly. I rubbed both my eyes with my fingertips (since I thought washing my hands once would be enough to get rid of all the capsaicin) and immediately felt the heat building in my eyes. I went to the sink to splash my eyes when my whole face began to burn. I tried to open my eyes to see where the knobs were and grab the soap but my face was quickly turning in to a three alarm fire and I could barely see. I took off for the bathroom to get cleaned and try to cool my face off. I began splashing soapy water all over my face and rubbing it in my eyes and things seemed to get better.
I decided to sit down on the toilet and relieve myself after having been in the kitchen cooking for almost two hours and drinking beer.
Hey, I sit down because I don't like making a mess and I was married at the time so it's just easier to do that than have an argument about the toilet seat being up!
I reached down and gave my solider a shake or two before standing up.
That's when everything hit me.
The burning sensation on my face returned and my eyes started to close up again. And now, adding color, my groin was rapidly joining the forest fire raging on my body. There was no time to lose! I flushed the toilet and turned around to use the little sink that was built right in to the top to try and extinguish the flames (seriously, toilets in Japan have a little sink right on the top so when you flush they automatically turn on practically demanding that you wash your hands every time).
There was no putting out this fire no matter how much I was splashing water on my face and nether regions.
I ran through the house with my pants off straight for the shower room (another cool part about Japanese culture is your bath and shower are all in the same enclosed room so you can have a full on water party with up to six people).
I turned on the shower head and took off the rest of my clothes.
Sitting there on the floor with the water and soap bubbles circling around me, whimpering, is where my ex-wife found me. I'm sure she was interested in knowing why I was taking a shower at 4 in the afternoon and hence why she checked on me. It must have been a site. Me red as a tomato scrubbing myself repeatedly with soap like a man in the grips of an OCD attack and only half my clothes piled up in a wet corner of the shower room.
I tried to explain to her what had happened. I tried to explain why my junk was on fire too. None of it came out right.
When at last the fire abated and I returned to the world of the living I was red-faced again but this time out of embarrassment. I had a full pot of salsa that tasted delicious, if a bit too warm for most people, and a back story that I shouldn't share with any one. Except you, my dear reader.
Keep it secret. Keep it safe.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Lonely Chair
Eastern Michigan University is an old place. Some of the buildings have been there for over a hundred and thirty years. A smorgasbord of structures meant for living quarters, classrooms, science, music, and art. No one building is like another. It made for some really interesting places to explore.
Since I was going through a divorce at the time and my son was in his first year of life I had time to myself, more than I liked. So, I spent my recreational hours exploring the old buildings and tunnels around campus. After I started making real discoveries I decided to assemble a team of "helpdesk" guys and gals to venture in to the forgotten lands around and underneath campus.
My first big discovery came while exploring tunnels with one Nick C. who had serendipitously brought a camera along to record our adventures. I had been walking around one of the main buildings in the evening when no one was around so I could open any and all doors without worrying about someone questioning me when I opened a door at the back of an auditorium that brought me to yet another door. When I opened this second door it led into a long, dark, concrete hallway that went down somewhere dank and musty. I walked a little ways down the hallway in to the darkness but eventually had to turn back as I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face.
I decided I would get a flashlight and come back here the next day.
The next day I was mentioning my new find to some of the helpdesk guys when Nick asked if he could come along to when I went back. Sure, I wouldn't mind the company. We met up after work at the back of the auditorium with lights, camera, and action (sorry I couldn't avoid the pun).
Through both doors and down the hallway we went. It was quite a bit longer than what I expected. We finally came to the end of the hallway as stood at the top of a small flight of stairs that led in to a medium sized room full of pumps and equipment. We found a light switch and explored the room finding nothing of interest. However, the room had two tunnels at opposite ends of the room. The first one was up another flight of stairs. There were boxes of discarded items none of which I can remember the contents of but they lined the walls of the tunnel and were almost dilapitated enough that collapse was imminent. The tunnel went down a short length and around another bend. At the end of the tunnel was an extremly large and noisey equipment the size of a small apartment. Lots of debris and items were piled up around the "room" and was reminiscent of the garbage compactor in Star Wars.
Nick and I made our way back down the tunnel to the medium sized room and stared at the last tunnel. This one was up a ladder and the tunnel was a bit tighter of a squeeze and required us to walk bent over. I went up the ladder first and Nick passed me the lights and other items up to me so he could climb up the ladder himself. The tunnel had a large pipe suspended from the roof and one on the floor. It made for a challenging shuffle to get down the tunnel without braining oneself. We got to the first bend of the tunnel and shined our lights down the next stretch and it went on in to darkness.
Perfect. It was rather spooky.
Strange how clean the floors were deep down in the concrete caverns beneath EMU. No rat poop or piles of dead roaches.
On we went down the tunnel slowly shinning our lights this way and that carefully stepping over pipes and ducking where needed. Nick was a little bit ahead of me and found the end of the tunnel and a connection from this to another one. Unfortunately, the connection was higher than we could reach and no steps were made for it. I was slowly moving along the wall behind Nick trying to figure out why the tunnel was widening at weird angles. I moved around a corner that was jutting out from the tunnel when I stepped in to room of sorts made from the joining tunnels.
That's when my heart sank.
There in the middle of this little corner room down the dark lengths of this tunnel deep underneath EMU was a wooden chair. Piled around the two front legs of the chair was gauze with pinkish stains. Off the each side of the chair were two more piles of gauze stained pink as well. Along the wall were two boxes of more gauze. Looking at the print on the boxes revealed that they were military issue from 1943.
I called Nick over to inspect the scene as well.
Looking at the chair placement. The position of the discarded gauze and the discolorations.
Nick and I debated for a little bit about what all this could mean and came to a conclusion: someone had been brought down these tunnels and tied to this chair with all this gauze.
I wondered if the person was dragged all the way here. If they came willingly only to pulled in to a dark prank. If the person that was tied to that chair made it out on their own or if the cries for help were heard.
The pink stains on the gauze made me wonder if that wasn't blood from a long struggle to break free.
I asked Nick to turn off his light and camera to see what it would be like left alone in here. See if there was any light source that would bring comfort. Discern any sounds or if noise would carry out in to the world.
We turned off our lights and stood there in silence.
It was almost deafening. Never wracking. Nothing could be heard. My ears rang with silence. Colors danced in my wide open eyes. They almost dried out from being wide open trying to see.
In the darkness I said that this would be a terrible place to be alone. Even worse to be tied to a chair and uncertain of your future.
We turned on our lights and Nick began taking pictures.
What a lonely place. Such a lonely chair to sit in.
I entertained the idea of sitting down in the chair for a photo op but the reality that some time long ago a person had no choice but to sit there and to what end I was not certain prevented me from taking a seat. It was akin to an electric chair in my mind that day.
Chilled to the bone by what we saw we made our way back topside and talked the whole way back about what we thought happened down there. Not long after that night Nick and I took a few more folks down to see the chair.
It still haunts me.
If you want to see the only pictures taken that day. Click on this: http://minus.com/mvsPxt#1
Since I was going through a divorce at the time and my son was in his first year of life I had time to myself, more than I liked. So, I spent my recreational hours exploring the old buildings and tunnels around campus. After I started making real discoveries I decided to assemble a team of "helpdesk" guys and gals to venture in to the forgotten lands around and underneath campus.
My first big discovery came while exploring tunnels with one Nick C. who had serendipitously brought a camera along to record our adventures. I had been walking around one of the main buildings in the evening when no one was around so I could open any and all doors without worrying about someone questioning me when I opened a door at the back of an auditorium that brought me to yet another door. When I opened this second door it led into a long, dark, concrete hallway that went down somewhere dank and musty. I walked a little ways down the hallway in to the darkness but eventually had to turn back as I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face.
I decided I would get a flashlight and come back here the next day.
The next day I was mentioning my new find to some of the helpdesk guys when Nick asked if he could come along to when I went back. Sure, I wouldn't mind the company. We met up after work at the back of the auditorium with lights, camera, and action (sorry I couldn't avoid the pun).
Through both doors and down the hallway we went. It was quite a bit longer than what I expected. We finally came to the end of the hallway as stood at the top of a small flight of stairs that led in to a medium sized room full of pumps and equipment. We found a light switch and explored the room finding nothing of interest. However, the room had two tunnels at opposite ends of the room. The first one was up another flight of stairs. There were boxes of discarded items none of which I can remember the contents of but they lined the walls of the tunnel and were almost dilapitated enough that collapse was imminent. The tunnel went down a short length and around another bend. At the end of the tunnel was an extremly large and noisey equipment the size of a small apartment. Lots of debris and items were piled up around the "room" and was reminiscent of the garbage compactor in Star Wars.
Nick and I made our way back down the tunnel to the medium sized room and stared at the last tunnel. This one was up a ladder and the tunnel was a bit tighter of a squeeze and required us to walk bent over. I went up the ladder first and Nick passed me the lights and other items up to me so he could climb up the ladder himself. The tunnel had a large pipe suspended from the roof and one on the floor. It made for a challenging shuffle to get down the tunnel without braining oneself. We got to the first bend of the tunnel and shined our lights down the next stretch and it went on in to darkness.
Perfect. It was rather spooky.
Strange how clean the floors were deep down in the concrete caverns beneath EMU. No rat poop or piles of dead roaches.
On we went down the tunnel slowly shinning our lights this way and that carefully stepping over pipes and ducking where needed. Nick was a little bit ahead of me and found the end of the tunnel and a connection from this to another one. Unfortunately, the connection was higher than we could reach and no steps were made for it. I was slowly moving along the wall behind Nick trying to figure out why the tunnel was widening at weird angles. I moved around a corner that was jutting out from the tunnel when I stepped in to room of sorts made from the joining tunnels.
That's when my heart sank.
There in the middle of this little corner room down the dark lengths of this tunnel deep underneath EMU was a wooden chair. Piled around the two front legs of the chair was gauze with pinkish stains. Off the each side of the chair were two more piles of gauze stained pink as well. Along the wall were two boxes of more gauze. Looking at the print on the boxes revealed that they were military issue from 1943.
I called Nick over to inspect the scene as well.
Looking at the chair placement. The position of the discarded gauze and the discolorations.
Nick and I debated for a little bit about what all this could mean and came to a conclusion: someone had been brought down these tunnels and tied to this chair with all this gauze.
I wondered if the person was dragged all the way here. If they came willingly only to pulled in to a dark prank. If the person that was tied to that chair made it out on their own or if the cries for help were heard.
The pink stains on the gauze made me wonder if that wasn't blood from a long struggle to break free.
I asked Nick to turn off his light and camera to see what it would be like left alone in here. See if there was any light source that would bring comfort. Discern any sounds or if noise would carry out in to the world.
We turned off our lights and stood there in silence.
It was almost deafening. Never wracking. Nothing could be heard. My ears rang with silence. Colors danced in my wide open eyes. They almost dried out from being wide open trying to see.
In the darkness I said that this would be a terrible place to be alone. Even worse to be tied to a chair and uncertain of your future.
We turned on our lights and Nick began taking pictures.
What a lonely place. Such a lonely chair to sit in.
I entertained the idea of sitting down in the chair for a photo op but the reality that some time long ago a person had no choice but to sit there and to what end I was not certain prevented me from taking a seat. It was akin to an electric chair in my mind that day.
Chilled to the bone by what we saw we made our way back topside and talked the whole way back about what we thought happened down there. Not long after that night Nick and I took a few more folks down to see the chair.
It still haunts me.
If you want to see the only pictures taken that day. Click on this: http://minus.com/mvsPxt#1
Kumo クモ, Kuma クマ
Japan is a beautiful and rugged country. The people of this country work hard every day to make sure the wild places stay relatively untouched so everyone has a sanctuary, a retreat. A typical family lives in a small home in a densely packed town or city and stays there throughout the week. But when the otosan finally gets home from work everyone packs up the clown car and heads for the woods.
I mention this only because it's hard for an American to relate to how wild the wild places are in Japan, unless you come from the Northwest.
The focal point of this story requires that we understand each other on how Japan puts the wild in wilderness.
On we go.
The northern part of Japan where I lived is called the Aomori prefecture and is home to some of the most epic pieces of wild country I've had the pleasure to witness. Mountain ranges that jut and point heavenward and circle around each other like a pack of wolves circle prey. The mountains wound around and just as you were beginning to think they were infinite they crumpled in to the sea. Finding direction in the twists and folds was almost impossible without a compass, and thankful my truck came with one built in. My friends and I had no desire to find our way through the mountains. We just went there and drove until we hit the water. As I write this I find it necessary to add a caveat: wandering was off limits in the winter months. You had to drive specifically to a destination with plenty of gear and preparation as would befit entering high elevations covered in deep snow.
Now with all of that spoken for allow me to tell you about a very special part of the Aomori prefecture; Mt. Hakkoda. In the warm months this small group of peaks was just about as sweet and welcoming as your Grandma. Large open fields surrounded by 40 foot pines and beech trees. Winding roads that skirt edges of snow-melt filled lakes. Meandering streams that seemingly trace veins down the mountain side. Flora and fauna of almost unimaginable variety and scale. In the winter, however, Hakkoda becomes an alien planet. Trees, pastures, roads, creatures of the wood, all disappear under deep packs of snow.
Snow falls so often and so hard around Mt. Hakkoda that all but the main route go unplowed. After reading this tale I encourage you to look up pictures of this mountain. You might even see a photo that has circulated around the web for years. The picture shows several buses and cars driving through a skinny canyon made by snow packed so high that it towers even over the double-decker buses.
One of the major attractions of Mt. Hakkoda is the snowboarding and skiing available on this extremely deep powder. My friends and I always made at least three trips a season to this winter monstrosity. The drive was hell but the rewards were great. Once you finally made it up the mountain through the artificial passes and paid the exorbitant fee to ride the gondola up to the mountain top the world was your oyster. One could try any trick or jump they wanted without nary a broken limb. Once I chickened out of a huge drop and tried to stop myself at a cliff edge only to have my snowboard catch the snow and drop me over the cliff. I plummeted over 15 feet and belly flopped into powder. Thankfully I just punched through nature's pillow and had to unbuckle my snowboard and slowly dig my way out, unharmed. Deep, deep powder. Whole trees disappeared in the stuff. Sometimes only their tops broke through like strange marshmallows about four feet high.
Regretfully, all of this snow didn't fall like a Christmas dream. Nature didn't lazily pile up the white stuff while humanity rejoiced in recreation. No, Mother Nature fucking raged on this mountain range. When you got off the gondola at the top the windows were white-grey and braced where no sun could enter. When you walked up the two flights of stairs and stood in front of the double doors leading out to the top of the mountain it was done so with dread. When those doors opened there was nothing but white roaring. You could see maybe two or three feet in front of you. Snow didn't fall, it crashed against everything at incredible speeds horizontally. The goal of the experience was to survive the exposed top of Hakkoda and make it down to the lower altitudes where the trees were slowly reappearing from underneath the heavy blanket. Once you made it in to the trees you could even remove your goggles and breath easy.
Me and the gang had ventured all over the marked trails of Hakkoda for three years. It wasn't until one fateful stretch of days that everything changed. The weather broke over the mountain range on Thursday and even though it was still chilly the sun shone clear across the mountains. Down in the valley me and the crew waited patiently for the week to end so we could take advantage of something we hadn't seen in those three years, the mountain top. Friday was practically hell at work. I couldn't stop thinking about getting off the gondola and not fearing for my life. Roaming all over the mountain and ignoring the stupid orange poles we used to navigate the trails and make it down the mountain alive.
When Saturday finally came the seven of us piled in to three cars with our half ton of snowboard gear and practically raced to the mountain. When we arrived our hearts sank. There were cars for miles. Everyone and their sister was on the mountain taking advantage. We parked on the road a 1/4 mile away and hiked in. Getting to the lodge with the gondola was another disappointment. The line was coming out the door!
Disneyland on ice.
Crap.
We got our punch cards and stood in line for the unbearably slow rise and fall of the gondola. Each group packed like sardines in to the cold carriage bound upwards. When we finally got on board the feeling was electric. I couldn't even speak the whole ride. For the first time on the mountain I could see out the frozen windows at the landscape passing a hundred feet below. When we arrived at the top it was everything I had in me not to run passed everyone to get outside. I did push though.
When we walked out those double doors it wasn't in to hell freezing over. It was into Earth's majesty. The whole mountaintop was exposed. Frozen forests painted in white and pale blue rolled down miles of slope. The bay of Aomori and the city itself glistened in the distance.
The sun blazed and reflected on the snow like a perennial beach. For god's sake families were picnicking on the top in shirts and pants. They weren't even skiing!
We played like little boys.
Hours and hours of jumping and tricks. Trail blazing.
Laughing and filled with wonder.
I hadn't felt so blessed and alive as I did in those fleeting moments on the rooftop of Japan.
As the day wore on, our energy wore out, and the punch cards were almost expired. I looked straight down the mountain at a forest route that was totally new to me. Deep forest. Lots of turns and jumps. Silence and shushing.
I asked the gang to go down with me but no one was game. They were going to take the snow packed trails and do tricks.
I wanted raw. I wanted something I might not get again. See this mountain in a way I never could before. Share in the divine and virgin in both of us. I sought communion with this mountain that had given me so much.
So I dropped down the steep slope and in a moment was in to the trees. I use the word "trees" sparingly as even though they were in fact trees they looked more like Styrofoam beasts. Candle making gone wrong. Puffy in places, arching in others, broken white mannequin arms dipped in marshmallow and microwaved.
It was wonderful. Every arch I traced in the snow led me down another slope. Each backward lean cut my board in to frosting and deeper in to the forest.
I started following the indention of a creek in the snow. I could hear rocks rumbling as I passed over them. The creek was leading me towards a frozen waterfall. I began to crouch down as I neared it as I wanted an excellent ending to my newly blazed trail. I was going to jump off the waterfall and pull a tweak into a beef curtains.
It was such a long drop that I did it with time to spare. Pow! A crater in to the snow. I sat back and gleamed.
What a ride!
I unbuckled from the board and packed my way out of the hole. And stood up near the frozen waterfall I had just jumped off of. Surveying my surroundings I realized I had one hell of a hike ahead of me. I was at the bottom of an almost complete bowl. Deep powder would require that each step be a complete energy sapping exercise. I smiled wearily. No biggie. The trade off still had me in favor. With my board off and several deep breaths taken I scanned the bowl again and stopped almost directly across from me on the other side of the bowl. In the trees was someone moving up to the ridge that I was planning to head to which would lead back to one of the trails. I was thankful that I didn't have to walk through this white quicksand. I could use that guy's trail. I was a little worn out and not paying attention to the details of what I was seeing, thinking, or doing. I was ready to get on back to the lodge and head home. I picked up my board and took a step towards the other person across the bowl from me when I realized it wasn't a person at all. It was a brown bear!
My heart started hitting against my chest like it was trying to break free before I was mauled to death. My eyes focused in on the creature as it stood up and sniffed the air. I was far enough away that it wasn't going to charge me but still close enough to make out the details of it's hair, eyes, and nose. I dropped back down to all fours and took a few steps up the slope. My brain was busy having an argument on what the nature shows had said about bear attacks: do you play dead or appear large and scary?
Both hemispheres voted for dead and I gently fell back against the frozen waterfall and watched the bear intently. It took, what seemed like forever, to make it's way up the slope and over the ridge. I continued to hide against the frozen mud, rock, and ice of the waterfall until nothing else could be detected of the bear.
Slowly I stood up and began to calculate my plan. I was intending on heading for the ridge that would bring me back to the trail the quickest but with the bear up there it was a no go. I was going to follow the frozen creek around the bend away from the bear and further in to the bowl. Hopefully there would be an exit that way.
I took a few steps in the snow/quicksand and already felt tired. Sinking all the way to my groin with each step I knew it was going to be a long trip. I hadn't gone far when I heard some noise behind me. I instantly thought that some other snowboarders had followed my trail, which is very common. I began to lean back and peer over the waterfall and yell out "Don't come down here, there is a bear!" in Japanese when I realized it was the bear heading back down towards me on the trail I had made. I tried to take leaps in an attempt to escape but that got me nowhere fast. I realized that I would have to put my snowboard back on and try to traverse across the bowl.
Sometimes when you aren't going fast enough on a snowboard you can either crouch down and use your hands like flippers to keep the momentum or even have just one foot in the binding and kick the ground like a skateboard. I was going to use the skateboard method. That alone wasn't enough as the deep powder didn't allow me to make any real friction so I started grabbing at branches and pulling myself along too.
My heart was beating so loud that I could barely think.
I began to weep as I imagined what was going to happen when the bear caught up to me. Should I take off the board and try to use it as a blunt weapon? Should I try to use the metal edge like a sword and chop at him? Should I just let it catch me and eat me quickly so the terror wouldn't be so long?
On and on I pulled and kicked my way down the bowl. The bear wasn't making any gains on me but I could still see it through the trees. The deep powder was slowing us both down.
I think I pissed myself.
Starting to lose control over my body and mind.
By the time I came to where the creek met up with an open flowing river I was spent and wasted. A mess of fear and resignation.
Several large rocks had kept their snow crowns and with water splashing up against the sides had formed ice spires. I looked at the water and my heart sunk like a drowning boy breaking through the ice on the neighborhood lake. I couldn't get out in that. It was moving to fast and hypothermia would hit me in a minute.
I looked again at the rocks and their snow caps. That was it! I would crawl out on to the rocks and the bear couldn't get me. So I unbuckled my snowboard and laid it against the first rock like an amateur bridge and crawl/lept up to the first rock.
Peering down from my spot at the bear slowly making it's way towards me I realized that this wasn't going to be far enough. The next rock crown as about dead middle of the river and just out of reach. I made another bridge with my snowboard and shimmied across very delicately. My board groaned under my weight and I trembled precariously as I crossed. After sitting safely on the middle rock I thought it would be enough for me to wait out the arrival of the bear and eventually make my escape. But with the bear still ambling towards me and no idea where I was on the mountain the fear that it would wait longer than I could stand began pounding in to my brain. What if it waited through the night. When I was blind to it's movements? What if I feel asleep and rolled off this perch?
I couldn't wait!
The other side of the river was just about four feet away but it was vertical to me. I had about two and a half feet up to go if I could somehow make it over to the short cliff. I decided to use my snowboard like a pickaxe and fall over to the cliff. I stood up and held my snowboard above my head as I began the Nestea plunge of doom towards the muddy cliff. When I was close enough I used every ounce of energy to bury the metal edge of my snowboard in to the semi-melted mud wall and it worked. As I leaned 60 degrees onto my board and my toes began to lose traction on the rock ice cap I committed to the pull-up. Elbows on the board and feet kicking and scratching against the rocks and mud until I grabbed frozen grass on the top. Pulling myself up I stood above the river looking back down in to the bowl I felt reborn. The bear seemed a million miles away. I almost didn't care about my board still buried in the muddy cliff but I laid down on my belly and pulled it out.
The sun shined bright. The trees seemed almost alive and ready for Spring. I ran through the snowy meadow until I came to a trail. I stepped back on to my board and rode the rest of the way down the mountain and ended up rather far from the main lodge. But I was back on the road.
On the road. Civilization. Safe.
When I finally got to the lodge the line for the gondola wasn't as long but it was still packed.
I walked around the line and straight to the ticket window. I was reborn. Alive!
I leaned down to the opening were the little Japanese lady was exchanging money for punch cards and said in Japanese "There is a big bear on the mountain. You need to send some people up there. I got away but there is still a big scary bear on the mountain."
The woman looked at me like I was bleeding from the nose and dressed like Michael Jackson.
I repeated myself.
Three times. With no recognition of what I was saying.
As I was about to start yelling the facts to the woman behind the window a Japanese man standing in line to get on the gondola and go up the mountain said to me, in English, "Did you see a bear?"
I was so excited, and replied that yes, I had indeed seen and was molested by a bear.
He bowed is head slightly and said, "Well, you just said you saw a big scary spider."
I was furious. An atomic bomb laying motherfucker.
Why would a 6'3 guy like me be afraid of a big scary spider? It didn't matter, lives were at stake.
I told him to explain to the people in charge that there was a brown bear on the mountain and someone needed to get up there and shot the damn thing before a mauling took place. The gentleman took control of the situation and explained everything on my behalf. I walked away towards the second lodge to buy a beer and wait for my friends. When they arrived I tried to tell my tale but was met with doubt and laughter. I told them that if they wanted to ride with me the boat was leaving now.
I walked to my truck.
Drove home and never went back to Mt. Hakkoda.
Kumo means spider.
Kuma means bear.
One vowel separates a man from being in danger from a man being a giant pussy.
I mention this only because it's hard for an American to relate to how wild the wild places are in Japan, unless you come from the Northwest.
The focal point of this story requires that we understand each other on how Japan puts the wild in wilderness.
On we go.
The northern part of Japan where I lived is called the Aomori prefecture and is home to some of the most epic pieces of wild country I've had the pleasure to witness. Mountain ranges that jut and point heavenward and circle around each other like a pack of wolves circle prey. The mountains wound around and just as you were beginning to think they were infinite they crumpled in to the sea. Finding direction in the twists and folds was almost impossible without a compass, and thankful my truck came with one built in. My friends and I had no desire to find our way through the mountains. We just went there and drove until we hit the water. As I write this I find it necessary to add a caveat: wandering was off limits in the winter months. You had to drive specifically to a destination with plenty of gear and preparation as would befit entering high elevations covered in deep snow.
Now with all of that spoken for allow me to tell you about a very special part of the Aomori prefecture; Mt. Hakkoda. In the warm months this small group of peaks was just about as sweet and welcoming as your Grandma. Large open fields surrounded by 40 foot pines and beech trees. Winding roads that skirt edges of snow-melt filled lakes. Meandering streams that seemingly trace veins down the mountain side. Flora and fauna of almost unimaginable variety and scale. In the winter, however, Hakkoda becomes an alien planet. Trees, pastures, roads, creatures of the wood, all disappear under deep packs of snow.
Snow falls so often and so hard around Mt. Hakkoda that all but the main route go unplowed. After reading this tale I encourage you to look up pictures of this mountain. You might even see a photo that has circulated around the web for years. The picture shows several buses and cars driving through a skinny canyon made by snow packed so high that it towers even over the double-decker buses.
One of the major attractions of Mt. Hakkoda is the snowboarding and skiing available on this extremely deep powder. My friends and I always made at least three trips a season to this winter monstrosity. The drive was hell but the rewards were great. Once you finally made it up the mountain through the artificial passes and paid the exorbitant fee to ride the gondola up to the mountain top the world was your oyster. One could try any trick or jump they wanted without nary a broken limb. Once I chickened out of a huge drop and tried to stop myself at a cliff edge only to have my snowboard catch the snow and drop me over the cliff. I plummeted over 15 feet and belly flopped into powder. Thankfully I just punched through nature's pillow and had to unbuckle my snowboard and slowly dig my way out, unharmed. Deep, deep powder. Whole trees disappeared in the stuff. Sometimes only their tops broke through like strange marshmallows about four feet high.
Regretfully, all of this snow didn't fall like a Christmas dream. Nature didn't lazily pile up the white stuff while humanity rejoiced in recreation. No, Mother Nature fucking raged on this mountain range. When you got off the gondola at the top the windows were white-grey and braced where no sun could enter. When you walked up the two flights of stairs and stood in front of the double doors leading out to the top of the mountain it was done so with dread. When those doors opened there was nothing but white roaring. You could see maybe two or three feet in front of you. Snow didn't fall, it crashed against everything at incredible speeds horizontally. The goal of the experience was to survive the exposed top of Hakkoda and make it down to the lower altitudes where the trees were slowly reappearing from underneath the heavy blanket. Once you made it in to the trees you could even remove your goggles and breath easy.
Me and the gang had ventured all over the marked trails of Hakkoda for three years. It wasn't until one fateful stretch of days that everything changed. The weather broke over the mountain range on Thursday and even though it was still chilly the sun shone clear across the mountains. Down in the valley me and the crew waited patiently for the week to end so we could take advantage of something we hadn't seen in those three years, the mountain top. Friday was practically hell at work. I couldn't stop thinking about getting off the gondola and not fearing for my life. Roaming all over the mountain and ignoring the stupid orange poles we used to navigate the trails and make it down the mountain alive.
When Saturday finally came the seven of us piled in to three cars with our half ton of snowboard gear and practically raced to the mountain. When we arrived our hearts sank. There were cars for miles. Everyone and their sister was on the mountain taking advantage. We parked on the road a 1/4 mile away and hiked in. Getting to the lodge with the gondola was another disappointment. The line was coming out the door!
Disneyland on ice.
Crap.
We got our punch cards and stood in line for the unbearably slow rise and fall of the gondola. Each group packed like sardines in to the cold carriage bound upwards. When we finally got on board the feeling was electric. I couldn't even speak the whole ride. For the first time on the mountain I could see out the frozen windows at the landscape passing a hundred feet below. When we arrived at the top it was everything I had in me not to run passed everyone to get outside. I did push though.
When we walked out those double doors it wasn't in to hell freezing over. It was into Earth's majesty. The whole mountaintop was exposed. Frozen forests painted in white and pale blue rolled down miles of slope. The bay of Aomori and the city itself glistened in the distance.
The sun blazed and reflected on the snow like a perennial beach. For god's sake families were picnicking on the top in shirts and pants. They weren't even skiing!
We played like little boys.
Hours and hours of jumping and tricks. Trail blazing.
Laughing and filled with wonder.
I hadn't felt so blessed and alive as I did in those fleeting moments on the rooftop of Japan.
As the day wore on, our energy wore out, and the punch cards were almost expired. I looked straight down the mountain at a forest route that was totally new to me. Deep forest. Lots of turns and jumps. Silence and shushing.
I asked the gang to go down with me but no one was game. They were going to take the snow packed trails and do tricks.
I wanted raw. I wanted something I might not get again. See this mountain in a way I never could before. Share in the divine and virgin in both of us. I sought communion with this mountain that had given me so much.
So I dropped down the steep slope and in a moment was in to the trees. I use the word "trees" sparingly as even though they were in fact trees they looked more like Styrofoam beasts. Candle making gone wrong. Puffy in places, arching in others, broken white mannequin arms dipped in marshmallow and microwaved.
It was wonderful. Every arch I traced in the snow led me down another slope. Each backward lean cut my board in to frosting and deeper in to the forest.
I started following the indention of a creek in the snow. I could hear rocks rumbling as I passed over them. The creek was leading me towards a frozen waterfall. I began to crouch down as I neared it as I wanted an excellent ending to my newly blazed trail. I was going to jump off the waterfall and pull a tweak into a beef curtains.
It was such a long drop that I did it with time to spare. Pow! A crater in to the snow. I sat back and gleamed.
What a ride!
I unbuckled from the board and packed my way out of the hole. And stood up near the frozen waterfall I had just jumped off of. Surveying my surroundings I realized I had one hell of a hike ahead of me. I was at the bottom of an almost complete bowl. Deep powder would require that each step be a complete energy sapping exercise. I smiled wearily. No biggie. The trade off still had me in favor. With my board off and several deep breaths taken I scanned the bowl again and stopped almost directly across from me on the other side of the bowl. In the trees was someone moving up to the ridge that I was planning to head to which would lead back to one of the trails. I was thankful that I didn't have to walk through this white quicksand. I could use that guy's trail. I was a little worn out and not paying attention to the details of what I was seeing, thinking, or doing. I was ready to get on back to the lodge and head home. I picked up my board and took a step towards the other person across the bowl from me when I realized it wasn't a person at all. It was a brown bear!
My heart started hitting against my chest like it was trying to break free before I was mauled to death. My eyes focused in on the creature as it stood up and sniffed the air. I was far enough away that it wasn't going to charge me but still close enough to make out the details of it's hair, eyes, and nose. I dropped back down to all fours and took a few steps up the slope. My brain was busy having an argument on what the nature shows had said about bear attacks: do you play dead or appear large and scary?
Both hemispheres voted for dead and I gently fell back against the frozen waterfall and watched the bear intently. It took, what seemed like forever, to make it's way up the slope and over the ridge. I continued to hide against the frozen mud, rock, and ice of the waterfall until nothing else could be detected of the bear.
Slowly I stood up and began to calculate my plan. I was intending on heading for the ridge that would bring me back to the trail the quickest but with the bear up there it was a no go. I was going to follow the frozen creek around the bend away from the bear and further in to the bowl. Hopefully there would be an exit that way.
I took a few steps in the snow/quicksand and already felt tired. Sinking all the way to my groin with each step I knew it was going to be a long trip. I hadn't gone far when I heard some noise behind me. I instantly thought that some other snowboarders had followed my trail, which is very common. I began to lean back and peer over the waterfall and yell out "Don't come down here, there is a bear!" in Japanese when I realized it was the bear heading back down towards me on the trail I had made. I tried to take leaps in an attempt to escape but that got me nowhere fast. I realized that I would have to put my snowboard back on and try to traverse across the bowl.
Sometimes when you aren't going fast enough on a snowboard you can either crouch down and use your hands like flippers to keep the momentum or even have just one foot in the binding and kick the ground like a skateboard. I was going to use the skateboard method. That alone wasn't enough as the deep powder didn't allow me to make any real friction so I started grabbing at branches and pulling myself along too.
My heart was beating so loud that I could barely think.
I began to weep as I imagined what was going to happen when the bear caught up to me. Should I take off the board and try to use it as a blunt weapon? Should I try to use the metal edge like a sword and chop at him? Should I just let it catch me and eat me quickly so the terror wouldn't be so long?
On and on I pulled and kicked my way down the bowl. The bear wasn't making any gains on me but I could still see it through the trees. The deep powder was slowing us both down.
I think I pissed myself.
Starting to lose control over my body and mind.
By the time I came to where the creek met up with an open flowing river I was spent and wasted. A mess of fear and resignation.
Several large rocks had kept their snow crowns and with water splashing up against the sides had formed ice spires. I looked at the water and my heart sunk like a drowning boy breaking through the ice on the neighborhood lake. I couldn't get out in that. It was moving to fast and hypothermia would hit me in a minute.
I looked again at the rocks and their snow caps. That was it! I would crawl out on to the rocks and the bear couldn't get me. So I unbuckled my snowboard and laid it against the first rock like an amateur bridge and crawl/lept up to the first rock.
Peering down from my spot at the bear slowly making it's way towards me I realized that this wasn't going to be far enough. The next rock crown as about dead middle of the river and just out of reach. I made another bridge with my snowboard and shimmied across very delicately. My board groaned under my weight and I trembled precariously as I crossed. After sitting safely on the middle rock I thought it would be enough for me to wait out the arrival of the bear and eventually make my escape. But with the bear still ambling towards me and no idea where I was on the mountain the fear that it would wait longer than I could stand began pounding in to my brain. What if it waited through the night. When I was blind to it's movements? What if I feel asleep and rolled off this perch?
I couldn't wait!
The other side of the river was just about four feet away but it was vertical to me. I had about two and a half feet up to go if I could somehow make it over to the short cliff. I decided to use my snowboard like a pickaxe and fall over to the cliff. I stood up and held my snowboard above my head as I began the Nestea plunge of doom towards the muddy cliff. When I was close enough I used every ounce of energy to bury the metal edge of my snowboard in to the semi-melted mud wall and it worked. As I leaned 60 degrees onto my board and my toes began to lose traction on the rock ice cap I committed to the pull-up. Elbows on the board and feet kicking and scratching against the rocks and mud until I grabbed frozen grass on the top. Pulling myself up I stood above the river looking back down in to the bowl I felt reborn. The bear seemed a million miles away. I almost didn't care about my board still buried in the muddy cliff but I laid down on my belly and pulled it out.
The sun shined bright. The trees seemed almost alive and ready for Spring. I ran through the snowy meadow until I came to a trail. I stepped back on to my board and rode the rest of the way down the mountain and ended up rather far from the main lodge. But I was back on the road.
On the road. Civilization. Safe.
When I finally got to the lodge the line for the gondola wasn't as long but it was still packed.
I walked around the line and straight to the ticket window. I was reborn. Alive!
I leaned down to the opening were the little Japanese lady was exchanging money for punch cards and said in Japanese "There is a big bear on the mountain. You need to send some people up there. I got away but there is still a big scary bear on the mountain."
The woman looked at me like I was bleeding from the nose and dressed like Michael Jackson.
I repeated myself.
Three times. With no recognition of what I was saying.
As I was about to start yelling the facts to the woman behind the window a Japanese man standing in line to get on the gondola and go up the mountain said to me, in English, "Did you see a bear?"
I was so excited, and replied that yes, I had indeed seen and was molested by a bear.
He bowed is head slightly and said, "Well, you just said you saw a big scary spider."
I was furious. An atomic bomb laying motherfucker.
Why would a 6'3 guy like me be afraid of a big scary spider? It didn't matter, lives were at stake.
I told him to explain to the people in charge that there was a brown bear on the mountain and someone needed to get up there and shot the damn thing before a mauling took place. The gentleman took control of the situation and explained everything on my behalf. I walked away towards the second lodge to buy a beer and wait for my friends. When they arrived I tried to tell my tale but was met with doubt and laughter. I told them that if they wanted to ride with me the boat was leaving now.
I walked to my truck.
Drove home and never went back to Mt. Hakkoda.
Kumo means spider.
Kuma means bear.
One vowel separates a man from being in danger from a man being a giant pussy.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Candy Isn't Going To Buy Itself
Getting an adult to buy you treats isn't an easy task unless your blessed with grandparents that aren't poor. I can almost end this tale right now. That sentence should be enough for everyone else in the world that isn't blessed with a modicum of wealth, which should be about 99% of the global population. However, since you are reading my online story the assumption can be made that you didn't grow up destitute and maybe you didn't even grow up without "online"...so I shall progress.
The neighborhood I lived in was somewhat of an island in the farmland of Arkansas. A highway to nowhere was being built a stone's throw away and we children lived in the purgatory between rural and urban life. A school bus would pick us up and deliver our souls to an elementary in the city only to return us to the semi-wilds of our homes in the afternoon.
Our parents were some of the last "dad works, mom stays at home" Americans and that meant we were not guaranteed anything. Your meals were dependent on whether you were home when they were served. No cookie jars sat waiting on the counter. Convenience stores were something of an oxymoron as they were neither convenient nor stores that accepted the currency we children carried, namely attractive stones and dead insects.
I didn't bother myself with the problem of obtaining candy early on. I wasn't really aware that I needed anything outside of the things I already had until 1st grade. Most of the school year had already passed and the summer loomed large for me and the kids in my grade. We had survived learning math and grammar but had succumbed to the onslaught of 4th and 5th grade bullies. Not having the crutch of alcohol to heal our daily wounds something else had to fill the void. Candy.
I can't say that candy was something we were all ignorant of at the time it was just we didn't realize how deep and wide that river flowed until 1st grade. And I can't say it was because we were 1st grade either. It was the timing. The Empire Strikes Back was just released and after going to the theater, which ever American kid did to see that film, it was woefully apparent that there was more candy out there than we had ever been exposed to.
Our parents should have never bought us those boxes of candy to take with us in to the most epic movie of our young lives.
The crux of the situation came when me and my friends realized that no one was going to pay us to do our chores. They were done gratis for food and board.
How can we supplement our non-existent salaries with real money to purchase gum and chocolate?
There were no lawns waiting to be mowed. The kids living in the associated homes were already tasked with taking care of it. Collecting aluminum cans was still a few years away. Simply put, there was nothing for a kid to do in my neighborhood to earn money.
That is until a middle-aged woman moved in to a large house at the mouth of our neighborhood.
She didn't make her presence known. No fan fare. She just started mowing the fields behind her house and clearing out the old junk from the farm that used to exist there. It wasn't until she had a bunch of guys come pour gravel next to the big house that I even took notice. The sound of heavy equipment and loads of rocks (stones being one of the trade-able commodities for us kids) was unmistakeable and irresistible. I stood at the barbed wire fence that used to hold back cattle and looked longingly south towards her big house and the trucks unloading stone by the ton.
The whole day passed as men and equipment came and went. I watched her walk in and out of the house with the men giving them drinks and carrying boxes of different sizes. Her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail barely noticeable behind the jeans and baggy button-up. She looked almost not a woman from my young child perspective compared to the women I saw everyday. Reflecting back now I would say she looked every bit the frontier woman without the long dress, maybe a cowgirl even.
Almost a week passed with my ever curious eyes watching her from the fence at the edge of her lawn before I walked up to the side door. Let me rephrase that. Before I walked up in the daytime while she was outside and watching for someone to approach, as I had already made several reconnaissance missions to the house to see what she was up to.
The day I finally walked up the slope of her yard to the large back porch where she was busy at work assembling picnic tables there was nothing else in my mind but to finally understand what this activity was all about.
She must have seen me every time I stood at the edge of her yard and maybe when I ventured up to the house as well since she greeted me with "I was wondering when you were going to finally introduce yourself.".
Not being shy I told her my name and asked her what she was doing here (here being my neighborhood and woods). She replied that she bought this old house and was going to open a restaurant. I asked her about a thousand questions about the place, her porch, the furniture, the trucks, her hair, what kind of food, and so on. While she answered my questions she would ask for, and point to, a certain tool over one the rail and I would fetch it. She would ask me to hold this one thing up while she did this or that, and I would.
Eventually, I was just talking and working with this woman in order to get all my questions answered.
When she finally began the retreat inside for the evening I followed her in. Inside there were pool tables and nice wood dining sets. A bar with bottles. Male and female bathrooms. It was something I had only experienced in movies. I'd been to a few restaurants with my family but never something like this. A bar. A saloon.
My amazement must have been palpable because she came up to my side and put her hand on my back to gentle guide me out. She thanked me for stopping by and extended the offer that I could come by again, when she wasn't too busy.
I went home and played with my friends until the street lights came on. I spoke nothing of my experience. I went home and ate what was left of dinner. Went to bed. Dreamed of her saloon and the gun fights that would take place there and woke up ready for school to end before I even took my shower.
I remember nothing of that next day until I ran off the bus passed my sister and straight down the street towards the new neighbor.
She was in the front lawn pouring mulch around some flowers when I ran up with a hello. She smiled and said my name. I began asking her a thousand more questions and she must have known it was not going to end quickly so she walked up the steps to the wrap-around porch, and in to the double dutch doors. She started to fiddle around with chairs and I asked if she needed any help. She didn't show any signs of irritation but said that there were many things to do and a little boy couldn't help. I asked her what she needed done and she said "dishes".
What an ingenious move! How that word could instill fear in most children.
She didn't understand me very well it seemed. A million other boys would have run away at the sound of "dishes" but not me. Nothing could turn me away from an adventure.
I replied that I would help her out with the dishes and she led me over behind a counter where two huge sinks held glasses of all kinds, tin-ware, and utensils all piled up. She showed me which knobs to turn and where the soap was held and left me to it. I cleaned everything with gusto all the while watching her move through the immense room, picking up tables and placing them here and there. She'd pause and reflect on the choice and then rearrange them with chairs and vases until whatever idea she had in her mind's eye was pleased. I scrubbed each cup and ladle with a smile on my face watching her go about her business.
Looking back I didn't have one memory of a plan. I just wanted to be inside this new place and meet this new person.
It wasn't until an hour or so later that she came back behind the bar where I was still drying off glasses and asked me if I wanted to work for her that it even came to mind that I could earn money.
Once she said she could use help I realized that I was sitting on a gold mine.
She explained that I would need to come here every day and dust off the pool tables, clean the bathrooms, wash the dishes, and mop the floors. Once I had completed these tasks she would pay me one dollar and fifty cents.
One dollar and fifty cents.
That was six candy bars!
Holy crap-a-toly. I was going to rule my own destiny. Every kid in the neighborhood would get a piece of candy from me and be my friend. They all were my friend already but this would make me ruler of the kid kingdom.
I took the job.
I scrubbed toilets, poured hot water in to buckets and mopped the hardwood floor, picked up pieces of broken glass out on the big wrap-around porch.
And every day she would pay me. Cash.
I don't remember how long I worked there but it only ended when my dad took a job in Tulsa, OK and we had to move that the dream ended.
I had become a candy mogul at school. With my surplus candy I would sell other kids things like Fireballs, sixlets, Hubba Bubba, and so on during the school day at a small mark up. Since, schools didn't have vending machines and crap like that a kid like me could make a killing.
Working at the Vintage House was my first job.
It was my favorite job. The moment I realized that I controlled my destiny and no one, not even my parents, could stop me from taking what I wanted from life.
Thank you blonde, pony-tailed, lady. You helped me become a man.
The neighborhood I lived in was somewhat of an island in the farmland of Arkansas. A highway to nowhere was being built a stone's throw away and we children lived in the purgatory between rural and urban life. A school bus would pick us up and deliver our souls to an elementary in the city only to return us to the semi-wilds of our homes in the afternoon.
Our parents were some of the last "dad works, mom stays at home" Americans and that meant we were not guaranteed anything. Your meals were dependent on whether you were home when they were served. No cookie jars sat waiting on the counter. Convenience stores were something of an oxymoron as they were neither convenient nor stores that accepted the currency we children carried, namely attractive stones and dead insects.
I didn't bother myself with the problem of obtaining candy early on. I wasn't really aware that I needed anything outside of the things I already had until 1st grade. Most of the school year had already passed and the summer loomed large for me and the kids in my grade. We had survived learning math and grammar but had succumbed to the onslaught of 4th and 5th grade bullies. Not having the crutch of alcohol to heal our daily wounds something else had to fill the void. Candy.
I can't say that candy was something we were all ignorant of at the time it was just we didn't realize how deep and wide that river flowed until 1st grade. And I can't say it was because we were 1st grade either. It was the timing. The Empire Strikes Back was just released and after going to the theater, which ever American kid did to see that film, it was woefully apparent that there was more candy out there than we had ever been exposed to.
Our parents should have never bought us those boxes of candy to take with us in to the most epic movie of our young lives.
The crux of the situation came when me and my friends realized that no one was going to pay us to do our chores. They were done gratis for food and board.
How can we supplement our non-existent salaries with real money to purchase gum and chocolate?
There were no lawns waiting to be mowed. The kids living in the associated homes were already tasked with taking care of it. Collecting aluminum cans was still a few years away. Simply put, there was nothing for a kid to do in my neighborhood to earn money.
That is until a middle-aged woman moved in to a large house at the mouth of our neighborhood.
She didn't make her presence known. No fan fare. She just started mowing the fields behind her house and clearing out the old junk from the farm that used to exist there. It wasn't until she had a bunch of guys come pour gravel next to the big house that I even took notice. The sound of heavy equipment and loads of rocks (stones being one of the trade-able commodities for us kids) was unmistakeable and irresistible. I stood at the barbed wire fence that used to hold back cattle and looked longingly south towards her big house and the trucks unloading stone by the ton.
The whole day passed as men and equipment came and went. I watched her walk in and out of the house with the men giving them drinks and carrying boxes of different sizes. Her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail barely noticeable behind the jeans and baggy button-up. She looked almost not a woman from my young child perspective compared to the women I saw everyday. Reflecting back now I would say she looked every bit the frontier woman without the long dress, maybe a cowgirl even.
Almost a week passed with my ever curious eyes watching her from the fence at the edge of her lawn before I walked up to the side door. Let me rephrase that. Before I walked up in the daytime while she was outside and watching for someone to approach, as I had already made several reconnaissance missions to the house to see what she was up to.
The day I finally walked up the slope of her yard to the large back porch where she was busy at work assembling picnic tables there was nothing else in my mind but to finally understand what this activity was all about.
She must have seen me every time I stood at the edge of her yard and maybe when I ventured up to the house as well since she greeted me with "I was wondering when you were going to finally introduce yourself.".
Not being shy I told her my name and asked her what she was doing here (here being my neighborhood and woods). She replied that she bought this old house and was going to open a restaurant. I asked her about a thousand questions about the place, her porch, the furniture, the trucks, her hair, what kind of food, and so on. While she answered my questions she would ask for, and point to, a certain tool over one the rail and I would fetch it. She would ask me to hold this one thing up while she did this or that, and I would.
Eventually, I was just talking and working with this woman in order to get all my questions answered.
When she finally began the retreat inside for the evening I followed her in. Inside there were pool tables and nice wood dining sets. A bar with bottles. Male and female bathrooms. It was something I had only experienced in movies. I'd been to a few restaurants with my family but never something like this. A bar. A saloon.
My amazement must have been palpable because she came up to my side and put her hand on my back to gentle guide me out. She thanked me for stopping by and extended the offer that I could come by again, when she wasn't too busy.
I went home and played with my friends until the street lights came on. I spoke nothing of my experience. I went home and ate what was left of dinner. Went to bed. Dreamed of her saloon and the gun fights that would take place there and woke up ready for school to end before I even took my shower.
I remember nothing of that next day until I ran off the bus passed my sister and straight down the street towards the new neighbor.
She was in the front lawn pouring mulch around some flowers when I ran up with a hello. She smiled and said my name. I began asking her a thousand more questions and she must have known it was not going to end quickly so she walked up the steps to the wrap-around porch, and in to the double dutch doors. She started to fiddle around with chairs and I asked if she needed any help. She didn't show any signs of irritation but said that there were many things to do and a little boy couldn't help. I asked her what she needed done and she said "dishes".
What an ingenious move! How that word could instill fear in most children.
She didn't understand me very well it seemed. A million other boys would have run away at the sound of "dishes" but not me. Nothing could turn me away from an adventure.
I replied that I would help her out with the dishes and she led me over behind a counter where two huge sinks held glasses of all kinds, tin-ware, and utensils all piled up. She showed me which knobs to turn and where the soap was held and left me to it. I cleaned everything with gusto all the while watching her move through the immense room, picking up tables and placing them here and there. She'd pause and reflect on the choice and then rearrange them with chairs and vases until whatever idea she had in her mind's eye was pleased. I scrubbed each cup and ladle with a smile on my face watching her go about her business.
Looking back I didn't have one memory of a plan. I just wanted to be inside this new place and meet this new person.
It wasn't until an hour or so later that she came back behind the bar where I was still drying off glasses and asked me if I wanted to work for her that it even came to mind that I could earn money.
Once she said she could use help I realized that I was sitting on a gold mine.
She explained that I would need to come here every day and dust off the pool tables, clean the bathrooms, wash the dishes, and mop the floors. Once I had completed these tasks she would pay me one dollar and fifty cents.
One dollar and fifty cents.
That was six candy bars!
Holy crap-a-toly. I was going to rule my own destiny. Every kid in the neighborhood would get a piece of candy from me and be my friend. They all were my friend already but this would make me ruler of the kid kingdom.
I took the job.
I scrubbed toilets, poured hot water in to buckets and mopped the hardwood floor, picked up pieces of broken glass out on the big wrap-around porch.
And every day she would pay me. Cash.
I don't remember how long I worked there but it only ended when my dad took a job in Tulsa, OK and we had to move that the dream ended.
I had become a candy mogul at school. With my surplus candy I would sell other kids things like Fireballs, sixlets, Hubba Bubba, and so on during the school day at a small mark up. Since, schools didn't have vending machines and crap like that a kid like me could make a killing.
Working at the Vintage House was my first job.
It was my favorite job. The moment I realized that I controlled my destiny and no one, not even my parents, could stop me from taking what I wanted from life.
Thank you blonde, pony-tailed, lady. You helped me become a man.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Asshole Neighbors
It was about the third year living in Japan when Dawn and I moved off base again and in with a roomie. The house was large and in a strange little strip of houses split in to two equal lengths; all connected but totally separate. Each house had a garage and we all shared what can only be described as an extra wide driveway that ran down the middle.
Our little slice of heaven was at the end of a rice field and the road leading up to the "community" we lived in was a dirt road that would be sometimes overtaken by a tractor or old ladies wheeling carts of veggies and rice away.
This story isn't about the cool little neighborhood. Or the fields all around us. No, this story is about the military assholes that lived directly across from us. This husband and wife held each other in the highest honor and respected humanity to its fullest. And by that I mean they played their bullshit music in the extra wide driveway so the whole community got to listen to Nickelback. The asshole husband was also the proud owner of two dirt bikes that he never rode anywhere but he was always working on and revving out in the same extra wide driveway.
Now, all of this sounds very normal for America. Let me tell you this though, after you've lived in the quiet sanctity of Japan noise and assholes are few and far between. It's like taking a Wal-mart from inner city Detroit and placing it next to a school for the deaf. A juxtaposition of mammoth proportions.
Not only was loud music uncommon, martial spats at full volume rare, early morning dirt bike revving as alien to the country as a real visit from Godzilla, but this troupe brought the worst of the Ugly American to this sweet country side. Our home.
At first I was accepting of their behaviors. Dawn and our roomie forced the calm upon me. But after a while even their patience and desire to avoid conflict waned and I was allowed to confront the assholes in their lair.
Several times I banged on their door when yelling and profanity broke the bucolic spell of our summer afternoons. Early in the morning when Sgt. Fucktard got on his motorcycle to give it a real run-up I charged out the door the four feet to his garage to demand silence or an ass kicking. Even a few times I approached them as they sat in lawn chairs drinking Bud Light to the smooth sounds of Limp Bizkit to entreaty them to find a balance between living "any way the fuck (they) want" and being a part of this small community.
I finally gave up being cool. I gave up being mean.
I ignored them completely. As if a black hole had suddenly appeared and sucked in their house, cars, bikes, voices, and stink.
Sgt. VaginaAssBastard must have felt offended by my negligence as his antics turned to 9, than 11. The wonder of living where we did lost some of its luster during this phase and both of the occupants and I were considering a retreat from the abode to somewhere else.
That's when karma came knocking.
It was a sunny afternoon in Winter and I was driving home from work. For some reason everyone else was home, including the asshole neighbors, but me. As I turned off the pavement and on to the first of two dirt roads to get home I saw the black plume of smoke. I hit the gas pedal and began my frantic race to the house. I didn't have a cell phone back then. Japan was leading the world in technology but apparently the telephone companies held the land like a Kraken in it's wired tentacles. As I turned down the last dirt road I passed a fire truck just idling and my heart sank. I imagined my loved ones as black shells laying in positions of agony on the floor like scenes from Pompeii. When I got to the strip of houses I saw mine first and every window and curtain was intact, from the rear, and I felt some ease as I knew the damage was not catastrophic.
I parked in the grass behind my house and ran around to the front. There were trucks, people, and equipment everywhere and the smoke was still billowing in to the extra wide driveway.
That's when I saw it.
The Asshole Neighbor's house was a burnt husk.
Equal measures of guilt and elation filled my chest. I was sorry for their demise and glad my prayers to the dark lord were heard.
I high-stepped through my front door and directly into the Asshole Neighbors. A Japanese policeman, fireman and a military Policeman were talking with both of them in my hallway. Dawn was standing there watching silently.
I introduced myself and answered two questions before grabbing Dawn's hand and moving in to the living room. She began whispering heatedly about what had just transpired.
Sgt. RetardTurdBurglar had put up a giant blue tarp over the garage door opening. Put both his bikes up on stands to prepare them for Winter storage. Had started both bikes after draining the gasoline into giant plastic bowls. Blasted music from a boombox while he revved each bike in unison while smoking a cigarette. While his bikes leaked fuel, fumes filled the cavernous garage and Marlboro smoke intermingled until that fatal moment of ignition. He blew up the garage and burned all of his belongings to ash.
I was so happy at that moment I couldn't stop smiling. I looked right at the group in my hallway and smiled like someone just told me I was the Nobel Prize winner of the Mega Millions.
Dawn leaned in a little closer and whispered "The military policeman just asked the couple if they had anyone they could stay with and looked at me. I said, 'I'm sorry but we've got a roommate and no couch."
I wanted to dance on the graves of this man and woman who spent a year torturing a neighborhood. I wanted to walk out on to the driveway and piss on the last embers of their burnt house. I wanted to push these morons out of my hallway and laugh at their misfortune.
Instead, I just walked back in to the hallway and had a calm discussion with everyone so they would leave.
After the trucks, equipment, and people were gone me, Dawn, and the roommate opened the curtains of the living room and drank wine looking at the black, charred remains of the Asshole Neighbor's house.
A toast to serendipity.
Our little slice of heaven was at the end of a rice field and the road leading up to the "community" we lived in was a dirt road that would be sometimes overtaken by a tractor or old ladies wheeling carts of veggies and rice away.
This story isn't about the cool little neighborhood. Or the fields all around us. No, this story is about the military assholes that lived directly across from us. This husband and wife held each other in the highest honor and respected humanity to its fullest. And by that I mean they played their bullshit music in the extra wide driveway so the whole community got to listen to Nickelback. The asshole husband was also the proud owner of two dirt bikes that he never rode anywhere but he was always working on and revving out in the same extra wide driveway.
Now, all of this sounds very normal for America. Let me tell you this though, after you've lived in the quiet sanctity of Japan noise and assholes are few and far between. It's like taking a Wal-mart from inner city Detroit and placing it next to a school for the deaf. A juxtaposition of mammoth proportions.
Not only was loud music uncommon, martial spats at full volume rare, early morning dirt bike revving as alien to the country as a real visit from Godzilla, but this troupe brought the worst of the Ugly American to this sweet country side. Our home.
At first I was accepting of their behaviors. Dawn and our roomie forced the calm upon me. But after a while even their patience and desire to avoid conflict waned and I was allowed to confront the assholes in their lair.
Several times I banged on their door when yelling and profanity broke the bucolic spell of our summer afternoons. Early in the morning when Sgt. Fucktard got on his motorcycle to give it a real run-up I charged out the door the four feet to his garage to demand silence or an ass kicking. Even a few times I approached them as they sat in lawn chairs drinking Bud Light to the smooth sounds of Limp Bizkit to entreaty them to find a balance between living "any way the fuck (they) want" and being a part of this small community.
I finally gave up being cool. I gave up being mean.
I ignored them completely. As if a black hole had suddenly appeared and sucked in their house, cars, bikes, voices, and stink.
Sgt. VaginaAssBastard must have felt offended by my negligence as his antics turned to 9, than 11. The wonder of living where we did lost some of its luster during this phase and both of the occupants and I were considering a retreat from the abode to somewhere else.
That's when karma came knocking.
It was a sunny afternoon in Winter and I was driving home from work. For some reason everyone else was home, including the asshole neighbors, but me. As I turned off the pavement and on to the first of two dirt roads to get home I saw the black plume of smoke. I hit the gas pedal and began my frantic race to the house. I didn't have a cell phone back then. Japan was leading the world in technology but apparently the telephone companies held the land like a Kraken in it's wired tentacles. As I turned down the last dirt road I passed a fire truck just idling and my heart sank. I imagined my loved ones as black shells laying in positions of agony on the floor like scenes from Pompeii. When I got to the strip of houses I saw mine first and every window and curtain was intact, from the rear, and I felt some ease as I knew the damage was not catastrophic.
I parked in the grass behind my house and ran around to the front. There were trucks, people, and equipment everywhere and the smoke was still billowing in to the extra wide driveway.
That's when I saw it.
The Asshole Neighbor's house was a burnt husk.
Equal measures of guilt and elation filled my chest. I was sorry for their demise and glad my prayers to the dark lord were heard.
I high-stepped through my front door and directly into the Asshole Neighbors. A Japanese policeman, fireman and a military Policeman were talking with both of them in my hallway. Dawn was standing there watching silently.
I introduced myself and answered two questions before grabbing Dawn's hand and moving in to the living room. She began whispering heatedly about what had just transpired.
Sgt. RetardTurdBurglar had put up a giant blue tarp over the garage door opening. Put both his bikes up on stands to prepare them for Winter storage. Had started both bikes after draining the gasoline into giant plastic bowls. Blasted music from a boombox while he revved each bike in unison while smoking a cigarette. While his bikes leaked fuel, fumes filled the cavernous garage and Marlboro smoke intermingled until that fatal moment of ignition. He blew up the garage and burned all of his belongings to ash.
I was so happy at that moment I couldn't stop smiling. I looked right at the group in my hallway and smiled like someone just told me I was the Nobel Prize winner of the Mega Millions.
Dawn leaned in a little closer and whispered "The military policeman just asked the couple if they had anyone they could stay with and looked at me. I said, 'I'm sorry but we've got a roommate and no couch."
I wanted to dance on the graves of this man and woman who spent a year torturing a neighborhood. I wanted to walk out on to the driveway and piss on the last embers of their burnt house. I wanted to push these morons out of my hallway and laugh at their misfortune.
Instead, I just walked back in to the hallway and had a calm discussion with everyone so they would leave.
After the trucks, equipment, and people were gone me, Dawn, and the roommate opened the curtains of the living room and drank wine looking at the black, charred remains of the Asshole Neighbor's house.
A toast to serendipity.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Milk
Just a morning ago I watched you eat little, round circles in milk. Hair poking out in all directions. Tank top wrinkled from bring wrapped in a loose sheet all night. I could see your smile even with head bowed down to meet the spoon.
You knew I wasn't eating...just watching you.
The tops of your cheeks rising a little higher with each grin you hid from me. Your hair hung just enough over your left eye to make you think I couldn't see.
The spoon would ring the bowl like a bell when you dipped near the sides to catch escaping O's, but silent as snow when you drank the milk from it.
One red lip arching out and holding the bottom of the silver to your tongue.
Pink. white. silver. brown.
Across the table, everything looked a thousand miles away, and so small...
It made me hungry for you. Watching you so distant.
Not being in your mouth.
Selfish desires to take you back to bed spilled out of my head into my eyes.
I was supposed to be eating, you reminded me.
I was supposed to be taking a shower and getting ready to leave.
Instead I sat there watching a drop of milk slide from the side of your lip to the center getting heavier and stretching down. I sat back in my chair to pull my hands from underneath where I had been sitting on them. Reaching out to touch that drop you saw me coming and thought I was up to no good.
Jerking your head back to avoid me was enough to make the milk drop away.
There I sat with my hand reached out to you looking surprised and grinning.
You didn't ask me why.
I didn't say.
I got up and walked to the bathroom hearing your head shake slowly in the morning silence. Or it could have been a cat shaking her paw on the couch in the living room as I passed.
You knew I wasn't eating...just watching you.
The tops of your cheeks rising a little higher with each grin you hid from me. Your hair hung just enough over your left eye to make you think I couldn't see.
The spoon would ring the bowl like a bell when you dipped near the sides to catch escaping O's, but silent as snow when you drank the milk from it.
One red lip arching out and holding the bottom of the silver to your tongue.
Pink. white. silver. brown.
Across the table, everything looked a thousand miles away, and so small...
It made me hungry for you. Watching you so distant.
Not being in your mouth.
Selfish desires to take you back to bed spilled out of my head into my eyes.
I was supposed to be eating, you reminded me.
I was supposed to be taking a shower and getting ready to leave.
Instead I sat there watching a drop of milk slide from the side of your lip to the center getting heavier and stretching down. I sat back in my chair to pull my hands from underneath where I had been sitting on them. Reaching out to touch that drop you saw me coming and thought I was up to no good.
Jerking your head back to avoid me was enough to make the milk drop away.
There I sat with my hand reached out to you looking surprised and grinning.
You didn't ask me why.
I didn't say.
I got up and walked to the bathroom hearing your head shake slowly in the morning silence. Or it could have been a cat shaking her paw on the couch in the living room as I passed.
It Was The Other Night
You woke in the dark blue of night and brought me along unwittingly. As I followed you out of the room, still blinking the dreams from my eyelashes, I followed your shadow through the hallway. I turned the corner and saw the lights of the city creating your silhouette. The clouds hung low over the city lights making a warm glow instead of a black canvas. I walked right up behind you and pressed myself against your pajamas to be able to look over your shoulder and out the window. such a strange glow to the night.
I could smell you. Your hair.
Neither of us made a move to acknowledge the other. Just my body pressed against yours. The warmth between us reminded me of little boy fingertips draped over rolls fresh from the oven.
Silence in the hallway interrupted only when someone opened their door letting the sound of a TV escape. Then the silence again. It surrounded us. Your breathing was the next thing I heard, and I wanted to steal it.
Wear it.
Drink it.
Have it someway in my mouth.
It smelled like warm tea and chap-stick.
In that moment as I watched your breath become fog on the window I tried reaching out to take it.
I woke with my arm reaching towards the ceiling. Laying there in my bed. Sweeping my arm out under the blankets searching for you, finding nothing.
I missed you, and I don't know you.
I could smell you. Your hair.
Neither of us made a move to acknowledge the other. Just my body pressed against yours. The warmth between us reminded me of little boy fingertips draped over rolls fresh from the oven.
Silence in the hallway interrupted only when someone opened their door letting the sound of a TV escape. Then the silence again. It surrounded us. Your breathing was the next thing I heard, and I wanted to steal it.
Wear it.
Drink it.
Have it someway in my mouth.
It smelled like warm tea and chap-stick.
In that moment as I watched your breath become fog on the window I tried reaching out to take it.
I woke with my arm reaching towards the ceiling. Laying there in my bed. Sweeping my arm out under the blankets searching for you, finding nothing.
I missed you, and I don't know you.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
A Long, Green, Station Wagon
i never rolled down the window when grandma drove us out to the gathering on thursday nights. it's not like i thought about it. i just wanted to rest my face half on the glass so i could stare non-stop at the whirring-by landscapes. young enough to never lose the neck strength, holding it in that uncomfortable position.
staring out at the ozark mountains big enough to a little boy, but small now to this man's mind.
the white farm houses propped against green, purple, and blue mountains breaking the patterns of fields, yards, farms. mesmerizing to me.
off in the distance little brown bumps of cows wandered through trees while others laid next to muddy ponds waiting for the farmer's tractor horn to beep the call to home. blurry white lines and barbed-wire fences next to half rotten wood fences rolling past, on and on forever.
i would ask myself why? why these fences? they seemed so unnecessary out there. the fields and the crops were so vast a cow, or a person, would be worn out trying to cross it to escape, and to what destiny? with wolves and woodpeckers waiting to take your last breath.
roads out there curved so often and so dramatically, i wondered if we really ever went anywhere or we just drove in circles around the same multicolored hills when at last we'd turn down a dirt road marked by the grain store sign, now mostly brown where the white paint and red letters had faded or peeled off, that signified the only real movement we accomplished.
we made our little, beige, fluffy clouds of dust with the rock popcorn-popping under the car deafening the radio. every second made my mind wander even further off.
the bucolic scene on the other side of the glass moved too quickly out of sight with the radio mumbling words about politics that meant nothing to a country boy like me.
bouncing around inside the wagon as grandma stared straight ahead, i learned to reach my left hand down and hold onto her stack of boxed harmonicas before they'd hit the floor. if i'd let them fall she'd immediately ask me to pick them up anyway breaking the spell of silence being cast over me.
pavlovian training served me well.
just past the canyon, furry with trees and brush, our last turn would announce arrival to the old church. as soon as we turned down that road i would take my head off the window and stare straight ahead at the church, almost hidden in the overgrown oak. anticipation mixed with anxiety.
dried deer bones sticking out of dark fur is what it always looked like to me. the windows not yet illuminated by lights and music. shadows ever unmoving during our approach.
"grandma, they havin' cookies tonight?"
"yes honey. someone always brings cookies."
"not always."
"shane, you weren't even there the time martha didn't bring cookies. i just told you about it."
"just checkin'."
we'd pull right up in front of the church and park partly off the road; since there never was a parking lot made for this place. it's zenith of attendance passing long before cars would come to this neck of the woods.
old, old dirt choking the bright green grass near the front steps swirled as i kicked rocks behind my grandma, walking in with tinfoil covered banana bread. every piece of wood inside had a dull shine, not from being cleaned or waxed, but by being polish-worn. every door creaked and every floorboard groaned, the electric wiring was exposed along with the bent nails holding them to the walls.
the pews had to been made by some carpenter a hundred years ago that believed god wanted you to suffer in as many little ways as possible. sharp angles, bizzare heights and depths in their design proved my case...at least to me. no one else complained, but they were old and grew up with these sorts of things.
no foam seat covers or ergonomic desk sets for these veterans.
old men wandered inside the chapel setting up chairs and instruments while old women jockeyed for display areas on the counter top in the anteway. hot items stored in the corner to keep prying hands from interrupting the serving cycle while appetizers and cookies were granted top access.
knowing better then to make my presence known while the ladies got the treats and sustenance organized i'd hide in the stairwell at the side of the room leading to a basement so dark i never ventured down for fear ghosts and bones coated the floor.
once the rush had passed and the bulk of the group had joined the men inside to tune instruments and talk about the week past i'd casually stroll up to the cookies and get two good handfuls before someone could remind me that candy would spoil this that or the other thing.
the selection was always so similar scanning for what i wanted to sample had become a lost cause. the cheap vanilla cream cookies and the occasional chips ahoy (if on sale) were my only concern. the cakes and the breads would have to wait until everyone was being served.
out the double doors down the stairs and into the fields behind the church i'd go. first to the graveyard to sit in the tall grass and watch the fireflies come as dusk creeped upon this little orb.
the gravestones were so old and worn with rain that reading them was more imagination then careful diction. dates were about the only thing i could ever be sure about...1865...1802...1911...
oh so long ago.
another age. muskets and horses. indians and campfires.
out here in the foothills of the ozarks these were real country folk. born, raised and died without ever crossing paths with Big Brother, social security, or world news. i didn't even know what these things were yet eitheri just thought it was rad that these people lived in houses without electric lights.
the chiggers would bite at my legs as i sat in the grass causing me to rustle and move around sometimes even getting up and walking over to another patch in hopes no little pest families lived there.
never such luck.
colored skies above. chatter and spots of music behind my back. blinking lazy lights surrounded me at head height. seated head height.
heavenly scents of honeysuckle covered the grasses. there were never any stems to pick as the kids living in the big house down the road a stretch passed down this way nearly every single day. it's alright...i used their tire swing all the time.
with just enough light left to see the dirt track leading to the pond under the dark oak i'd make my way to the tire swing.
pulling on the rope half dangling in the water i'd pull the tire to me and climb in and push off.
with the right tempo i could keep swinging for awhile until my ass was asleep from the tire edge cutting in.
i never cast a reflection on the water when i sat in that tire. the water was practically opaque with rotten leaves in the bottom and i never sat in the tire until sunset.
there i would swing and listen to my grandma and her friends strike up an old gospel tune and swing along into a folk song. sometimes i could hear a tired old voice sing out among the strumming, humming, thumping, and blowing.
it comforted me to be in that place as much as it did to lay across my grandma's lap while she slowly scratched strange designs into my skin.
i never was afraid there.
in the dark. over that pond.
i never thought of school or peer pressure. not one concern about my future or the dire situation in the middle east.
just floated in space. timeless.
young.
alone.
kicking my legs i would disembark from the tire and walk down the roads far enough so i couldn't hear the music anymore then i would turn back. my natural way of adjusting the volume in my life.
kicking rocks into the night and scratching alien letters into the dust with sticks found on the side of the road while investigating some sound or another.
at night the dirt road looked white and the trees seemed to be like giant t.v. sets tuned to static with their constant murmurings and shattered pieces of light shining through the leaves.
sometimes i would stare up into their boughs so long i would trip on my own foot or some variation in the ground and fall chest first on the brackish road. spitting away the taste only to punch myself in the arm for being stupid.
then latter enjoying the dirty little country boy look reflected in the tall glass under the lights in the church when i would return for the intermission and warm food.
there in a tight circle their chairs would be: old wood chairs men sit in to whittle; folding chairs from someone's basement; a piano that looked rusty. guitars of various age and use; in the center a wood-burning stove with several handcut pieces cracklin away.
the windows weren't stained glass. they weren't fancy neither, but they were tall and very dirty. the ceiling had the religious vault one always expects but fantastic expanses of exposed timber crossing hither thither and yon. spider webs big enough to catch birds seemed always on the verge of falling down upon me with the sheer amount of dust they held.
it was a church made of the bread of life. simple. strong. necessary. white walls unadorned and strong with hand-hewed lengths of wood still standing strong against the tides of time and nature.
a fort of the spirit.
staring out at the ozark mountains big enough to a little boy, but small now to this man's mind.
the white farm houses propped against green, purple, and blue mountains breaking the patterns of fields, yards, farms. mesmerizing to me.
off in the distance little brown bumps of cows wandered through trees while others laid next to muddy ponds waiting for the farmer's tractor horn to beep the call to home. blurry white lines and barbed-wire fences next to half rotten wood fences rolling past, on and on forever.
i would ask myself why? why these fences? they seemed so unnecessary out there. the fields and the crops were so vast a cow, or a person, would be worn out trying to cross it to escape, and to what destiny? with wolves and woodpeckers waiting to take your last breath.
roads out there curved so often and so dramatically, i wondered if we really ever went anywhere or we just drove in circles around the same multicolored hills when at last we'd turn down a dirt road marked by the grain store sign, now mostly brown where the white paint and red letters had faded or peeled off, that signified the only real movement we accomplished.
we made our little, beige, fluffy clouds of dust with the rock popcorn-popping under the car deafening the radio. every second made my mind wander even further off.
the bucolic scene on the other side of the glass moved too quickly out of sight with the radio mumbling words about politics that meant nothing to a country boy like me.
bouncing around inside the wagon as grandma stared straight ahead, i learned to reach my left hand down and hold onto her stack of boxed harmonicas before they'd hit the floor. if i'd let them fall she'd immediately ask me to pick them up anyway breaking the spell of silence being cast over me.
pavlovian training served me well.
just past the canyon, furry with trees and brush, our last turn would announce arrival to the old church. as soon as we turned down that road i would take my head off the window and stare straight ahead at the church, almost hidden in the overgrown oak. anticipation mixed with anxiety.
dried deer bones sticking out of dark fur is what it always looked like to me. the windows not yet illuminated by lights and music. shadows ever unmoving during our approach.
"grandma, they havin' cookies tonight?"
"yes honey. someone always brings cookies."
"not always."
"shane, you weren't even there the time martha didn't bring cookies. i just told you about it."
"just checkin'."
we'd pull right up in front of the church and park partly off the road; since there never was a parking lot made for this place. it's zenith of attendance passing long before cars would come to this neck of the woods.
old, old dirt choking the bright green grass near the front steps swirled as i kicked rocks behind my grandma, walking in with tinfoil covered banana bread. every piece of wood inside had a dull shine, not from being cleaned or waxed, but by being polish-worn. every door creaked and every floorboard groaned, the electric wiring was exposed along with the bent nails holding them to the walls.
the pews had to been made by some carpenter a hundred years ago that believed god wanted you to suffer in as many little ways as possible. sharp angles, bizzare heights and depths in their design proved my case...at least to me. no one else complained, but they were old and grew up with these sorts of things.
no foam seat covers or ergonomic desk sets for these veterans.
old men wandered inside the chapel setting up chairs and instruments while old women jockeyed for display areas on the counter top in the anteway. hot items stored in the corner to keep prying hands from interrupting the serving cycle while appetizers and cookies were granted top access.
knowing better then to make my presence known while the ladies got the treats and sustenance organized i'd hide in the stairwell at the side of the room leading to a basement so dark i never ventured down for fear ghosts and bones coated the floor.
once the rush had passed and the bulk of the group had joined the men inside to tune instruments and talk about the week past i'd casually stroll up to the cookies and get two good handfuls before someone could remind me that candy would spoil this that or the other thing.
the selection was always so similar scanning for what i wanted to sample had become a lost cause. the cheap vanilla cream cookies and the occasional chips ahoy (if on sale) were my only concern. the cakes and the breads would have to wait until everyone was being served.
out the double doors down the stairs and into the fields behind the church i'd go. first to the graveyard to sit in the tall grass and watch the fireflies come as dusk creeped upon this little orb.
the gravestones were so old and worn with rain that reading them was more imagination then careful diction. dates were about the only thing i could ever be sure about...1865...1802...1911...
oh so long ago.
another age. muskets and horses. indians and campfires.
out here in the foothills of the ozarks these were real country folk. born, raised and died without ever crossing paths with Big Brother, social security, or world news. i didn't even know what these things were yet eitheri just thought it was rad that these people lived in houses without electric lights.
the chiggers would bite at my legs as i sat in the grass causing me to rustle and move around sometimes even getting up and walking over to another patch in hopes no little pest families lived there.
never such luck.
colored skies above. chatter and spots of music behind my back. blinking lazy lights surrounded me at head height. seated head height.
heavenly scents of honeysuckle covered the grasses. there were never any stems to pick as the kids living in the big house down the road a stretch passed down this way nearly every single day. it's alright...i used their tire swing all the time.
with just enough light left to see the dirt track leading to the pond under the dark oak i'd make my way to the tire swing.
pulling on the rope half dangling in the water i'd pull the tire to me and climb in and push off.
with the right tempo i could keep swinging for awhile until my ass was asleep from the tire edge cutting in.
i never cast a reflection on the water when i sat in that tire. the water was practically opaque with rotten leaves in the bottom and i never sat in the tire until sunset.
there i would swing and listen to my grandma and her friends strike up an old gospel tune and swing along into a folk song. sometimes i could hear a tired old voice sing out among the strumming, humming, thumping, and blowing.
it comforted me to be in that place as much as it did to lay across my grandma's lap while she slowly scratched strange designs into my skin.
i never was afraid there.
in the dark. over that pond.
i never thought of school or peer pressure. not one concern about my future or the dire situation in the middle east.
just floated in space. timeless.
young.
alone.
kicking my legs i would disembark from the tire and walk down the roads far enough so i couldn't hear the music anymore then i would turn back. my natural way of adjusting the volume in my life.
kicking rocks into the night and scratching alien letters into the dust with sticks found on the side of the road while investigating some sound or another.
at night the dirt road looked white and the trees seemed to be like giant t.v. sets tuned to static with their constant murmurings and shattered pieces of light shining through the leaves.
sometimes i would stare up into their boughs so long i would trip on my own foot or some variation in the ground and fall chest first on the brackish road. spitting away the taste only to punch myself in the arm for being stupid.
then latter enjoying the dirty little country boy look reflected in the tall glass under the lights in the church when i would return for the intermission and warm food.
there in a tight circle their chairs would be: old wood chairs men sit in to whittle; folding chairs from someone's basement; a piano that looked rusty. guitars of various age and use; in the center a wood-burning stove with several handcut pieces cracklin away.
the windows weren't stained glass. they weren't fancy neither, but they were tall and very dirty. the ceiling had the religious vault one always expects but fantastic expanses of exposed timber crossing hither thither and yon. spider webs big enough to catch birds seemed always on the verge of falling down upon me with the sheer amount of dust they held.
it was a church made of the bread of life. simple. strong. necessary. white walls unadorned and strong with hand-hewed lengths of wood still standing strong against the tides of time and nature.
a fort of the spirit.
Mighty Sweet Tomatoes
Living in Vegas is a hard thing to do. So much action and strangeness to be had at any moment leaves the head reeling and ready for an attack of the senses. Finding good places to hang out and healthy places to eat can be even harder; especially if you are a "local" and want to avoid the swarms and traffic on the strip.
I got lucky when a condo right on the edge of the good part of town came available and was in my price range. Allowing me to avoid paying the terrible taxes but still able to roll in the heavenly trough of the rich.
My healthy dining choice was Sweet Tomatoes, an all-you-can-eat salad bar. It was so fantastic that patronizing there several times a month was not a problem. When I had guests come in to town visiting often I would take them there. Damn man!, it was like a four star restaurant to me.
Anyway, this story starts when my friend from japan moved back to the states and stayed with me on her way to live in Arizona.
It was another sunny day in fabulous Las Vegas and we went out to my favorite joint for dinner. We'd been eating and enjoying ourselves for an hour or so when the urge to hit the boy's room came upon me. I excused myself and meandered through the place to the back where restrooms are normally hidden.
Pushing open the door I immediately encountered a middle-aged man dressed casually standing by the sink almost blocking the entrance. The bathroom was rather small and I practically had to squeeze past him excusing myself as tried not to make eye contact on my way to the urinal (per the male custom). Man, this bathroom was tightly packed! The sink was close enough for me to kick my leg backwards and touch it and the middle-aged guy just standing there. The toilet stall was in arm's reach. Claustrophobia anyone?
This guy was patiently standing not two and a half feet behind me. Standing. Silent.
After I got my feet positioned, in the proper peeing stance, perfectly distanced from the porcelain to avoid splashing I started to unzip my pants when I heard the middle-aged guy's voice.
"You need any help?"
I froze.
My eyes were looking straight-forward at the wall in the traditional manly position. My one hand holding the side of my jean opening and the other forming a claw clinched on the zipper itself.
My mind began racing through aisles and aisles of responses: no thank you, shut the fuck up, i will kill you, it's not that heavy, etc.
My mouth started to open to utter a response that I wasn't even sure both halves of my brain agreed upon, and for a second the thought of just whipping around and doing some kung-fu kicking shit might solve the problem I was facing as well...when...
A tiny, little voice came from the toilet
"No dad, I got it."
I shut my eyes in relief.
I didn't see anyone in the stall when I came in because the boy was so short his legs didn't touch the floor.
His dad had been standing there waiting for him.
I was an intruder in their small moment.
I was able to actually pee and get the hell out of there, despite the performance anxiety. I wanted to wash my hands but I couldn't look at the guy in the face after thinking all of those bad thoughts so I just walked out.
Thank goodness my friends were already standing by the door and ready to leave.
I walked out of that place a freer man than when I had walked in.
I got lucky when a condo right on the edge of the good part of town came available and was in my price range. Allowing me to avoid paying the terrible taxes but still able to roll in the heavenly trough of the rich.
My healthy dining choice was Sweet Tomatoes, an all-you-can-eat salad bar. It was so fantastic that patronizing there several times a month was not a problem. When I had guests come in to town visiting often I would take them there. Damn man!, it was like a four star restaurant to me.
Anyway, this story starts when my friend from japan moved back to the states and stayed with me on her way to live in Arizona.
It was another sunny day in fabulous Las Vegas and we went out to my favorite joint for dinner. We'd been eating and enjoying ourselves for an hour or so when the urge to hit the boy's room came upon me. I excused myself and meandered through the place to the back where restrooms are normally hidden.
Pushing open the door I immediately encountered a middle-aged man dressed casually standing by the sink almost blocking the entrance. The bathroom was rather small and I practically had to squeeze past him excusing myself as tried not to make eye contact on my way to the urinal (per the male custom). Man, this bathroom was tightly packed! The sink was close enough for me to kick my leg backwards and touch it and the middle-aged guy just standing there. The toilet stall was in arm's reach. Claustrophobia anyone?
This guy was patiently standing not two and a half feet behind me. Standing. Silent.
After I got my feet positioned, in the proper peeing stance, perfectly distanced from the porcelain to avoid splashing I started to unzip my pants when I heard the middle-aged guy's voice.
"You need any help?"
I froze.
My eyes were looking straight-forward at the wall in the traditional manly position. My one hand holding the side of my jean opening and the other forming a claw clinched on the zipper itself.
My mind began racing through aisles and aisles of responses: no thank you, shut the fuck up, i will kill you, it's not that heavy, etc.
My mouth started to open to utter a response that I wasn't even sure both halves of my brain agreed upon, and for a second the thought of just whipping around and doing some kung-fu kicking shit might solve the problem I was facing as well...when...
A tiny, little voice came from the toilet
"No dad, I got it."
I shut my eyes in relief.
I didn't see anyone in the stall when I came in because the boy was so short his legs didn't touch the floor.
His dad had been standing there waiting for him.
I was an intruder in their small moment.
I was able to actually pee and get the hell out of there, despite the performance anxiety. I wanted to wash my hands but I couldn't look at the guy in the face after thinking all of those bad thoughts so I just walked out.
Thank goodness my friends were already standing by the door and ready to leave.
I walked out of that place a freer man than when I had walked in.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
She Could Dance
We were soldiers once...and young.
Personally, I was an Air Force Munitions Specialist serving in the great desert not long after the first American war in these land, and long before the current one. I was still fresh to the world and boggly-eyed at every new place I went. What made this place even more intense to be there was that our forward operating location was as remote as you could get. Located in the plains west of the Gulf of Oman in the great, sun-scorched stretches where our ancestors brought forth the seeds of humanity.
Not only was our little compound far from life as I knew it, but my particular place of employment was even more remote from the base itself. For example, each morning I would wake up in tent city and walk to the shower tent to get my "shit, shower, and shave" on...in military parlance. With a towel wrapped around me, sandals on my feet, dust kicking up in the morning breeze I would walk back to my tent and then dress in my little sheet-draped slice of heaven. Then would come the four minute walk to "motor pool" weaving between barbed wire and barricades to check out a truck for the drive across the desert. I'd get the vitals and sign-off the daily check sheet so like a good, little soldier. During this deployment I was a part of the administrative elite and thus granted the privilege to drive a small pickup which only ferried officers or other members of the administration. This would entail picking up whoever had made arrangements the day before with me. With my passenger on board it was then off to the first of five security checkpoints just to get the half mile off base. All the badge passing and password muttering took about twenty minutes. Once outside the main base it was a silent 35-50 minute drive across the desert basin with only two turns on an open four lane road inhabited by military vehicles, wild dogs, and white jalopy pickups with occupants of unknown origin.
Out there it was as flat and open as a nightmare. Brown and blue forever.
No flowers.
No bushes.
No birds. Just flies and the occasional mesa (which i don't think is the correct term since this was another world).
It was on this long and empty drive that one of the sweetest gifts I have ever been given by nature came to me.
On this particular day Command wanted me to deliver some packages to the main base and pick up a fellow troop that had missed the bus. Since it was early enough that I wouldn't miss lunch I took off without much ado (they would have made me do it anyway but if you miss lunch out there you truly miss lunch). It was after I picked up the arrant troop and passed over the wheel (because I out-ranked him...ha!) for the long drive back that destiny tapped on my passenger door.
We had passed the last checkpoint and the wide open desert lay before us. The heat of noon was running across the flat plains towards us and the ground began to shimmer and bend. During the summer months the heat is so pervasive and intense quicksilver makes an ocean of the hard scrabble. The whole desert floor shakes with it.
Now, I don't know enough science to backup this statement, but it appears like the concave shape of the earth and reverses it. Instead of rounding off at the corners and away towards China it would make the edges of Earth curve skyward. What once was hidden just past horizon's slope would now be raised towards the clouds. A hidden city hours drive away now sparkled off in the distance. The sunlight burning white hot on the top of the highest buildings. Bright fires burning the magical floating kingdom of my inner boy.
The troop driving was talking about something I couldn't tune into. Probably because I had rolled down the window letting the amazingly hot air blow over my head and gush in my ears.
The repetition from having traveled this road without event day after day, after month had me already filing away the moments to a circular file in my head. Just another day down and one day closer to home.
Just waiting to get to somewhere else.
I was looking east out my window arm slung over the window sill and slumped in the worn out bench-seat trying to give my tired rump a break from the bumps in the road. Being tossed around because of the worn out springs in that government-issued dried turd of a truck was literally a giant pain in the ass. The sad state of the trucks, Humvees, buses, and tractor trailers cannot be overstated nor can the woeful negligence of the dirt roads we drove on daily.
Back in the cab of the truck the driver's voice had stopped. I didn't even notice until I heard him utter a second "Whoa!".
I just glanced with my eyes to the left trying to avoid looking interested in anything so he wouldn't take it as a signal that I wanted to talk when I saw the apparition.
Not fifty yards away a dust twister was winding up for some action.
The driver slowed down and I started to slide up in my seat. Not but a few seconds after he uttered his sound of surprise the twister jumped the road in front of us and tripled in size.
Tall and skinny she was.
Almost a hundred yards tall. She shimmied across the hard sand like a belly-dancer bending at the middle and side to side rhythmically. I could almost hear the cymbals shaking to her tune.
She was carmel and milk in color.
Her smell was ancient tombs disturbed by robber's feet.
My mouth started to hang open in amazement and the truck had come to a complete stop without my acknowledgement.
Thank goodness for that, otherwise I would have collected at least a tablespoon of sand in my gaping maw.
Across the endless stage we were parked in she danced. Getting taller and bending ever more dramatically as if she needed to impress us more. The tiny feet of the twister barely seemed to move but as my eyes traveled up her length the bends, twists, colors, and size multiplied and divided at rates I lack the words to describe.
Looking up the twister's length like a lascivious strip-show gawker I finally came to the dancing queen's crown.
As she skirted across the desert floor she was sucking up the sand, stones, and the diamonds. yes, I said diamonds. In this massive desert the sand and stones are blown for so long and get so hot that they can fuze together with other grains. As they keep on rolling for lengths of time I cannot measure or postulate they undergo something similar to the heat and pressure that real diamonds go through. Some soldiers take them to the Arabic jewlers to get cut and polished and afterwards you can't tell them apart from the real thing.
There I was, sitting in that dingy truck looking at this epic dance. Waiting for the grand finale.
It was like fireworks coming out of the top of this enormous dust tornado. I could hear the heavier stones landing all across the ground at fantastic rates of speed, but in my mind I heard only the sparkling of those diamonds high up in the azure firmament like fizz in a champagne glass.
Shots of white light numbering in the hundreds against a blue palate.
I wanted to get out of the truck and go dance with her. Shed my spectator's skin and become like the risk and the dream. Wrap my arms around her dainty foot and feel her pull me up inside like a lover...like a dancer.
That was the brave me. A dreaming hero.
The real me sat in the truck and watched.
On and on she went twisting, bending, and dancing for almost three minutes until she started to fade into the east getting skinnier and shorter until at last I couldn't see her in all the dust she had kicked up. A dream lost in the dust.
"tre um boi"
The driver had already started us rolling again as I watched the scene fade behind me and eventually become a distorted image in my rear view mirror.
That moment in time will forever more be stamped indelibly in to my brain. I hope some day she and I will get to meet again. This time I won't be scared to dance.
Personally, I was an Air Force Munitions Specialist serving in the great desert not long after the first American war in these land, and long before the current one. I was still fresh to the world and boggly-eyed at every new place I went. What made this place even more intense to be there was that our forward operating location was as remote as you could get. Located in the plains west of the Gulf of Oman in the great, sun-scorched stretches where our ancestors brought forth the seeds of humanity.
Not only was our little compound far from life as I knew it, but my particular place of employment was even more remote from the base itself. For example, each morning I would wake up in tent city and walk to the shower tent to get my "shit, shower, and shave" on...in military parlance. With a towel wrapped around me, sandals on my feet, dust kicking up in the morning breeze I would walk back to my tent and then dress in my little sheet-draped slice of heaven. Then would come the four minute walk to "motor pool" weaving between barbed wire and barricades to check out a truck for the drive across the desert. I'd get the vitals and sign-off the daily check sheet so like a good, little soldier. During this deployment I was a part of the administrative elite and thus granted the privilege to drive a small pickup which only ferried officers or other members of the administration. This would entail picking up whoever had made arrangements the day before with me. With my passenger on board it was then off to the first of five security checkpoints just to get the half mile off base. All the badge passing and password muttering took about twenty minutes. Once outside the main base it was a silent 35-50 minute drive across the desert basin with only two turns on an open four lane road inhabited by military vehicles, wild dogs, and white jalopy pickups with occupants of unknown origin.
Out there it was as flat and open as a nightmare. Brown and blue forever.
No flowers.
No bushes.
No birds. Just flies and the occasional mesa (which i don't think is the correct term since this was another world).
It was on this long and empty drive that one of the sweetest gifts I have ever been given by nature came to me.
On this particular day Command wanted me to deliver some packages to the main base and pick up a fellow troop that had missed the bus. Since it was early enough that I wouldn't miss lunch I took off without much ado (they would have made me do it anyway but if you miss lunch out there you truly miss lunch). It was after I picked up the arrant troop and passed over the wheel (because I out-ranked him...ha!) for the long drive back that destiny tapped on my passenger door.
We had passed the last checkpoint and the wide open desert lay before us. The heat of noon was running across the flat plains towards us and the ground began to shimmer and bend. During the summer months the heat is so pervasive and intense quicksilver makes an ocean of the hard scrabble. The whole desert floor shakes with it.
Now, I don't know enough science to backup this statement, but it appears like the concave shape of the earth and reverses it. Instead of rounding off at the corners and away towards China it would make the edges of Earth curve skyward. What once was hidden just past horizon's slope would now be raised towards the clouds. A hidden city hours drive away now sparkled off in the distance. The sunlight burning white hot on the top of the highest buildings. Bright fires burning the magical floating kingdom of my inner boy.
The troop driving was talking about something I couldn't tune into. Probably because I had rolled down the window letting the amazingly hot air blow over my head and gush in my ears.
The repetition from having traveled this road without event day after day, after month had me already filing away the moments to a circular file in my head. Just another day down and one day closer to home.
Just waiting to get to somewhere else.
I was looking east out my window arm slung over the window sill and slumped in the worn out bench-seat trying to give my tired rump a break from the bumps in the road. Being tossed around because of the worn out springs in that government-issued dried turd of a truck was literally a giant pain in the ass. The sad state of the trucks, Humvees, buses, and tractor trailers cannot be overstated nor can the woeful negligence of the dirt roads we drove on daily.
Back in the cab of the truck the driver's voice had stopped. I didn't even notice until I heard him utter a second "Whoa!".
I just glanced with my eyes to the left trying to avoid looking interested in anything so he wouldn't take it as a signal that I wanted to talk when I saw the apparition.
Not fifty yards away a dust twister was winding up for some action.
The driver slowed down and I started to slide up in my seat. Not but a few seconds after he uttered his sound of surprise the twister jumped the road in front of us and tripled in size.
Tall and skinny she was.
Almost a hundred yards tall. She shimmied across the hard sand like a belly-dancer bending at the middle and side to side rhythmically. I could almost hear the cymbals shaking to her tune.
She was carmel and milk in color.
Her smell was ancient tombs disturbed by robber's feet.
My mouth started to hang open in amazement and the truck had come to a complete stop without my acknowledgement.
Thank goodness for that, otherwise I would have collected at least a tablespoon of sand in my gaping maw.
Across the endless stage we were parked in she danced. Getting taller and bending ever more dramatically as if she needed to impress us more. The tiny feet of the twister barely seemed to move but as my eyes traveled up her length the bends, twists, colors, and size multiplied and divided at rates I lack the words to describe.
Looking up the twister's length like a lascivious strip-show gawker I finally came to the dancing queen's crown.
As she skirted across the desert floor she was sucking up the sand, stones, and the diamonds. yes, I said diamonds. In this massive desert the sand and stones are blown for so long and get so hot that they can fuze together with other grains. As they keep on rolling for lengths of time I cannot measure or postulate they undergo something similar to the heat and pressure that real diamonds go through. Some soldiers take them to the Arabic jewlers to get cut and polished and afterwards you can't tell them apart from the real thing.
There I was, sitting in that dingy truck looking at this epic dance. Waiting for the grand finale.
It was like fireworks coming out of the top of this enormous dust tornado. I could hear the heavier stones landing all across the ground at fantastic rates of speed, but in my mind I heard only the sparkling of those diamonds high up in the azure firmament like fizz in a champagne glass.
Shots of white light numbering in the hundreds against a blue palate.
I wanted to get out of the truck and go dance with her. Shed my spectator's skin and become like the risk and the dream. Wrap my arms around her dainty foot and feel her pull me up inside like a lover...like a dancer.
That was the brave me. A dreaming hero.
The real me sat in the truck and watched.
On and on she went twisting, bending, and dancing for almost three minutes until she started to fade into the east getting skinnier and shorter until at last I couldn't see her in all the dust she had kicked up. A dream lost in the dust.
"tre um boi"
The driver had already started us rolling again as I watched the scene fade behind me and eventually become a distorted image in my rear view mirror.
That moment in time will forever more be stamped indelibly in to my brain. I hope some day she and I will get to meet again. This time I won't be scared to dance.
Assault or Compliment?
I have come to the realization that I have a different definition for most things than my peers, and from culture in general I suppose. For instance, the short story I am about to retell will allow how I perceived a past event juxtaposed against your comments (if there are any).
When I was 19 and fresh into the Air Force I put on my list of duty assignments "Worldwide Volunteer" in order to take the last ticket out of banality. I wanted a small "me" sized piece of excitement. So, when our last week at the months long training came the instructor arrived at the dorms with a handful of assignments. This is it! I knew finally my time had come. I was out the box and into something new!
"Davis!" he finally called. I marched right up and took my manilla envelope and smiled turning away and tore off the seal to my destiny. Fingers almost shaking I pulled out the orders stating my first duty assignment!
Oh yeah...
"Airmen Mark Davis you are hereby ordered to report to duty station Minot, North Dakota by 3 January."
What the FUCK!
North Dakota...that's worse then plain old America. That's where they send criminals and Indians to wallow away into madness. Damn.
Truthfully, I had never been there before so I didn't know for certain but at least it was going to be something new. At the end of the week off I went to my frozen paradise.
Fast forward to month seven in my strange new world.
I started going to the gym with my red-headed extrovert roommate named Zack. He was rather interesting and charismatic and so I toke to him right away. The girls liked him and so I decided that I should follow in his footsteps to learn a few things. I know, classic chauvinistic patterning but like I said, I was young.
Going to the gym was step one in what I hoped would be a reinvention of myself. Get strong, wear a uniform and the love would just fall in my lap. So I thought.
I digress. The gym on base was rather average with all the normal acuterments you would expect. I have to interject one fact that plays a major role in the development of this story and it is that Minot Air Force Base is a homestead base. This means that military families that normally have to take new assignments every three to four years can elect to stay at this base (since it is so unfavorable) for as long as they want. Why this plays a role is that like any small town certain things become familiar to the average denizen of the base like odd people, criminal activity, boring locations. But, for people like me...everything was new and unexpected.
Wednesday, a normal day and Zack wasn't back at our room. I assumed he was already at the gym, and so I headed on over to catch up. I hit the locker room to start changing. A teenager that I had seen in the gym numerous times before, but never talked to, was already there and drying off from his after shower workout. I noticed he had an atrophied arm that must have been caused from some birth defect or whatnot. He looked over at me and smiled and I replied easily "How ya doin?" which he said "Good." and that was it. I got the last of my clothes off, wrapped a towel around my waist, and headed for the steam room (I like to loosen up before I workout). After a few minutes in walks this kid with the same towel used a few moments before to dry off.
He sits just within eyesight as the steam began to fill the room. I can see his form in the midst. No sound but the "phsshhh" of steam for five minutes. Right before the steam turned off I noticed an underlying sound. Like feet slapping against the floor. I ignored it and got up to leave.
As I was exiting I noticed that the form was mirroring me so I decided to try and shake him by going immediately into the sauna.
My thought process was that no one in the right mind would go from a steam room to a dry sauna.
I walked right in and began suppressing my bodies urge to heatstroke. After winning that small battle I laid back against the wall. Seconds later in walks the teenager. I could tell he was searching my face, but I had already hung my head to avoid conversation.
He sat closer this time.
After about four minutes I heard that noise again...a little different, but a pattern nonetheless. I didn't want to awknowledge him or look around the room so I just got up and left.
I stood out in the anteroom between the sauna and the steam room trying not to faint with all the spinning my head was doing from the heat and out walks the teenager. He starts to make small talk and I oblige for a few sentences but I felt creeped out by this guy. His speech was fine. His motor control and aptitude were like any other guy.
It dawned on me that this kid wasn't handicapped or suffering from Down's Syndrome at all. He just had this crippled arm.
He started smiling at me all happy-happy joy-joy...and that didn't make me feel happy or joyous. I wanted to get the fuck out of Dodge.
I started to walk towards the steam room for another attempt at shaking him only to be intercepted by this kid going in first.
I stood there for a second and realized that this kid is definitely following me. I made a beeline for the locker room to get my gym clothes on so I could get out into the public domain. Once at my locker I realized that I was still soaked top to bottom with steam and sweat. It would gross everyone out, even me, to try and use equipment while dripping ear to ear with sweat. So I make a break for the showers.
A minute later in walks the teenager and he starts to shower... again!
One showerhead away from me.
I slouch forward a little to get water in my face and down my neck to make it look like I am in relax-mode. I stay that way for a few minutes until I hear that familar sound again (feet slapping against a wet floor).
I peek to my right to see what is happening with strange boy and there it is.
Horror of horrors!
Dude is masturbating with the shower soap. He wasn't looking completely at me just up at me and then back to the wall to get whatever image he wanted refreshed.
In my terror I noticed that he was not only masturbating next to me, and most likely to the thought of me, but he had one of the largest dicks I had ever seen on screen or in real life.
The soap bubbles were getting thicker and he was starting to make more sounds. That's when I broke.
I took off out of the shower running to my locker. I put on all my stuff wet.
I ran out of the locker room and out of the gym altogether.
I at first wasn't sure if it was by accident that all that happened and it all became quite clear after I got back to my room. When I told Zack my frantic story he only nodded. He described the kid to me and said he too had an encounter, a strange conversation while at the gym, with this kid a month before but had dismissed it as plain unusual. Something slightly off key and sexual but not enough to make him make special note of it.
Now as I sit here and wonder "How many young bucks encountered this fellow before someone
took it seriously, or took him up on it?"
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