Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Comedy-Blog
Hey I'm a comedian again! I just made the decision to return, and use my blog as a rubbish bin for jokes that I may or may not use.
Yes, for those that don't know, I was a comedian in a past life, and have been avoiding it due to an extended period of foul temper. A wonderful acid trip the other night set me straight though, no more putting it off, I'm returning to the stage to do some open mic's next week.
I was frying really good just considering a table, as an instrument. What would we be without tables? On where would we rest stuff? What would we sit around? Tables never let you down, you can put stuff on them and when you get back it will be there? Tables don't generally just collapse for no reason. At least I've never seen it. Tables.
Anyway I'm going to rant into this thing and use some of it for my "gigs" which I will post on this handy blog, which once housed semi-serious writings. Catch me next Tuesday at the Alligator Lounge. No not this Tuesday, next Tuesday.
Yes, for those that don't know, I was a comedian in a past life, and have been avoiding it due to an extended period of foul temper. A wonderful acid trip the other night set me straight though, no more putting it off, I'm returning to the stage to do some open mic's next week.
I was frying really good just considering a table, as an instrument. What would we be without tables? On where would we rest stuff? What would we sit around? Tables never let you down, you can put stuff on them and when you get back it will be there? Tables don't generally just collapse for no reason. At least I've never seen it. Tables.
Anyway I'm going to rant into this thing and use some of it for my "gigs" which I will post on this handy blog, which once housed semi-serious writings. Catch me next Tuesday at the Alligator Lounge. No not this Tuesday, next Tuesday.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
A Lesson in Taste
When I heard that familiar siren’s call of a whistle over the regrettably small ethnic-foods isle, I thought it was just another nostalgic daydream. They had been floating around with piney smell of my small home-town. Between seeing my old school-yard chums pumping my gas, to simply being in the supermarket where I used to ride along in the cart. Avoiding people who might recognize me, face in my magazine, peering up only to see if this wooden shack of superstore carries capers for my salmon tartrae. Stimulating conversation is as hard to find here as, even the most basic, tools of epicure. It’s a wonder my parents don’t starve without me. I’m sure they would have if their microwave had broken.
She used to wear long floral print dresses, occasionally with a matching piece of local flora in her long dirty blonde hair. She is never without sweet demeanor and an infectious song-bird whistle. Always a sweet pop melody, recognizable and uplifting today it was John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance.” If you would have asked me fifteen years ago, I would have told you that she wrote it for my class.
I nearly dropped my hand-basket when I heard that sweet, low whistle. A half-step too low, the way Lennon should have written it. My heart swelled and almost choked me as I saw her brush the unnoticeable dust from off of her new fashion a long denim skirt. I peered around the corner, not wanting to be noticed. I withheld a giggle, realizing I was the only one in the world who noticed that the dust just swilled around the with the stale supermarket air only to land on her hosiery.
I transgressed to good-old repressed fifth grade, when I would let my self get eliminated in dodge-ball, and slink off under the pretenses of a bathroom break. I would watch her do yoga or read in our classroom. She was so tranquil and self-assured. I would place my face right up to the eye-width crack between posters on the window and dream. Touching her, kissing her, dancing ballroom-style with Ms. Newsome. I was so lonely for her, and still, despite being a successful grown man, I long for her indelible legs to wrap around me.
I could have watched her forever, waiting for her to recognize me, but that was like my mother expecting me to recognize Dr. Stein at the grange last night. The last time I saw him he was slapping the embryonic goo from my ears and eyes, into this unsympathetic world. How could she recognize me? I had grown so much since she saw me before I went off to college. I was taller, the most dapper man in town, with the weight of world travel on my shoulders. Did she realize I’d probably be working at the hardware store picking my teeth with a matchbook, like the peers I absconded in favor of intellectual pursuits in Washington, if she didn’t inspire me to read every night of my tenth year. I wanted so badly to impress her, for her to notice me. I tore into text like a Christmas presents, and raised my hand high in class, beaming with every insignificant piece of positive re-enforcement. It was an impossible habit to break, a labor of love. Today I write legal briefs with the rapaciousness that I once held in writing book reports for her.
I came closer, hoping she would address me first. I didn’t remember her first name, and I didn’t want to call her Ms. Newsome anymore, yet I hoped I still could.
“Ms. Newsome?” I brackishly interrupted her melody.
“Yes…” she turned and squinted at me unsure of which member of her fan club I was. “Uh hi, wait.” Didn’t she realize I was the president? Suddenly she smiled brightly, dropped her hand-basket and gave me a tackle of a hug. “Richey Stevens!”
“Richard.”
“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry. I heard you were going to Law School in D.C.”
“Yes, I’m almost done. I’m actually up for a junior partnership at a…”
“Wow that’s so amazing! I’m so proud of you. You look so handsome.”
“And you’re still beautiful.” I adventured to say.
“Oh, well thanks. What are you doing here? How long are you in town for?”
“Oh just for a week or so. I’m just cooking my parents some real meals, they eat the worst junk.”
She scanned my cart and said, “Wow, it looks like you’ve got some pretty good taste.”
I shrugged modestly. “Yeah, I still haven’t been able to find a decent restaurant in this berg.”
“Well there is this new place a small Italian place, with real Italians,” she laughed a bit. “Different from the dinner y’know, just what this town needed. It’s on Westford Drive, near the cemetery. I think it’s in the phone book. It’s pretty good. I like it.”
“Let’s go. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. I haven’t had a decent meal all week.”
“What about your parents.”
“They’ll experience my cooking all week. They can go another night with Stouffers. I have to catch up with my favorite teacher.”
“Well alright, sounds great.”
And just like that, fantasy and reality swirled into impending destiny. I was picking her up in a few hours perhaps for good. Scenarios ranging from sweeping her away, to one night of passionate redemption raced around as I stood, separated by three check-out lines. It was slightly uncomfortable being that close, with all of that on my mind. I could see her still blushing, while she struck-up a conversation with the cashier, just to avoid looking at me. She was just as excited as I was.
On my way home I went through the rusting list of high-school friends on my cell phone contacts. I needed to share this event with someone.
“Hey, it’s Richey from Pennbrook. Yeah, I’m back in town. But guess who I’m taking out to dinner tonight?”
“Ms. Who?”
No one understood, in fact the only person who shared my excitement was Leif, who I only dialed reluctantly, as I had been ignoring his calls for years. No hard feelings. He just never really moved on from High School, and I can’t surround myself with stagnation. He still worked at the gas station that I used to buy cigarettes from in high school. He was still the same Leif, but every year we had less in common.
“Ms. Newsome is still hot man. I see her swimming at the Y. She’s gotta be pushing 50 and her tits are still high and tight. It’s amazing man, she’s like gotten hotter with age, more womanly. Mmmm. You’re in for a treat man. That is so awesome.”
“Yeah, well it’s really meaningful for me because she was like the first woman I noticed.”
“Like a boner?”
“Uhh, yeah sorta.”
“Not till 5th grade huh, wow. Well anyway, I bet she’s a freak. She’s been single for ever man. I bet she’s desperate to get some. Better watch out for bats in the closet.”
“So you haven’t seen her out with any men?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know about most of the old folks in this town. She’s weird man. I always see her by herself, or out with students. I think she has like a weird thing for kids or something. She basically just hangs around Sterner Elementary with ten-year-olds, and the other teachers, but you know what those guys are like; old sacks. This is just what she needs man; some young cock. If she doesn’t use it soon, she’s just going to dry up and that would be a shame. A fuckin’ crime man.”
As I nervously paced and prepared I felt like going back to a number I never thought I’d call again. James my old roommate from college. We had a bit of a falling out after I moved away and didn’t keep in touch. He was really offended about it, burnt that I didn’t go to his wedding. I could hardly be blamed though. He set the date with no consideration for my finals schedule, and didn’t make me the best man. It was almost like he didn’t want me to go.
“Hey Ricky, what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need some advice…”
I explained the situation.
“Wow, so this Ms. Newsome actually exists. I started to believe she was just like an imaginary sitcom character that you edified to avoid getting to close to any real girls. Well, if you want this to work just talk about yourself a lot, should be easy for you. That way she’ll see how you’ve grown. You can’t let her think of you as a kid anymore”
“That makes sense. Y’know I really haven’t talked to her on like an adult level. I don’t really know much of what she’s into or does. I’m really excited to get to know her. Talk about like art and politics and stuff. I wonder what she’s really like y’know.”
“Well what did you talk about in 5th grade?”
“I don’t know, multiplication and pop rocks. What does a fifth grader talk about?”
“Don’t discount the conversation of a 5th grader. I have a cousin who’s that age and we have some great talks man, like picking apart existential riddles. For example, just the other day she was asking me why rocks skipped on water and that led to us wondering if one day, if enough people skipped rocks into the same pond if it would fill up and build like a mountain extending to the heavens from this little pond. With frogs jumping up straight into the mouth of birds. It was beautiful man.”
“Very nice, skipping rocks, sounds like a great thing to talk a woman in her forties about. This is really important to me man. This is the woman of my dreams. My fantasy since I’ve known the exquisite distraction of fantasy.”
“Sorry. Y’know, you don’t need to get all grandiose. It’s just a date, and a weird one at that.”
As I drove to meet Ms. Newsome at the restaurant, I still felt bitter towards James. Every time he’d nail a dumb freshman or seduce a waitress, I was the first one to give him a high-five. I even pretended to support his ridiculous marriage, just to be his friend, and he couldn’t be happy for me after such an unlikely and wonderful opportunity.
Ms. Newsome was sitting at the only occupied table at the restaurant, mulling over the menu, and wiping her lipstick off of her water glass. She was wearing pumps and more make-up than I’d ever seen on her.
“Good evening.” I bid her when I got to the table, startling her up from her menu. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“No. I was early. I mean I just got here.”
“We should get some wine.”
“Sure, I don’t know really. I like red.”
“I’ll choose it.”
The smiling waiter came and took my order. I think I impressed him with my knowledge of Italian regions and varietals. She gazed admiringly and followed my lead as I swilred, inhaled, swallowed and gave a distinctive description . She just said it was good. She seemed intelligent enough, but I guess you can’t teach lessons in taste.
“So you still in fifth grade?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered with a deserved laugh. “It’s really the best grade, you’re… they’re like tiny adults. Right before they get into those tough years, but still plenty bright and sweet. So sweet. Do you remember fifth grade?”
“I remember playing basketball, going to Williamsburg and the end of the year party with that giant cake. I guess that’s about it. I remember that it was my favorite grade because of you.”
“What do you think you liked about me so much?” she asked breaking the long silence that followed.
I remembered watching the way her calves changed shape as she pulled down the giant map of the world, thinking “this is the woman I want to be with for the rest of my life.”
“I liked the way that you started class every day by asking every student how they were doing individually. It really got the taciturn kids to come out of their shells. I know students from that class better than a lot of students in my classes now.”
She laughed and said, “Well it’s good to hear that. A lot of students complain that it’s boring or a waste of time.”
“No it was clever teaching, it kept everyone honest and open in class. Openness is important.”
The waiter than came up to take our order, interrupting my profession of love, for a pork roast. He smirked and giggled as he dimmed the lights and lit a candle.
“I remember those stress exercises you used to have us do after tests. We would all close our eyes breathe deeply, remind ourselves that this was just a test. You’d count to three and we’d all break our pencils and you’d give us new ones to start the test with. It was like symbolic for a fresh start. I still do that you know. It got me through the LSAT’s, every one looked at me like I was crazy when I snapped my pencil at the end of the test.”
“Ha, don’t worry about people thinking your crazy. Everyone in this hick town thinks I‘m crazy.”
I looked over at the waiter to see if he was listening to what was quickly becoming gossip. He was, smirky and unabashed.
“Why do they think you’re crazy?” I asked almost blowing out the ambient candle by accident.
“They don’t understand me. There is no one here like me. It’s alright now. I have the kids and they love me, and I love them.”
“Have you ever thought about taking a husband?”
She looked cock-eyed at me.
“I was just curious. You don’t have to explain anything to me if you don’t want to.”
“No it’s O.K. It’s funny actually. You’re the only student that I’ve ever really talked to about this. You don’t remember do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well it was a long time ago I guess. It was my second year here. You were in my class, and I was really thinking about quitting and leaving. It didn’t seem like I belonged here. No one understood me. There was no one else here like me. One day when you kids were out at recess I was just sitting in the classroom crying to myself, and you walked in and asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want one of my students to see my like that, so I told you to leave and go play.”
I didn’t remember any of this, although I had imagined similar scenarios many times. She had me on the edge of my seat, my chin was warm from the candle underneath. I moved closer still, and asked, “and then what?”
“Well then you put your hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back and said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘don’t worry Ms. Newsome, I love you. I love you more than any woman in the world.’”
I was amazed at myself. I was amazed that I could be so cavalier at age ten. I was amazed that I knew exactly what I wanted, even then, and how little had really changed, how little I’d grown. How my desires and dreams were the same now as then, just closer to coming to fruition. I was touched by her place for me in her memory. I felt as if fate was closing in on us. I felt bad for James, and all my friends who didn’t understand what real love was, what it felt like.
“I still love you more than any woman in the world.” I told her with crippling earnest.
“Oh Richey, you’re just a kid. What do you know about me? What do you know about love? You really shouldn’t think of me in this way. I just wanted to catch up to thank you. I don’t want this to get out of hand.”
“I want you to teach me. I want you to tell me all about you. I want you to teach me love. Maybe I could teach you. I‘ve had like a dozen girlfriends and none of them have meant nearly as much to me as you have.” My voice started to tremble with true emotion.
“There is nothing you can teach me. Please let’s just eat, don’t ruin this.”
I tried to reach across the table and grab her sweaty, fidgety hands, but she turned away.
“Good-bye Richey.”
And just like that she was gone, she flew out the door. Leaving me with fifteen years of unresolved fantasy and the bill.
No sooner could I let the rejection sink in than the smiling waiter came up and rubbed my back and filled my glass.
“You’re better off.”
“No man you don’t understand, I will never meet another woman like that. She means so much to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that again. Maybe I’m over reacting. It’s been a while since I’ve had luck with any women.
He shrugged and said, “Trust me you’re better off. She’s got a dick.”
“Pardon me!” I snapped.
He repeated himself and made a gesture more apt for describing a stripped bass than a “dick.”
“What?”
“Yeah man my cousin hooked up wit’ her and said she’s got a dick. Half the men in this town have made that mistake. She’s one of those transsexual types. Dun feel too bad. She had me fooled too until I heard about her. I mean look at those legs! This glass is on me, kid. Be careful out there huh.”
I drove home still unconvinced, and way over the legal limit. I made it by the grace of rural light-night traffic. I really needed to talk to someone.
“Dude, I’m glad you called. How did it go?”
“It was weird man. I almost don’t know how to say this, but I think Ms. Newsome has a penis.”
“What? No way. Are you sure it’s not just a really big clit?”
“I don’t know for sure, that’s just what the waiter said.”
“He’s full of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah dude he’s just jealous that you were out with such a hot cougar, and he was bussin’ tables. You should try to hit that. I bet she’s still up.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Yeah dude, just call me if you get some. I want to be the first to know.”
I needed a more intelligent estimation of what this could mean for my pyche.
“Please don’t laugh about this man. This is really bugging me.”
James was immediately irritated that I would call him this late about a date that he deemed insignificant, but when he heard the twist, he considered it worth some consultation. After he stopped laughing.
“I can imagine. Don’t take it too seriously man, so what if she’s a transvestite, you were ten at the time. That’s really the important lesson from all of this, you can’t keep your weird old obsessions from childhood with you. It’s like having an oral fixation man, you have to develop sexually. I think this is probably for the best, now you’ll be able to move on with your life. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work in the morning. Just remember, it’s not a big deal.
I tried to sleep to escape the prevailing question of my sexuality, but it swirled over my head like a mobile. About five minutes after getting to sleep I was jarred awake from a nightmare about hiding under Ms. Newsome’s desk to escape bullies in the fifth grade, only to find a giant penis in my trembling face. I no longer had sleep as a refuge from this urgent new development in my development. With no friends to turn to, I reluctantly turned to the internet for answers. By the time day broke I had discovered a world of trannies, superwomen, and engorged clitori that left me still fond of Ms. Newsome, with a new understanding of who she was, yet still quite uneasy. Perhaps I was simply too overwhelmed with intellectual curiosity to become aroused.
She used to wear long floral print dresses, occasionally with a matching piece of local flora in her long dirty blonde hair. She is never without sweet demeanor and an infectious song-bird whistle. Always a sweet pop melody, recognizable and uplifting today it was John Lennon’s “Give Peace a Chance.” If you would have asked me fifteen years ago, I would have told you that she wrote it for my class.
I nearly dropped my hand-basket when I heard that sweet, low whistle. A half-step too low, the way Lennon should have written it. My heart swelled and almost choked me as I saw her brush the unnoticeable dust from off of her new fashion a long denim skirt. I peered around the corner, not wanting to be noticed. I withheld a giggle, realizing I was the only one in the world who noticed that the dust just swilled around the with the stale supermarket air only to land on her hosiery.
I transgressed to good-old repressed fifth grade, when I would let my self get eliminated in dodge-ball, and slink off under the pretenses of a bathroom break. I would watch her do yoga or read in our classroom. She was so tranquil and self-assured. I would place my face right up to the eye-width crack between posters on the window and dream. Touching her, kissing her, dancing ballroom-style with Ms. Newsome. I was so lonely for her, and still, despite being a successful grown man, I long for her indelible legs to wrap around me.
I could have watched her forever, waiting for her to recognize me, but that was like my mother expecting me to recognize Dr. Stein at the grange last night. The last time I saw him he was slapping the embryonic goo from my ears and eyes, into this unsympathetic world. How could she recognize me? I had grown so much since she saw me before I went off to college. I was taller, the most dapper man in town, with the weight of world travel on my shoulders. Did she realize I’d probably be working at the hardware store picking my teeth with a matchbook, like the peers I absconded in favor of intellectual pursuits in Washington, if she didn’t inspire me to read every night of my tenth year. I wanted so badly to impress her, for her to notice me. I tore into text like a Christmas presents, and raised my hand high in class, beaming with every insignificant piece of positive re-enforcement. It was an impossible habit to break, a labor of love. Today I write legal briefs with the rapaciousness that I once held in writing book reports for her.
I came closer, hoping she would address me first. I didn’t remember her first name, and I didn’t want to call her Ms. Newsome anymore, yet I hoped I still could.
“Ms. Newsome?” I brackishly interrupted her melody.
“Yes…” she turned and squinted at me unsure of which member of her fan club I was. “Uh hi, wait.” Didn’t she realize I was the president? Suddenly she smiled brightly, dropped her hand-basket and gave me a tackle of a hug. “Richey Stevens!”
“Richard.”
“Oh yes, of course. I’m sorry. I heard you were going to Law School in D.C.”
“Yes, I’m almost done. I’m actually up for a junior partnership at a…”
“Wow that’s so amazing! I’m so proud of you. You look so handsome.”
“And you’re still beautiful.” I adventured to say.
“Oh, well thanks. What are you doing here? How long are you in town for?”
“Oh just for a week or so. I’m just cooking my parents some real meals, they eat the worst junk.”
She scanned my cart and said, “Wow, it looks like you’ve got some pretty good taste.”
I shrugged modestly. “Yeah, I still haven’t been able to find a decent restaurant in this berg.”
“Well there is this new place a small Italian place, with real Italians,” she laughed a bit. “Different from the dinner y’know, just what this town needed. It’s on Westford Drive, near the cemetery. I think it’s in the phone book. It’s pretty good. I like it.”
“Let’s go. Let me take you out to dinner tonight. I haven’t had a decent meal all week.”
“What about your parents.”
“They’ll experience my cooking all week. They can go another night with Stouffers. I have to catch up with my favorite teacher.”
“Well alright, sounds great.”
And just like that, fantasy and reality swirled into impending destiny. I was picking her up in a few hours perhaps for good. Scenarios ranging from sweeping her away, to one night of passionate redemption raced around as I stood, separated by three check-out lines. It was slightly uncomfortable being that close, with all of that on my mind. I could see her still blushing, while she struck-up a conversation with the cashier, just to avoid looking at me. She was just as excited as I was.
On my way home I went through the rusting list of high-school friends on my cell phone contacts. I needed to share this event with someone.
“Hey, it’s Richey from Pennbrook. Yeah, I’m back in town. But guess who I’m taking out to dinner tonight?”
“Ms. Who?”
No one understood, in fact the only person who shared my excitement was Leif, who I only dialed reluctantly, as I had been ignoring his calls for years. No hard feelings. He just never really moved on from High School, and I can’t surround myself with stagnation. He still worked at the gas station that I used to buy cigarettes from in high school. He was still the same Leif, but every year we had less in common.
“Ms. Newsome is still hot man. I see her swimming at the Y. She’s gotta be pushing 50 and her tits are still high and tight. It’s amazing man, she’s like gotten hotter with age, more womanly. Mmmm. You’re in for a treat man. That is so awesome.”
“Yeah, well it’s really meaningful for me because she was like the first woman I noticed.”
“Like a boner?”
“Uhh, yeah sorta.”
“Not till 5th grade huh, wow. Well anyway, I bet she’s a freak. She’s been single for ever man. I bet she’s desperate to get some. Better watch out for bats in the closet.”
“So you haven’t seen her out with any men?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t know about most of the old folks in this town. She’s weird man. I always see her by herself, or out with students. I think she has like a weird thing for kids or something. She basically just hangs around Sterner Elementary with ten-year-olds, and the other teachers, but you know what those guys are like; old sacks. This is just what she needs man; some young cock. If she doesn’t use it soon, she’s just going to dry up and that would be a shame. A fuckin’ crime man.”
As I nervously paced and prepared I felt like going back to a number I never thought I’d call again. James my old roommate from college. We had a bit of a falling out after I moved away and didn’t keep in touch. He was really offended about it, burnt that I didn’t go to his wedding. I could hardly be blamed though. He set the date with no consideration for my finals schedule, and didn’t make me the best man. It was almost like he didn’t want me to go.
“Hey Ricky, what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need some advice…”
I explained the situation.
“Wow, so this Ms. Newsome actually exists. I started to believe she was just like an imaginary sitcom character that you edified to avoid getting to close to any real girls. Well, if you want this to work just talk about yourself a lot, should be easy for you. That way she’ll see how you’ve grown. You can’t let her think of you as a kid anymore”
“That makes sense. Y’know I really haven’t talked to her on like an adult level. I don’t really know much of what she’s into or does. I’m really excited to get to know her. Talk about like art and politics and stuff. I wonder what she’s really like y’know.”
“Well what did you talk about in 5th grade?”
“I don’t know, multiplication and pop rocks. What does a fifth grader talk about?”
“Don’t discount the conversation of a 5th grader. I have a cousin who’s that age and we have some great talks man, like picking apart existential riddles. For example, just the other day she was asking me why rocks skipped on water and that led to us wondering if one day, if enough people skipped rocks into the same pond if it would fill up and build like a mountain extending to the heavens from this little pond. With frogs jumping up straight into the mouth of birds. It was beautiful man.”
“Very nice, skipping rocks, sounds like a great thing to talk a woman in her forties about. This is really important to me man. This is the woman of my dreams. My fantasy since I’ve known the exquisite distraction of fantasy.”
“Sorry. Y’know, you don’t need to get all grandiose. It’s just a date, and a weird one at that.”
As I drove to meet Ms. Newsome at the restaurant, I still felt bitter towards James. Every time he’d nail a dumb freshman or seduce a waitress, I was the first one to give him a high-five. I even pretended to support his ridiculous marriage, just to be his friend, and he couldn’t be happy for me after such an unlikely and wonderful opportunity.
Ms. Newsome was sitting at the only occupied table at the restaurant, mulling over the menu, and wiping her lipstick off of her water glass. She was wearing pumps and more make-up than I’d ever seen on her.
“Good evening.” I bid her when I got to the table, startling her up from her menu. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
“No. I was early. I mean I just got here.”
“We should get some wine.”
“Sure, I don’t know really. I like red.”
“I’ll choose it.”
The smiling waiter came and took my order. I think I impressed him with my knowledge of Italian regions and varietals. She gazed admiringly and followed my lead as I swilred, inhaled, swallowed and gave a distinctive description . She just said it was good. She seemed intelligent enough, but I guess you can’t teach lessons in taste.
“So you still in fifth grade?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered with a deserved laugh. “It’s really the best grade, you’re… they’re like tiny adults. Right before they get into those tough years, but still plenty bright and sweet. So sweet. Do you remember fifth grade?”
“I remember playing basketball, going to Williamsburg and the end of the year party with that giant cake. I guess that’s about it. I remember that it was my favorite grade because of you.”
“What do you think you liked about me so much?” she asked breaking the long silence that followed.
I remembered watching the way her calves changed shape as she pulled down the giant map of the world, thinking “this is the woman I want to be with for the rest of my life.”
“I liked the way that you started class every day by asking every student how they were doing individually. It really got the taciturn kids to come out of their shells. I know students from that class better than a lot of students in my classes now.”
She laughed and said, “Well it’s good to hear that. A lot of students complain that it’s boring or a waste of time.”
“No it was clever teaching, it kept everyone honest and open in class. Openness is important.”
The waiter than came up to take our order, interrupting my profession of love, for a pork roast. He smirked and giggled as he dimmed the lights and lit a candle.
“I remember those stress exercises you used to have us do after tests. We would all close our eyes breathe deeply, remind ourselves that this was just a test. You’d count to three and we’d all break our pencils and you’d give us new ones to start the test with. It was like symbolic for a fresh start. I still do that you know. It got me through the LSAT’s, every one looked at me like I was crazy when I snapped my pencil at the end of the test.”
“Ha, don’t worry about people thinking your crazy. Everyone in this hick town thinks I‘m crazy.”
I looked over at the waiter to see if he was listening to what was quickly becoming gossip. He was, smirky and unabashed.
“Why do they think you’re crazy?” I asked almost blowing out the ambient candle by accident.
“They don’t understand me. There is no one here like me. It’s alright now. I have the kids and they love me, and I love them.”
“Have you ever thought about taking a husband?”
She looked cock-eyed at me.
“I was just curious. You don’t have to explain anything to me if you don’t want to.”
“No it’s O.K. It’s funny actually. You’re the only student that I’ve ever really talked to about this. You don’t remember do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well it was a long time ago I guess. It was my second year here. You were in my class, and I was really thinking about quitting and leaving. It didn’t seem like I belonged here. No one understood me. There was no one else here like me. One day when you kids were out at recess I was just sitting in the classroom crying to myself, and you walked in and asked me what was wrong. I didn’t want one of my students to see my like that, so I told you to leave and go play.”
I didn’t remember any of this, although I had imagined similar scenarios many times. She had me on the edge of my seat, my chin was warm from the candle underneath. I moved closer still, and asked, “and then what?”
“Well then you put your hand on my shoulder and rubbed my back and said, and I’ll never forget this, ‘don’t worry Ms. Newsome, I love you. I love you more than any woman in the world.’”
I was amazed at myself. I was amazed that I could be so cavalier at age ten. I was amazed that I knew exactly what I wanted, even then, and how little had really changed, how little I’d grown. How my desires and dreams were the same now as then, just closer to coming to fruition. I was touched by her place for me in her memory. I felt as if fate was closing in on us. I felt bad for James, and all my friends who didn’t understand what real love was, what it felt like.
“I still love you more than any woman in the world.” I told her with crippling earnest.
“Oh Richey, you’re just a kid. What do you know about me? What do you know about love? You really shouldn’t think of me in this way. I just wanted to catch up to thank you. I don’t want this to get out of hand.”
“I want you to teach me. I want you to tell me all about you. I want you to teach me love. Maybe I could teach you. I‘ve had like a dozen girlfriends and none of them have meant nearly as much to me as you have.” My voice started to tremble with true emotion.
“There is nothing you can teach me. Please let’s just eat, don’t ruin this.”
I tried to reach across the table and grab her sweaty, fidgety hands, but she turned away.
“Good-bye Richey.”
And just like that she was gone, she flew out the door. Leaving me with fifteen years of unresolved fantasy and the bill.
No sooner could I let the rejection sink in than the smiling waiter came up and rubbed my back and filled my glass.
“You’re better off.”
“No man you don’t understand, I will never meet another woman like that. She means so much to me. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that again. Maybe I’m over reacting. It’s been a while since I’ve had luck with any women.
He shrugged and said, “Trust me you’re better off. She’s got a dick.”
“Pardon me!” I snapped.
He repeated himself and made a gesture more apt for describing a stripped bass than a “dick.”
“What?”
“Yeah man my cousin hooked up wit’ her and said she’s got a dick. Half the men in this town have made that mistake. She’s one of those transsexual types. Dun feel too bad. She had me fooled too until I heard about her. I mean look at those legs! This glass is on me, kid. Be careful out there huh.”
I drove home still unconvinced, and way over the legal limit. I made it by the grace of rural light-night traffic. I really needed to talk to someone.
“Dude, I’m glad you called. How did it go?”
“It was weird man. I almost don’t know how to say this, but I think Ms. Newsome has a penis.”
“What? No way. Are you sure it’s not just a really big clit?”
“I don’t know for sure, that’s just what the waiter said.”
“He’s full of it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah dude he’s just jealous that you were out with such a hot cougar, and he was bussin’ tables. You should try to hit that. I bet she’s still up.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Yeah dude, just call me if you get some. I want to be the first to know.”
I needed a more intelligent estimation of what this could mean for my pyche.
“Please don’t laugh about this man. This is really bugging me.”
James was immediately irritated that I would call him this late about a date that he deemed insignificant, but when he heard the twist, he considered it worth some consultation. After he stopped laughing.
“I can imagine. Don’t take it too seriously man, so what if she’s a transvestite, you were ten at the time. That’s really the important lesson from all of this, you can’t keep your weird old obsessions from childhood with you. It’s like having an oral fixation man, you have to develop sexually. I think this is probably for the best, now you’ll be able to move on with your life. Now if you’ll excuse me I have work in the morning. Just remember, it’s not a big deal.
I tried to sleep to escape the prevailing question of my sexuality, but it swirled over my head like a mobile. About five minutes after getting to sleep I was jarred awake from a nightmare about hiding under Ms. Newsome’s desk to escape bullies in the fifth grade, only to find a giant penis in my trembling face. I no longer had sleep as a refuge from this urgent new development in my development. With no friends to turn to, I reluctantly turned to the internet for answers. By the time day broke I had discovered a world of trannies, superwomen, and engorged clitori that left me still fond of Ms. Newsome, with a new understanding of who she was, yet still quite uneasy. Perhaps I was simply too overwhelmed with intellectual curiosity to become aroused.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Up Every Night
Like clockwork, when I’m feeling my loneliest at work, the phone rings and I remember why I chose to get paid to sleep.
“You sound tired. Do you feel alert?” the man from room 103 asked
I had just gotten to sleep. I didn’t even remember biding him “hello.”
“Yes, sir. I am keeping a careful watch on this Motel. You are safe. What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“I’m just poking fun. I’m sure you do a fabulous job. I should hope it, because my business depends on it. I need to order one of your warmest wake-up calls.
“No problem, What time should I set it for?”
“What time do you get off?”
“Eight, but you see it doesn’t matter. We have an automated system for sending out wake-up calls.”
“Oh, I see… well if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really prefer it if you did it personally. I don’t really feel awake until I hear someone’s voice in the morning. I want to bring you a bottle that will change your life, and can make you a whole lotta moolah working for yourself, not some automated motel chain.”
“Well, O.K, I’ll give you a call around eight.”
After I hung up, my fingers started to punch in the wake-up call, reflexively. I stopped my self, but my fingers wanted something to push. I thought about texting Leanne to see if she was still awake. I wanted to spend the next day with her, but it was too hard to get enough sleep while on duty to have a “day.” I didn’t even know what she did with her days anymore. I stared at my cell phone blankly until it’s battery powered lights dimmed, and put my head down to go to sleep.
I woke up again to the urgent sounding buzz of the desk phone.
“You need to evacuate the premises immediately, run the emergency evacuation drill you learned in training. We will have a representative down to the premises to handle it by morning. Do you understand?” The regional manager ordered me.
“No.”
“It’s drill number 52A; it’s in your safety manual, which should be kept near the phonebook at all times.”
“It’s not near the phonebook.”
“Well there is a copy in the manager’s office.”
“I don’t have a key.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and said, “Just evacuate the motel, make sure everybody is at least 100 feet from the premises with all of their essential items, that means medicine bags not make-up. Got it? I will call back and read you 52A verbatim.” He hung-up with the last syllable.
I hummed so it would sound like I was thinking, at least to me. I picked up my cell again. Finally, some news to report back to Leanne. At least she’d understand why I’ll be so tired tomorrow.
I start with room 101.
“Uhh… need to ask you to please vacate your room and come down to the lobby.”
“I know that my credit card works. I just paid the bill.”
“It’s not that, it’s that there is a problem with your room and we need to ask you to leave immediately.”
“What’s the problem? We were asleep it’s four in the morning. I have children you’re waking up.”
“Uhhh I don’t know, we just have to evacuate the hotel.”
The line suddenly went dead. No sooner did I hear the hang-up click then I heard the rumbling of jogging come around the corner into the lobby. It was a red-faced fat man in his 30’s wearing his skivvies, his shorts and t-shirt supported two different college basketball teams. I guessed by his wife’s accent that she was the Tar Heel.
“What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you start calling people to wake them up and tell them they need to evacuate the hotel, without any knowledge of why… where is everybody else if you’re evacuating the hotel?”
“You were the first room I called.”
“What? Well where are we supposed to go?”
“Outside.”
“It’s 30 degrees out there.”
I stood up to say, “Everything is going to be fine if you just go outside, until we can have a specialist down here. If you could organize your family and go out to the front lawn, I will have the next guests I call bring some blankets.”
“What kind of hotel is this?” the exasperated man cried out as I led him back to room 101.
“It’s a motel.” I said.
I waited outside for the man to wake his kids and pacify his wife.
“I am not waiting outside, we will sleep in the car,” she said. “This is utter insanity.”
“Can we stay in our car?” The husband yelled out the door.
“No we have to stay 100 feet away from the lobby.”
“What kind of motel is this?”
“The E-Z Lodge was at one time a very small chain; the Sparks motel was the first in the state of Nevada. Since E-Z Lodge has gained national prominence for its low rates and the inclusion of fresh fruit in the continental breakfasts.” I passionately recited. It was a spiel that I had to give every time someone called asking about the hotel. Most of what I did was in that spiel and setting wake-up calls.
“Doncha thank it’s a little early for sarcasm, hun?” the wife asked.
I paced outside the door. If this was a real emergency, we would all be dead by the time I got to the second floor.
“Shut up out there I’m trying to sleep.” The woman from 102 yelled through the door.
“Actually I was just about to call you to wake you up. This is the front desk,” I said walking towards the door, leaning in to talk through it. “We are evacuating the premises, due to an unexpected problem in maintenance.”
“Unbelievable, I just got to sleep. I have so much shit to do tomorrow.”
“Please Ma’am just open the door and I can show you my motel identification.”
A short burst of dog barks startled me and the finally grouped family in 101.
“Do you have a dog in there Ma’am?”
“Is that what this is about? I bet he’s cleaner than most of the guests in this hotel, and I brought my pet-vac. You won’t even notice he was here.”
“Well I’m not sure. It might be nothing really.”
“But we wouldn’t ask you to wake-up unless it was an emergency. I just don’t want anyone to get blown-up or ex-fix-ate.”
“You mean asphyxiate? How would we get blown up? Is there a bomb threat or something? I actually heard on the news that there is a guy who has been blowing-up hotels and restaurants to protest the war.”
“What does ex-fiz-ate mean?” the first child to emerge from room 101 asked. He had the same action figure on his shirt and in the hand that wasn’t being led by his mother.
“It means die, were going to die if you and your brother don’t get outside right now!”
“I need to ask you to open the door Ma’am,” I tried again.
“Look I couldn’t find a motel that takes pets. It’s late I just need a few more hours of sleep O.K. then I’ll leave.”
“Ma’am it is not safe to be in this motel right now, you are going to have to leave.”
“I have to go back to sleep.”
“I’m sure we’d all like to go back to sleep Ma’am. Besides, I have a key to your room. I can forcibly remove you if I need to, but let’s not...”
I heard a familiar sounding thump. When my brother would lock himself his room to avoid a beat-down he would wedge a chair against the door to prevent me from breaking in.
“Ma’am I need to open this door!”
The family from room 101 had moved into the lobby. I gave up on the stubborn lady and tried to shoo the family outside, so at least they would be safe.
“Once again, I’m sorry about this and I will tell you guys what exactly is going on as soon as I know.”
“Can’t we just stay here and have some coffee, leave the door open to let the gas out maybe,” the wife asked, brushing her disheveled hair out of her half-closed eyes.
“Bring the coffee outside.”
“Why? How do you know what’s safe? Do you even know? Who put you in charge?”
“I’m going to call someone…”
As I raced over my desk to call for advice, I mulled over texting Leanne, maybe for some advice on evacuating this animal lover. I could totally see her pulling this kind of stunt somewhere with Checkers, her cat.
“Hello,” the calm sounding regional manager answered. “Are you evacuated property 402099?”
“No, no one will leave.”
“Tell them they are risking there lives by ignoring the advice of a trained E-Z-Lodge associate, better yet tell them they will die. Just that simple tell them they will die.”
“I tried that, this lady won’t leave because she has a dog and she is afraid that I am trying to kick her out for violating our pet policy.”
“Move on to the next room, she deserves to die.”
“What!”
“She obviously doesn’t think rules apply to her. This should teach her a lesson on mortality. It’s all part of 52A: If someone refuses to leave, they do so at the risk of their own injury and our insurance is void for them. 52A clearly states that you, the front desk personnel, must personally tell everyone to evacuate and convene 100 feet away from the lobby for further instructions. Anyone who ignores this order will not be spared.”
“I need further instructions. No one will leave, until I tell them what is wrong.”
“Tell them that we had a bomb threat.”
“We had a bomb threat? Who would bomb an E-Z-Lodge?”
“Just tell them we had a bomb threat.”
He hung up again.
“Well what’s going on?” the wife asked the second I put down the phone.
“Uhh you’re going to die if you don’t get outside.”
“What about you? Why won’t you die?” the kid with the action figure asked.
“I will.”
“We’ll leave when you leave than.” The husband said.
“Yeah!” the kid said.
“Don’t encourage this!” The wife said to the husband. She turned to the child. “Steven, you listen to this man he is the boss in the hotel, just like I am the boss at home.”
It felt funny being called the boss. I remember when my mom would tell me that whatever I said or did was wrong, my dad would tell her she was wrong for telling me I was wrong, and then diagnose my wrongness differently. I think the debate over what was wrong me with me eventually split the family up. I felt bad for their kids. They didn’t have coffee.
I dialed in 103, after about half a ring an alert sounding man answered.
“Room 103,” he said in a pleasant tone.
“Uh hi, this is the front desk.”
“I know a little light comes on the phone when front desk is calling, what’s up?
“There is a problem in the motel and we are trying to evacuate the premises before anyone gets hurt.”
“Oh my, is this serious?”
“Deadly serious”
“Do you need help evacuating the motel?”
“You can help me by exiting through the lobby as quickly as you can, sir.”
Like a flash a man in a freshly pressed suit shot into the lobby. He didn’t show any signs of four A.M. He had bedding in one had and a case of plastic bottles in the other.”
“C’mon folks we need to get out of here, just because you can’t smell the gas doesn’t mean it isn’t impeding the flow of sweet life giving oxygen into your lungs. Follow me!” he hustled the family out like a sheep-dog. He hardly needed to bend down to pick up the younger son, nestling him within the bedding in his right arm. Surprisingly the testy family didn’t mind the intrusion, and followed him outside, thanking him. Before I could call room 104 the businessman was at the front desk.
“Ok we’ve got what 78 more rooms to evacuate in how long?”
“Uh it’s actually 83. How do you know it’s a gas leak that is causing this.”
“I was just trying to make it tangible. Don’t you think the phone is a bit impersonal to tell someone that they are in mortal danger anyway?”
“Well I was going to tell them there was a bomb threat.”
“Bomb threat? Now I don’t swallow anything you put in front of me, and I don’t think these folks either. Did you know 80% of bomb threats are hoaxes and 90% of statistics are made up. Ha, sorry for laying that one on you this early, hoo boy. You seem tired, you want something that will keep you up and alert, and won’t give you the runs like coffee?”
He held up a bottle of the juice, on the label it said “Zunglesteen Supercharger.”
“Ancient secret of the Amazonian tribe the Mawlai, the Zunglesteen berry is a superfood, and we use the whole fruit, not just the extract for a drink that replenishes, revitalizes, gives ya a surge of energy and provides more anti-oxidants that all the green tea in Chinatown. Have this bottle for free. That’s a fifteen dollar bottle y’know. If you like it, I can set you up with a subscription, delivered to your house every morning, like they did with milk in less enlightened times.”
I took a long pull off of the enlightened bottle. It tasted like spicy apple juice. I felt a slight energy boost, but I wouldn’t call it a surge.
“You can feel it charging you up can’t you? I drink one of these every morning and my body runs like the German war machine, without ever becoming hungry for power. Ha, well what’s the plan Stan? Let’s go with gas leak, that sounds urgent. We start telling people there’s a gas leak in the Motel they think explosions. They think immediate danger! Women and children first! We could get this place cleaned out in 20 minutes. I’ve got enough Zunglesteen for everyone.”
“What should we do just run through the halls banging on doors, yelling ‘gas leak?’”
“I’ll take the first and third floors!”
“Wait!” I yelled scrambling to follow him.
“I probably should do this myself. You should wait outside and calm that family down.”
He knocked sharply at door 102.
“I told you I’d leave in a few hours. I’m so drained. You don’t understand.”
“Gas leak! Everybody out” he yelled in a sharp authoritative belch.
“Fuck off!” she yelled.
“Everybody out, you will asphyxiate if you do not leave right now! What I can offer you is better than sleep and will change your life.”
He moved on to the next door and the angry woman finally left her room, half-dressed, led by a dachshund. She was neat and pretty, even right out of bed.
“Thank you for your co-operation, we will explain more outside. I have some of this juice it’s supposed to make you feel better. Why didn’t you leave when I told you to go?” I asked following her.
“Because I don’t want to die. What are you selling juice on the side? That stuff is pyramid scheme juice, they trick shut-ins into spending 100 dollars a month on fortified apple juice.”
“I don’t know that guy has a lot of energy, but I guess it could be coincidental…”
“So when do I get to go back to sleep?”
“When we find out more about this bomb threat.”
“Bomb threat? I thought it was a gas leak.”
“The juice guy just kind of made that up. He’s trying to help me evacuate the motel.”
“Well he can’t just lie to people like that. If I knew it was just a bomb threat I’d still be in bed. This is ridiculous. I have like six appointments tomorrow. Who would threaten to bomb an E-Z-Lodge?”
“I guess there is a guy on the news who is bombing hotels.”
She left shaking her head, pulling out her cell phone to go vent to who ever “baby you won’t believe this” was.
By the time I got back to the first floor, about half of the guests were out of their room, drowsy but co-operative. The juice man was knocking on the doors two-by-two with each hand, and screaming, “Gas leak! Everybody out before this place blows!”
“You can’t say that to these people! They are going to be pissed off when nothing explodes and they were woken up for nothing.”
“This would go a lot faster if we were both working. You should kill this.” he said, handing me a bottle, not missing a beat. “Hoo boy, I’m really going to need that wake-up call when this is over.” He chuckled.
I went back to call the regional manager.
“What is your status property 402099?”
“Well there has been a problem getting people outside.”
“Now what?”
“Well some guy has freaked out and started telling everyone the motel is going to blow-up and is making a scene.”
“Well maybe you should make a bigger scene. Try to turn on some T.Vs, maybe they will show the bomb man on the news. Remember, you are the boss there. Tell them to remain calm and to exit in an orderly fashion, and get rid of this guy. Your job is to keep order, until we sort this out.
“Remain calm!” I yelled at the herd of evacuates. I pushed past the juice guy.
They shuffled through the lobby with panicked faces and heavy feet. Some pushed, others dragged tired children. Everyone was too bewildered and sleepy to get too uptight about anything. Order had never left. I smiled as they passed me and tried to thank everyone. I was mightily disregarded.
The lawn outside of the lawn filled up with confused, half-dressed guests. Some sank into the grass, and buried their head in their hands, others mingled. Some drank the juice, others went Children asked their parents questions they couldn’t answer. I wondered why they didn’t try just a bit harder, why they didn’t just make something up. I wanted to tell them that the bad guy was in jail, but I didn’t have their courage. I wanted to give them all candy for being so brave. I checked my phone. I wish I could have just left and crawled into bed with Leanne. My shift would be over in couple hours, and I could join her in bed, warm and oblivious, with a great story.
“Why are we all sitting out here Mommy?” the youngest kid from 101 asked with moonbeams in his watery-eyes.
“I told you a hundred times. I don’t now please just go play with the other children.” She looked at me, watching her from out the big glass doors. “Could you get me some aspirin?” she asked.
“Have some of this juice it’s supposed to make you feel better,”
“The juice guy gave me some. I need an aspirin.”
As if this ladies head ache weren’t bad enough, suddenly a shrill alarm made everyone hop like startled game. I hadn’t heard it before this incident. I wonder who pulled it. I wondered why I didn’t think of that. I turned around to see, yet another group of motel refugees. This time they came sweeping through the lobby in a thorough and organized fashion, the children better than the parents. They seemed to instinctively know how to form a rank and file. I marveled at their efficiency.
Everyone looked at the motel with a growing sense of anticipation. Someone saw my uniform and asked me if I started the fire.
“I don’t think there is a fire, some kid must have pulled the alarm.”
“I heard it was a carbon monoxide,” a passing AARP discount traveler offered.
“I will tell everyone what it is when I get back from checking if the Motel is clear.”
I thought I heard her call me brave as I walked back into the lobby. I wanted to tell Leanne, someone.
“What’s that noise?” the regional manager asked.
“The fire alarm.”
“The fire alarm?! Why did you pull that that isn’t part of 52A pulling the alarm is only in case of a 32F. Shoot, now the fire department is going to come down. They charge like 300 bucks for a false alarm.”
“I didn’t pull it, some kid must have.”
“Well just try to tell them to leave before they unroll the big hose, and they might cut us a break. Is everybody in neat rows?”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Offer them a coupon for a free breakfast at Denny’s at check-out for their co-operation, and extend check- out till two, if that doesn’t work comp them, but only comp them at check-out, and only if they really break your balls about it. Don’t let them tell others you’re doing comps. Clear. Good. Sorry, about this kiddo. I appreciate your hard work. I’ll tell your manager that you got the job done.”
“Uh Thanks.”
When I got back out the juice guy had emerged as the organizer out on the lawn.
“Alright now imagine if you will that there was nothing impeding the sweet flow of oxygen to you brain for those critical decisions!”
“Well we did it, captain! One-hundred-twenty-two guests and one desk clerk safe-and-sound. Did you check the ledger? Are we missing anybody?” he asked me.
“No.”
“Great, well what next? Should I get more blankets? Where do you keep your linins?”
“No, no, I think that this was a false alarm. I think we are just going to send everyone back to their rooms.”
“No, shit. Well how about that. You bust your ass to build the temple and the barbarians come to knock it down before you can even knell down to worship. Well, a little sweat never hurt anybody; just remember my wake-up call and we’ll call it even.”
I pushed my way out. All eyes were on me. Voices and overwhelming cold pierced my starched shirt. The business man asked everyone for quiet and they obliged him, and looked to me for an answer. I trembled, cold, nervous. I took a wide legged stance, brushed the hair out of my eyes. I wanted the same thing they wanted, just to get another couple of hours of sleep.
The juice salesman looked panicked when I told them the truth.
“Why did you tell us all this was a gas leak, were you just trying to get us all out here to sell us this shit?” one man asked him.
“You should go to jail.” The kid with the action figure added.
“Well safety is our first priority. We have to make sure everyone is safe, in case there was a bomb in there,” I interjected, “He was just trying to help; he was the only one trying to help.”
“There’s no bomb in there, who would bomb an E-Z-Lodge?” an exasperated man wanted to know.
“Yes, that’s it, you can all return to your rooms, we will be extending check-out an extra two hours to make sure you everyone is well-rested.”
“What about the gas leak?” someone asked.
“Yeah and the fire?” Someone else questioned.
I squeezed my phone in my bunched pocket, while people continued their questions.
“Well we sent the gas leak in to go after the bomb threat, and then it got stuck, so we sent the fire in after it! Everything is fine, go back to your rooms. Live healthy!” the juice guy continued to be my henchman.
On their way back in, almost every guest voiced an opinion on what they had been through, and stopped to grab a comment card. Only the juice guy stayed to hear my reaction to his opinion.
“Well now I know what it’s like to wake-up a hundred people. Heh, kind of powerful don’t you think, ending a hundred dreams. I just hope that they can all get back to sleep. They must be so traumatized. That’s power, putting a hundred people back to sleep. How does that feel?”
“Like power.”
He chuckled, smiled, told me I was alright.
“I’m not alright, I need sleep,” I said planning my text to Leanne.
“Well, I’ll tell you what junior, if you check me out now, I’ll let you sleep in my room until you get off.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch the front. I’ll call you if there is anything afoot down here. You just relax. I want to watch the sun rise.”
“No I can’t, the fire department is probably on their way.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. What time do you want your wake-up call?”
“Uhh… seven thirty, I have to run the audit. Don’t let them run the big hose.”
“Don’t worry. 7:30 it is. No hose.”
As I dreamily staggered into the juice salesmen’s room, I passed the woman with the dachshund. She seemed gracious that I didn’t say anything about the dog. I could hear her curse, hearing the family settle into 101. As I laid my head on the juice man’s crisp pillow, I pulled out my phone and left an elegant explanation for Leanne: crazy night at work, we should get breakfast when I get off, stole free Denny’s coupon. I waited a second for a reply. She’d probably say no, but at least she’d know I was trying.
From a house-keeping perspective the juice guy was the perfect guest; you could hardly tell he slept in the room. I listened to the juice guy give his spiel to the disarmed fireman from out of his cracked window. The open window was noisy, but it made his room smell like the sweet desert breeze. He spoke like a trained professional and sold a case of juice to men who may use it to help them someday put out fires.
“You sound tired. Do you feel alert?” the man from room 103 asked
I had just gotten to sleep. I didn’t even remember biding him “hello.”
“Yes, sir. I am keeping a careful watch on this Motel. You are safe. What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“I’m just poking fun. I’m sure you do a fabulous job. I should hope it, because my business depends on it. I need to order one of your warmest wake-up calls.
“No problem, What time should I set it for?”
“What time do you get off?”
“Eight, but you see it doesn’t matter. We have an automated system for sending out wake-up calls.”
“Oh, I see… well if you wouldn’t mind, I’d really prefer it if you did it personally. I don’t really feel awake until I hear someone’s voice in the morning. I want to bring you a bottle that will change your life, and can make you a whole lotta moolah working for yourself, not some automated motel chain.”
“Well, O.K, I’ll give you a call around eight.”
After I hung up, my fingers started to punch in the wake-up call, reflexively. I stopped my self, but my fingers wanted something to push. I thought about texting Leanne to see if she was still awake. I wanted to spend the next day with her, but it was too hard to get enough sleep while on duty to have a “day.” I didn’t even know what she did with her days anymore. I stared at my cell phone blankly until it’s battery powered lights dimmed, and put my head down to go to sleep.
I woke up again to the urgent sounding buzz of the desk phone.
“You need to evacuate the premises immediately, run the emergency evacuation drill you learned in training. We will have a representative down to the premises to handle it by morning. Do you understand?” The regional manager ordered me.
“No.”
“It’s drill number 52A; it’s in your safety manual, which should be kept near the phonebook at all times.”
“It’s not near the phonebook.”
“Well there is a copy in the manager’s office.”
“I don’t have a key.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and said, “Just evacuate the motel, make sure everybody is at least 100 feet from the premises with all of their essential items, that means medicine bags not make-up. Got it? I will call back and read you 52A verbatim.” He hung-up with the last syllable.
I hummed so it would sound like I was thinking, at least to me. I picked up my cell again. Finally, some news to report back to Leanne. At least she’d understand why I’ll be so tired tomorrow.
I start with room 101.
“Uhh… need to ask you to please vacate your room and come down to the lobby.”
“I know that my credit card works. I just paid the bill.”
“It’s not that, it’s that there is a problem with your room and we need to ask you to leave immediately.”
“What’s the problem? We were asleep it’s four in the morning. I have children you’re waking up.”
“Uhhh I don’t know, we just have to evacuate the hotel.”
The line suddenly went dead. No sooner did I hear the hang-up click then I heard the rumbling of jogging come around the corner into the lobby. It was a red-faced fat man in his 30’s wearing his skivvies, his shorts and t-shirt supported two different college basketball teams. I guessed by his wife’s accent that she was the Tar Heel.
“What the hell is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?”
“I don’t know.”
“So you start calling people to wake them up and tell them they need to evacuate the hotel, without any knowledge of why… where is everybody else if you’re evacuating the hotel?”
“You were the first room I called.”
“What? Well where are we supposed to go?”
“Outside.”
“It’s 30 degrees out there.”
I stood up to say, “Everything is going to be fine if you just go outside, until we can have a specialist down here. If you could organize your family and go out to the front lawn, I will have the next guests I call bring some blankets.”
“What kind of hotel is this?” the exasperated man cried out as I led him back to room 101.
“It’s a motel.” I said.
I waited outside for the man to wake his kids and pacify his wife.
“I am not waiting outside, we will sleep in the car,” she said. “This is utter insanity.”
“Can we stay in our car?” The husband yelled out the door.
“No we have to stay 100 feet away from the lobby.”
“What kind of motel is this?”
“The E-Z Lodge was at one time a very small chain; the Sparks motel was the first in the state of Nevada. Since E-Z Lodge has gained national prominence for its low rates and the inclusion of fresh fruit in the continental breakfasts.” I passionately recited. It was a spiel that I had to give every time someone called asking about the hotel. Most of what I did was in that spiel and setting wake-up calls.
“Doncha thank it’s a little early for sarcasm, hun?” the wife asked.
I paced outside the door. If this was a real emergency, we would all be dead by the time I got to the second floor.
“Shut up out there I’m trying to sleep.” The woman from 102 yelled through the door.
“Actually I was just about to call you to wake you up. This is the front desk,” I said walking towards the door, leaning in to talk through it. “We are evacuating the premises, due to an unexpected problem in maintenance.”
“Unbelievable, I just got to sleep. I have so much shit to do tomorrow.”
“Please Ma’am just open the door and I can show you my motel identification.”
A short burst of dog barks startled me and the finally grouped family in 101.
“Do you have a dog in there Ma’am?”
“Is that what this is about? I bet he’s cleaner than most of the guests in this hotel, and I brought my pet-vac. You won’t even notice he was here.”
“Well I’m not sure. It might be nothing really.”
“But we wouldn’t ask you to wake-up unless it was an emergency. I just don’t want anyone to get blown-up or ex-fix-ate.”
“You mean asphyxiate? How would we get blown up? Is there a bomb threat or something? I actually heard on the news that there is a guy who has been blowing-up hotels and restaurants to protest the war.”
“What does ex-fiz-ate mean?” the first child to emerge from room 101 asked. He had the same action figure on his shirt and in the hand that wasn’t being led by his mother.
“It means die, were going to die if you and your brother don’t get outside right now!”
“I need to ask you to open the door Ma’am,” I tried again.
“Look I couldn’t find a motel that takes pets. It’s late I just need a few more hours of sleep O.K. then I’ll leave.”
“Ma’am it is not safe to be in this motel right now, you are going to have to leave.”
“I have to go back to sleep.”
“I’m sure we’d all like to go back to sleep Ma’am. Besides, I have a key to your room. I can forcibly remove you if I need to, but let’s not...”
I heard a familiar sounding thump. When my brother would lock himself his room to avoid a beat-down he would wedge a chair against the door to prevent me from breaking in.
“Ma’am I need to open this door!”
The family from room 101 had moved into the lobby. I gave up on the stubborn lady and tried to shoo the family outside, so at least they would be safe.
“Once again, I’m sorry about this and I will tell you guys what exactly is going on as soon as I know.”
“Can’t we just stay here and have some coffee, leave the door open to let the gas out maybe,” the wife asked, brushing her disheveled hair out of her half-closed eyes.
“Bring the coffee outside.”
“Why? How do you know what’s safe? Do you even know? Who put you in charge?”
“I’m going to call someone…”
As I raced over my desk to call for advice, I mulled over texting Leanne, maybe for some advice on evacuating this animal lover. I could totally see her pulling this kind of stunt somewhere with Checkers, her cat.
“Hello,” the calm sounding regional manager answered. “Are you evacuated property 402099?”
“No, no one will leave.”
“Tell them they are risking there lives by ignoring the advice of a trained E-Z-Lodge associate, better yet tell them they will die. Just that simple tell them they will die.”
“I tried that, this lady won’t leave because she has a dog and she is afraid that I am trying to kick her out for violating our pet policy.”
“Move on to the next room, she deserves to die.”
“What!”
“She obviously doesn’t think rules apply to her. This should teach her a lesson on mortality. It’s all part of 52A: If someone refuses to leave, they do so at the risk of their own injury and our insurance is void for them. 52A clearly states that you, the front desk personnel, must personally tell everyone to evacuate and convene 100 feet away from the lobby for further instructions. Anyone who ignores this order will not be spared.”
“I need further instructions. No one will leave, until I tell them what is wrong.”
“Tell them that we had a bomb threat.”
“We had a bomb threat? Who would bomb an E-Z-Lodge?”
“Just tell them we had a bomb threat.”
He hung up again.
“Well what’s going on?” the wife asked the second I put down the phone.
“Uhh you’re going to die if you don’t get outside.”
“What about you? Why won’t you die?” the kid with the action figure asked.
“I will.”
“We’ll leave when you leave than.” The husband said.
“Yeah!” the kid said.
“Don’t encourage this!” The wife said to the husband. She turned to the child. “Steven, you listen to this man he is the boss in the hotel, just like I am the boss at home.”
It felt funny being called the boss. I remember when my mom would tell me that whatever I said or did was wrong, my dad would tell her she was wrong for telling me I was wrong, and then diagnose my wrongness differently. I think the debate over what was wrong me with me eventually split the family up. I felt bad for their kids. They didn’t have coffee.
I dialed in 103, after about half a ring an alert sounding man answered.
“Room 103,” he said in a pleasant tone.
“Uh hi, this is the front desk.”
“I know a little light comes on the phone when front desk is calling, what’s up?
“There is a problem in the motel and we are trying to evacuate the premises before anyone gets hurt.”
“Oh my, is this serious?”
“Deadly serious”
“Do you need help evacuating the motel?”
“You can help me by exiting through the lobby as quickly as you can, sir.”
Like a flash a man in a freshly pressed suit shot into the lobby. He didn’t show any signs of four A.M. He had bedding in one had and a case of plastic bottles in the other.”
“C’mon folks we need to get out of here, just because you can’t smell the gas doesn’t mean it isn’t impeding the flow of sweet life giving oxygen into your lungs. Follow me!” he hustled the family out like a sheep-dog. He hardly needed to bend down to pick up the younger son, nestling him within the bedding in his right arm. Surprisingly the testy family didn’t mind the intrusion, and followed him outside, thanking him. Before I could call room 104 the businessman was at the front desk.
“Ok we’ve got what 78 more rooms to evacuate in how long?”
“Uh it’s actually 83. How do you know it’s a gas leak that is causing this.”
“I was just trying to make it tangible. Don’t you think the phone is a bit impersonal to tell someone that they are in mortal danger anyway?”
“Well I was going to tell them there was a bomb threat.”
“Bomb threat? Now I don’t swallow anything you put in front of me, and I don’t think these folks either. Did you know 80% of bomb threats are hoaxes and 90% of statistics are made up. Ha, sorry for laying that one on you this early, hoo boy. You seem tired, you want something that will keep you up and alert, and won’t give you the runs like coffee?”
He held up a bottle of the juice, on the label it said “Zunglesteen Supercharger.”
“Ancient secret of the Amazonian tribe the Mawlai, the Zunglesteen berry is a superfood, and we use the whole fruit, not just the extract for a drink that replenishes, revitalizes, gives ya a surge of energy and provides more anti-oxidants that all the green tea in Chinatown. Have this bottle for free. That’s a fifteen dollar bottle y’know. If you like it, I can set you up with a subscription, delivered to your house every morning, like they did with milk in less enlightened times.”
I took a long pull off of the enlightened bottle. It tasted like spicy apple juice. I felt a slight energy boost, but I wouldn’t call it a surge.
“You can feel it charging you up can’t you? I drink one of these every morning and my body runs like the German war machine, without ever becoming hungry for power. Ha, well what’s the plan Stan? Let’s go with gas leak, that sounds urgent. We start telling people there’s a gas leak in the Motel they think explosions. They think immediate danger! Women and children first! We could get this place cleaned out in 20 minutes. I’ve got enough Zunglesteen for everyone.”
“What should we do just run through the halls banging on doors, yelling ‘gas leak?’”
“I’ll take the first and third floors!”
“Wait!” I yelled scrambling to follow him.
“I probably should do this myself. You should wait outside and calm that family down.”
He knocked sharply at door 102.
“I told you I’d leave in a few hours. I’m so drained. You don’t understand.”
“Gas leak! Everybody out” he yelled in a sharp authoritative belch.
“Fuck off!” she yelled.
“Everybody out, you will asphyxiate if you do not leave right now! What I can offer you is better than sleep and will change your life.”
He moved on to the next door and the angry woman finally left her room, half-dressed, led by a dachshund. She was neat and pretty, even right out of bed.
“Thank you for your co-operation, we will explain more outside. I have some of this juice it’s supposed to make you feel better. Why didn’t you leave when I told you to go?” I asked following her.
“Because I don’t want to die. What are you selling juice on the side? That stuff is pyramid scheme juice, they trick shut-ins into spending 100 dollars a month on fortified apple juice.”
“I don’t know that guy has a lot of energy, but I guess it could be coincidental…”
“So when do I get to go back to sleep?”
“When we find out more about this bomb threat.”
“Bomb threat? I thought it was a gas leak.”
“The juice guy just kind of made that up. He’s trying to help me evacuate the motel.”
“Well he can’t just lie to people like that. If I knew it was just a bomb threat I’d still be in bed. This is ridiculous. I have like six appointments tomorrow. Who would threaten to bomb an E-Z-Lodge?”
“I guess there is a guy on the news who is bombing hotels.”
She left shaking her head, pulling out her cell phone to go vent to who ever “baby you won’t believe this” was.
By the time I got back to the first floor, about half of the guests were out of their room, drowsy but co-operative. The juice man was knocking on the doors two-by-two with each hand, and screaming, “Gas leak! Everybody out before this place blows!”
“You can’t say that to these people! They are going to be pissed off when nothing explodes and they were woken up for nothing.”
“This would go a lot faster if we were both working. You should kill this.” he said, handing me a bottle, not missing a beat. “Hoo boy, I’m really going to need that wake-up call when this is over.” He chuckled.
I went back to call the regional manager.
“What is your status property 402099?”
“Well there has been a problem getting people outside.”
“Now what?”
“Well some guy has freaked out and started telling everyone the motel is going to blow-up and is making a scene.”
“Well maybe you should make a bigger scene. Try to turn on some T.Vs, maybe they will show the bomb man on the news. Remember, you are the boss there. Tell them to remain calm and to exit in an orderly fashion, and get rid of this guy. Your job is to keep order, until we sort this out.
“Remain calm!” I yelled at the herd of evacuates. I pushed past the juice guy.
They shuffled through the lobby with panicked faces and heavy feet. Some pushed, others dragged tired children. Everyone was too bewildered and sleepy to get too uptight about anything. Order had never left. I smiled as they passed me and tried to thank everyone. I was mightily disregarded.
The lawn outside of the lawn filled up with confused, half-dressed guests. Some sank into the grass, and buried their head in their hands, others mingled. Some drank the juice, others went Children asked their parents questions they couldn’t answer. I wondered why they didn’t try just a bit harder, why they didn’t just make something up. I wanted to tell them that the bad guy was in jail, but I didn’t have their courage. I wanted to give them all candy for being so brave. I checked my phone. I wish I could have just left and crawled into bed with Leanne. My shift would be over in couple hours, and I could join her in bed, warm and oblivious, with a great story.
“Why are we all sitting out here Mommy?” the youngest kid from 101 asked with moonbeams in his watery-eyes.
“I told you a hundred times. I don’t now please just go play with the other children.” She looked at me, watching her from out the big glass doors. “Could you get me some aspirin?” she asked.
“Have some of this juice it’s supposed to make you feel better,”
“The juice guy gave me some. I need an aspirin.”
As if this ladies head ache weren’t bad enough, suddenly a shrill alarm made everyone hop like startled game. I hadn’t heard it before this incident. I wonder who pulled it. I wondered why I didn’t think of that. I turned around to see, yet another group of motel refugees. This time they came sweeping through the lobby in a thorough and organized fashion, the children better than the parents. They seemed to instinctively know how to form a rank and file. I marveled at their efficiency.
Everyone looked at the motel with a growing sense of anticipation. Someone saw my uniform and asked me if I started the fire.
“I don’t think there is a fire, some kid must have pulled the alarm.”
“I heard it was a carbon monoxide,” a passing AARP discount traveler offered.
“I will tell everyone what it is when I get back from checking if the Motel is clear.”
I thought I heard her call me brave as I walked back into the lobby. I wanted to tell Leanne, someone.
“What’s that noise?” the regional manager asked.
“The fire alarm.”
“The fire alarm?! Why did you pull that that isn’t part of 52A pulling the alarm is only in case of a 32F. Shoot, now the fire department is going to come down. They charge like 300 bucks for a false alarm.”
“I didn’t pull it, some kid must have.”
“Well just try to tell them to leave before they unroll the big hose, and they might cut us a break. Is everybody in neat rows?”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Offer them a coupon for a free breakfast at Denny’s at check-out for their co-operation, and extend check- out till two, if that doesn’t work comp them, but only comp them at check-out, and only if they really break your balls about it. Don’t let them tell others you’re doing comps. Clear. Good. Sorry, about this kiddo. I appreciate your hard work. I’ll tell your manager that you got the job done.”
“Uh Thanks.”
When I got back out the juice guy had emerged as the organizer out on the lawn.
“Alright now imagine if you will that there was nothing impeding the sweet flow of oxygen to you brain for those critical decisions!”
“Well we did it, captain! One-hundred-twenty-two guests and one desk clerk safe-and-sound. Did you check the ledger? Are we missing anybody?” he asked me.
“No.”
“Great, well what next? Should I get more blankets? Where do you keep your linins?”
“No, no, I think that this was a false alarm. I think we are just going to send everyone back to their rooms.”
“No, shit. Well how about that. You bust your ass to build the temple and the barbarians come to knock it down before you can even knell down to worship. Well, a little sweat never hurt anybody; just remember my wake-up call and we’ll call it even.”
I pushed my way out. All eyes were on me. Voices and overwhelming cold pierced my starched shirt. The business man asked everyone for quiet and they obliged him, and looked to me for an answer. I trembled, cold, nervous. I took a wide legged stance, brushed the hair out of my eyes. I wanted the same thing they wanted, just to get another couple of hours of sleep.
The juice salesman looked panicked when I told them the truth.
“Why did you tell us all this was a gas leak, were you just trying to get us all out here to sell us this shit?” one man asked him.
“You should go to jail.” The kid with the action figure added.
“Well safety is our first priority. We have to make sure everyone is safe, in case there was a bomb in there,” I interjected, “He was just trying to help; he was the only one trying to help.”
“There’s no bomb in there, who would bomb an E-Z-Lodge?” an exasperated man wanted to know.
“Yes, that’s it, you can all return to your rooms, we will be extending check-out an extra two hours to make sure you everyone is well-rested.”
“What about the gas leak?” someone asked.
“Yeah and the fire?” Someone else questioned.
I squeezed my phone in my bunched pocket, while people continued their questions.
“Well we sent the gas leak in to go after the bomb threat, and then it got stuck, so we sent the fire in after it! Everything is fine, go back to your rooms. Live healthy!” the juice guy continued to be my henchman.
On their way back in, almost every guest voiced an opinion on what they had been through, and stopped to grab a comment card. Only the juice guy stayed to hear my reaction to his opinion.
“Well now I know what it’s like to wake-up a hundred people. Heh, kind of powerful don’t you think, ending a hundred dreams. I just hope that they can all get back to sleep. They must be so traumatized. That’s power, putting a hundred people back to sleep. How does that feel?”
“Like power.”
He chuckled, smiled, told me I was alright.
“I’m not alright, I need sleep,” I said planning my text to Leanne.
“Well, I’ll tell you what junior, if you check me out now, I’ll let you sleep in my room until you get off.”
“But…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll watch the front. I’ll call you if there is anything afoot down here. You just relax. I want to watch the sun rise.”
“No I can’t, the fire department is probably on their way.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. What time do you want your wake-up call?”
“Uhh… seven thirty, I have to run the audit. Don’t let them run the big hose.”
“Don’t worry. 7:30 it is. No hose.”
As I dreamily staggered into the juice salesmen’s room, I passed the woman with the dachshund. She seemed gracious that I didn’t say anything about the dog. I could hear her curse, hearing the family settle into 101. As I laid my head on the juice man’s crisp pillow, I pulled out my phone and left an elegant explanation for Leanne: crazy night at work, we should get breakfast when I get off, stole free Denny’s coupon. I waited a second for a reply. She’d probably say no, but at least she’d know I was trying.
From a house-keeping perspective the juice guy was the perfect guest; you could hardly tell he slept in the room. I listened to the juice guy give his spiel to the disarmed fireman from out of his cracked window. The open window was noisy, but it made his room smell like the sweet desert breeze. He spoke like a trained professional and sold a case of juice to men who may use it to help them someday put out fires.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
In the Rain
The couple had been sitting there for over a half-hour that I’d noticed. I was hoping that they wouldn’t be sent to my section. They looked like trouble, young and idealistic bad tippers, special order types, anyway no one likes apologizing for a rush. I almost wanted to avoid the youth as when he put up his hand, as if this were a classroom, trying to get my attention, while I had a delicate handful of biscuits n’ way too much gravy.
“I’m sorry folks table for two has got to be less than 5 minutes away.” I said
“What about the deck, don’t you guys have a deck?”
The deck was closed.
“It’s raining.”
“We don’t care we have to eat something, and we don’t mind the weather.” The buckish suitor asked while pointing with his free hand.
“It’s coming down pretty hard.” I reasoned.
The lobby was actually pretty full because people who were waiting for a table couldn’t recline on the picnic tables in the tea garden. Every one was packed in there, trying to figure out what to do when there isn’t anywhere to sit. Babies were carried to make room for maximum capacity.
“Do you guys mind sharing a booth with another couple?” I asked.
“We want to eat outside. It’s noisy in here, and a little rain never hurt anybody.”
“You’re going to be eating.”
“So let us eat,” he grabbed two menus from off of the host station and led the way, with missy en toe.
I delivered my food and followed him as he approached the deck entrance, politely working his way through a full house. I wondered if he was late to see a play, or if he was caught up in a rush of Pacific-Northwestern bravado, but eating out there was going to be an unpleasant soggy experience for them and me.
“Hey, c’mon we can find you a place to eat in here.” I begged.
“No we really kind of just want our privacy. It’s too chaotic in here.” The girl said, pushing her freshly dried bangs out of her face to prepare for the noises on the room.
I let them out and told them I’d be out with waters and coffees in a minute. I walked with a daze through the lobby smiling and looking for people who would want to close up their tabs and make room for more annoyed patrons to drink up the coffee that just wouldn’t brew fast enough. When I got back out to the deck the couple was fairly drenched, hair soaked, clothes heavy the cardstock menus were wilting and dripping dissolved ink.
“Ready to order?” I asked them while putting down precarious, ever-diluting cups of coffee, and water.
She ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and the soup de jour (minestrone). He got a breakfast burrito, both in full defiance of the elements and sense.
The lobby was just becoming navigable when their food was ready, and I was able to take it out on one tray with ketchup salt n’ pepper, hot sauce and some dry napkins. Perhaps I would only going back to fill coffees, if necessary. I was still damp when I pushed open the rustic wooden door. The tortilla deflected the water fairly well, but the soup and sandwich were increasingly becoming a mess. All smiles I put them down in front of the right seats, asked about coffee.
“O.K, I’ll be right back. Enjoy.”
I cursed them for making me go back out there. It was letting up a little, but it was still really wet. I decided to help a few more of the customers inside first. I even considered sending a busser out to pour the drinks, but I’m not that much of a dick. I was already wet. The lobby was comfortable, but we were still full.
When I got back out there the woman had a damp stack of napkins on her soup and a soggy sandwich in a second bundle, from which she ravenously pecked. The guy’s burrito was getting really wet but he didn’t seem to mind, he just nibbled away at it undaunted. I poured coffee after emptying out the tinted rain water that had accumulated in their cups.
I asked them half-facetiously, “How is everything?”
“Good sausage.” He said pointing with his fork down as he looked up from his puddle of a plate.
I nodded and said, “It’s fresh ground,” and left to dry off and take orders.
Next time, rather than go out and get soaked again, I looked out the window to see if they were still eating. As I bent the blinds with my fingers, I noticed that the rain had largely subsided and it wouldn’t be too much of a chore to check up on them.
“How you guys doing out here?”
They were holding hands watching a rainbow crystallize and with half full plates of soggy food. The air was fresh and moist and the deck was. The kid nodded and sipped his coffee like it was the perfect temperature, long and slow.
“We’re fine,” he replied rubbing his girl’s back.
When I came back for to bring the check they had worked away at the soggy food and dried off faster than I had running orders. I didn't even ask them if they wanted a box, and they were lousy tippers.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Masturbatory Manifesto
I turn on my computer (aptly named the Pornalator5000) for two basic reasons. Either to blog or masturbate, both serve very similar functions, but service different wings of the nervous system. It would be all too simple to reduce this complex dichotomy to a question of mental stimulation vs. physical, because both are present in both activities. Masturbation is absolutely necessary for my mental health, not just for the release, but the repetition of regular masturbation is essential to my comforting morning routines. Blogging, while seemingly only useful for mental gratification, actually provides a little tickle of physical pleasure, often times culminating in giddy chuckling. Knowing I'm writing something makes me feel like I am living out my purpose and distracts me from any aches, pains or Münchhausen I'm suffering from.
The very practice of writing a manifesto is extremely masturbatory. My idea is so important that it will manifest itself in your mind upon reading my defense of it. I have accomplished something today; I have declared myself to be an original thinker worthy of conical consideration. My idea isn't that strange of one, or that new of one, but you really don't hear it that often, especially among writers.
Proposition #1: The point of life (and by dubious association the point of art) is to enjoy yourself as much as possible.
Proposition #2: Good art is that which the artist's labor brings him/her the most joy.
Traditionally, we think of good art as something that is universally meaningful, or something that expresses itself in a way that resonates with an audience. Like much of what we learn in school, this view is highly romantic and is based on the idealized notion that audiences are looking to be changed by art. I personally believe that audiences view art to affirm feelings or views that they already have, and find the idea of change as unsettling if not repugnant.
Let's say that good art is actually the art that the person making it enjoys the most. Think Kindergarten finger-painting. The kid who got the most praise from the teacher wasn't the kid who tried to smear something life-affirming. The teacher smiled and told us to have fun, to smear with gusto, to smear whatever is bugging you, or whatever you saw on the playground earlier that day. Smear for the love of smearing. After you washed up and everyone compared their smearings some would claim theirs was better than others. The teacher might even try to analyze some of the smearings for deeper meaning, but one thing is evident to anyone (excepting the self-enamored artist): The paintings all suck. It's O.K. to admit, you're five you were only using tempura paint and your hands. You can't expect to much.
Now let's take this idea to the Louvre, line up the greatest works of art made by man and look at them carefully. Now look out the window at the skyline, maybe a few trees, and come to this conclusion: These paintings all kinda suck. It's alright to admit this. Sure these are some man's best attempts to immortalize an image, but so much is lost on many viewers, so much is made up by historians and critics and the kicker, many of these works weren't considered great by the artist, or by the artist's peers. Maybe this is the wrong criterion for judging art. Maybe we are holding ourselves to standards much to high to be attainable or even realistically measurable.
Many artists comment that their best work isn't their most famous. I purpose that their best work might not be their most famous, or what they consider their best. Really their best work is the one that brought them the most glee, which distracted them the most, which turned them away from life, something transcendental. It might not bring any acclaim, but it will bring a great sense of personal satisfaction that is more salient. I could get a standing ovation and get boner at best, but the only way to realistically get myself off is to strip down and jack it. Sure, it doesn't seem as satisfying for the audience, but think about the stories they will tell. "Honey I was at the opera last night and you wouldn't believe what the bullfighter did during intermission." Maybe that is art.
The very practice of writing a manifesto is extremely masturbatory. My idea is so important that it will manifest itself in your mind upon reading my defense of it. I have accomplished something today; I have declared myself to be an original thinker worthy of conical consideration. My idea isn't that strange of one, or that new of one, but you really don't hear it that often, especially among writers.
Proposition #1: The point of life (and by dubious association the point of art) is to enjoy yourself as much as possible.
Proposition #2: Good art is that which the artist's labor brings him/her the most joy.
Traditionally, we think of good art as something that is universally meaningful, or something that expresses itself in a way that resonates with an audience. Like much of what we learn in school, this view is highly romantic and is based on the idealized notion that audiences are looking to be changed by art. I personally believe that audiences view art to affirm feelings or views that they already have, and find the idea of change as unsettling if not repugnant.
Let's say that good art is actually the art that the person making it enjoys the most. Think Kindergarten finger-painting. The kid who got the most praise from the teacher wasn't the kid who tried to smear something life-affirming. The teacher smiled and told us to have fun, to smear with gusto, to smear whatever is bugging you, or whatever you saw on the playground earlier that day. Smear for the love of smearing. After you washed up and everyone compared their smearings some would claim theirs was better than others. The teacher might even try to analyze some of the smearings for deeper meaning, but one thing is evident to anyone (excepting the self-enamored artist): The paintings all suck. It's O.K. to admit, you're five you were only using tempura paint and your hands. You can't expect to much.
Now let's take this idea to the Louvre, line up the greatest works of art made by man and look at them carefully. Now look out the window at the skyline, maybe a few trees, and come to this conclusion: These paintings all kinda suck. It's alright to admit this. Sure these are some man's best attempts to immortalize an image, but so much is lost on many viewers, so much is made up by historians and critics and the kicker, many of these works weren't considered great by the artist, or by the artist's peers. Maybe this is the wrong criterion for judging art. Maybe we are holding ourselves to standards much to high to be attainable or even realistically measurable.
Many artists comment that their best work isn't their most famous. I purpose that their best work might not be their most famous, or what they consider their best. Really their best work is the one that brought them the most glee, which distracted them the most, which turned them away from life, something transcendental. It might not bring any acclaim, but it will bring a great sense of personal satisfaction that is more salient. I could get a standing ovation and get boner at best, but the only way to realistically get myself off is to strip down and jack it. Sure, it doesn't seem as satisfying for the audience, but think about the stories they will tell. "Honey I was at the opera last night and you wouldn't believe what the bullfighter did during intermission." Maybe that is art.
Monday, February 19, 2007
The Race
Yesterday I was walking by the softball fields on Iowa Street, and right as I walked by a foul ball got popped into my periphery. It went over the fence that separates the field of play from the audience and bounced just short of the fence that separates the crowd from the sidewalk. Normally, I would just keep walking and let someone else worry about ball shagging, but I had some time to kill. Watching all of those stir-uped little girls kicking up dandelions got my adrenaline pumping, and brought about a curious urge to do some fence-hopping.
I easily scaled the fence and started walking towards the ball. I put my hand up so the right fielder would know that I had it, and the ball would be back in play soon. She gazed at me from under the shade of her mit. Suddenly, from the bleachers, rushed a girl who was a few years younger than the girls on the field, out of uniform, but with a mit. She was on a full-bore sprint towards the ball that was a few feet away from where I was standing. If I wanted that ball I would have to act fast, so I skipped forward and scoped it up. The little girl was going so fast at this point that she couldn't stop herself in time from colliding with me. I made a quick bull-fighter dodge, and she stumbled to a stop a few feet past me.
She looked over at me, crushed. I took a crow hop and sent the ball right into the fielder's waiting mit. The fielder waved thanks and went back to her post. As I continued my walk, I thought about what I had done. I could have let the little girl grab the ball, but she probably wouldn't have thrown it over the fence on the first try; she might have been traumatically embarrassed. I probably needed the exersize and the practice more than she did. I haven't touched a baseball in years. Still got it.
My one hope is that my intervention provided the girl with the hunger that I once had for the sport. She will run her sprints and practice her little heart out for that first year of eligibility. Who knows maybe next time time she will beat me to the ball.
I easily scaled the fence and started walking towards the ball. I put my hand up so the right fielder would know that I had it, and the ball would be back in play soon. She gazed at me from under the shade of her mit. Suddenly, from the bleachers, rushed a girl who was a few years younger than the girls on the field, out of uniform, but with a mit. She was on a full-bore sprint towards the ball that was a few feet away from where I was standing. If I wanted that ball I would have to act fast, so I skipped forward and scoped it up. The little girl was going so fast at this point that she couldn't stop herself in time from colliding with me. I made a quick bull-fighter dodge, and she stumbled to a stop a few feet past me.
She looked over at me, crushed. I took a crow hop and sent the ball right into the fielder's waiting mit. The fielder waved thanks and went back to her post. As I continued my walk, I thought about what I had done. I could have let the little girl grab the ball, but she probably wouldn't have thrown it over the fence on the first try; she might have been traumatically embarrassed. I probably needed the exersize and the practice more than she did. I haven't touched a baseball in years. Still got it.
My one hope is that my intervention provided the girl with the hunger that I once had for the sport. She will run her sprints and practice her little heart out for that first year of eligibility. Who knows maybe next time time she will beat me to the ball.
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