The father-son relationship is hard to explain. It can be characterized as love-hate with nothing in between, a walk on the tightrope with no net. My dad had hidden fears, some of which I have become aware lately, while others have been exposed through bitter struggle, when words bit like hollow tipped bullets that passed the skin like a whisper, but exploded within, churning my insides into creamed corn. Every mistake I made affirmed in him the worst, triggering belligerent and sometimes violent responses, paralyzing me into indecision, for fear of making the simplest misstep. His was the self-fulfilling prophecy, an engine in perpetual motion that oiled itself.
Dad met his fifth and hopefully final wife, and pulled up his construction operation to devote his attentions, forcing me to strike out without him.
"I got you a job with the Ricks boys," he told me one night.
"Really, what are they doing?"
"They have the roof framing contract at Fort Drum. I had to pull some strings to get it done though."
"Dad, I've been jamming here; they should have no problems with my coming on board." It was true. I had been building roofs as a subcontractor -- dad was the general -- on an army base in Aberdeen Maryland, away from his constant scrutiny and direction. I prided myself on quality and speed, and had built a reputation amongst the other subs.
"Well, they didn't want you, but I told George that he owed me one."
"I see."
The Ricks boys were the three wunderkinds of dad's childhood friend and rival, depending on the astral configuration, George Ricks. Each was born with a hammer in one hand and a teat in the other, and never has there been a more talented group of carpenters to grace a construction site. The middle of the three, Raimey, became my boss and mentor, who taught by example and expectation. If you still had a job in the morning, that meant you were doing good, but you were never, ever told so.
Work started in the morning while it was still dark, synchronized with the coming sunrise once the extension chords and air hoses were spread, air compressor running, skill saws plugged in and our toolbelts stocked and ready. We ran from place to place, while toting lumber, spreading rafters, and nailing down roofs. Everything we did was in double-time, and breaks, as Raimey would say, were for pussies.
Our biggest nemesis on the job site were the OSHA safety men, who insisted that we wore hard hats and were tied off, but that flew in opposition to our work ethic. We leapt from rafter to rafter like gazelles, Raimey being the fleetest of all. When the safety man came by, we clipped onto the safety line that was strung from the farthest opposing rafters, and unclipped when he was gone. As such our roofs popped up like toast, perfectly brown.
Raimey was of a rare breed that could show up to work every day, crisp as a new dollar bill, while at night, drink and rage until the bars closed. He had three personalities: daytime, slave-driving taskmaster; warm, giving, overly generous friend in the early evening; and angry, tempestuous drunk at night. I didn't have a car back then, so every night Raimey let me have his van, but he made sure that I understood that he would have done the same for anyone.
Usually I was partnered with Tucker, a product of a farm in rural Idaho, who had long, dirty blonde hair, and a gentle disposition. He spoke slowly but deliberately, and had an innate moral confidence. To pass the time during our grueling workday, as we nailed hurricane clips or fastened fascia board, we would sing old Schoolhouse Rock songs, quote Star Trek episodes, or make up our own foolishness.
"Remember the old, 'Hanker for a hunka cheese'?" I asked Tuck.
He immediately jumped into the routine, "Hanker for a hunka, slice or slab or chunka, cheese!"
One of our favorites was an imitation of an old southern man, that sounded like he was eighty, like the old man at the beginning of Play Me Some Mountain Music by Alabama, "Yewww ain't just tootin' boy, yer darn tootin'." We thought it was the funniest thing ever, and we said it all the time, while Raimey would pass by rolling his eyes like we were two simpletons. Perhaps we were...
I don't know how it started, but one night Raimey and I were in the back of the van with all the tools, chords, hoses and toolbelts at our feet, and Tucker was driving. Raimey had more alcohol in his veins than blood, and he was prodding me as usual, but tonight I had reached my limit. He leapt on top of me and pinned me to the floor and opened the side door. His hands were locked around my throat as he screamed: "Feel the air seeping from your lungs."
Thankfully I was a lot stronger that he was, and I turned it around slowly and backed him off.
"You can't hurt me mother f$%&@r," he hollered at me as I got out of the now stopped van.
"I don't want to hurt you Raimey, but I would if I thought it would help." My heart was hammering like the pulse of speed bumps under a speeding car, and my muscles were quivering from adrenaline loss.
"Come on," he goaded, "Let's have this out once an for all!"
"Raimey," I returned, "It's not that I'm scared; I just feel sorry for you." And I walked away into the night. The next morning Tuck and Raimey picked me up at the normal time, and we were back to business as usual.
A month or so later I was traipsing down a triple-wide rafter, hung over and walking lazy. My feet were dragging behind me. Towards the edge of the roof, three stories up, my foot caught the back heel of the other and I plunged over the side. Dad always had pride in me for one trait that he claimed was hereditary: we were survivors. He told me that some people just get hurt or dead, while others in the same situation have a knack for coming out of it unscathed. He saw me fall once on a job, and laughed at how I grappled with the rough framed walls before landing harmlessly on the floor below. He rubbed my head and smiled, then told me to get the fuck back to work.
I've experienced it before and since, that when something life threatening occurs, the world slows down. A lot of thoughts went through my head as I started my dive. Like, "What the hell am I doing here? I hate this job, and this life that I'm leading. This isn't where I wanted to be when I was a kid." I twisted around in the air, now fully aloft, so that my back was towards the ground. I reached out and snagged the tail end of rafter and caught it solidly, and hung there for a minute as I appraised my situation. A floor below there was a block wall, that I may have hit first, but sticking out of every gap in the blocks were six foot lengths of metal rebar, which I may have been impaled upon. Two floors below that was nothing but cement and rubble, an almost certain death.
"Whoa dude!" I looked down and saw an electrician staring up at me, slack jawed. "That was hairy."
"Did you like that?" I asked, smiling, still hanging like a pinata.
"See you at happy hour tonight. I'm buying you a beer!"
"Ok, but none of that cheap shit."
I looked up to where my hand kept me in this world, and made a life changing decision.
"I'm going back to school."
Showing posts with label My Favorites. Show all posts
Showing posts with label My Favorites. Show all posts
Monday, July 25, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Interior Decorating
My mom was in the car business all her adult life, beginning her career as a salesman then moving to finance. For many years after she left my father and moved to Houston she remained single, as was the tendency of all my father's ex-wives. As a result, many of the men she introduced me to wore polyester pants, ten gallon cowboy hats, alligator skin boots, had voices slick as Texas tea and were always trying to charm my mother's only son as a tactical maneuver towards the bedroom.
I lived with my dad all my life, and would visit mom on summer vacation. When I turned seventeen, my dad got me a beat up, navy blue Chevy Nova, the most welcomed and amazing gift I had ever received. It was quirky, and developed rust holes in the floorboards through which you could put your feet and drive Flintstones style. It had an awful backfire; if you let off the gas too quickly it sounded off like a firing squad, or the finale of a fourth of July celebration. But there weren't too many cars in town that could outrun it; she could do the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.
Mom came to see my high school graduation, bless her heart. It must have been some shock to come from the land of consumerism, big houses and new cars to no-man's-land Alaska and take up guest accommodations in our shanty trailer. My car must have been the deal breaker, because when I started at college, she told me to get myself down to Houston, because she was sending me home in a new car.
It was a Chevy Cavalier, replete with a strange odor that I had never experienced without a fancy air freshener: new car smell. But that as it turned out would be fleeting.
I gathered a couple of my friends for the road trip back to Washington where I was attending college. We rolled a few joints for the trip and agreed to take shifts and drive straight through. I drove to College Station, home of the Aggies, to pick them up. On the way, a little rock flew into my windshield and created a spider web crack, my first ding, and I cursed the heavens, steaming all the way.
We set out for Washington and I drove for as long as I could take it, and turned the wheel over to Alan, or Tex as everybody called him. I met him in Alaska, and it was by sheerest coincidence that he moved near my mother in Texas. His accent was thick, which earned him his incredibly inventive nickname, and aside from being unemployed, he had every bit of the car salesman personality. He had long blonde hair and fair, feminine features, and was smash hit with the ladies, a great ice breaker at parties.
I decided to get some sleep, so I showed him the map and told him where to go, and he said, "Yeah yeah," in a dismissive tone. When I woke up, we were on a farm road a distance north of where we should have been, and nearly ran into a cow sleeping in the road. I had to get out and shoo him away.
Tex pulled out one of our joints, and after a few pulls, the mood was once again serene as we flew down the highway, once again on track, somewhere in the middle of rural Texas.
"Look," said Tex, pointing ahead to the side of the road, "a deer."
Most people would have slowed down, but he kept on going, happy as you please at eight five. As we approached, the deer decided that it needed to be on the other side of the highway, and shot in front of us in a single bound, and there was nothing we could do. It was in the midst of a jump when we collided, which pushed it's legs forward, spinning the deer a three quarter rotation before it shattered our windshield; it exploded like a water balloon and double layered the interior and everything in it with blood, excrement and liquid the color of wheat grass, and fell into a formless heap onto Tex's lap.
He screamed like a B movie actress and forgot to drive the car, which flew in auto pilot, thankfully straight.
"Tex!" I panicked. "Do not panic! Step on the brake and stop the car."
He looked at me uncomprehendingly and yelled, "What?!"
"Stop the car!"
"Oh my god! I can't hear anything." He put his fingers to his ears and pulled out clumps of green, undigested grass. His face was starting to bleed from a hundred tiny glass cuts, but his eyes registered relief as he realized that he was not deaf after all. He looked at the deer and his panic heightened again.
"Tex just stop the car god dammit," but he picked up the deer instead with two hands and threw it in my lap. I recoiled in disgust and kicked it into the floor boards and jumped up on my seat, every bit as panicked as he was moments before. Tex got control of the car and brought it to a stop.
We realized that the deers head and right front leg had been severed, so out of morbid curiosity I walked back the surprisingly short distance to where the rest was laying alongside the road. It's jaws were lying beside the mouth like a set of dentures.
Eventually an elderly couple stopped to give us a hand. The car had a new interior and a gaping wound through the windshield on the drivers side. They had a large supply of water, as they were coming back from a camping trip, so we each took turns washing the glass and body juices off us. They also gave us three or four old sheets to cover the seats with.
We drove the car to the nearest town and found a Chevy dealership. By now the car smelled like a slaughter house. The head mechanic, with a white patch on his breast that said 'Earl', sporting a lump of Copenhagen between his cheek and gum, took a long appraising look at the damage.
He turned to one of his men and laughed sadistically, "Better call in Billy on this one, he's low man on the totem pole."
I lived with my dad all my life, and would visit mom on summer vacation. When I turned seventeen, my dad got me a beat up, navy blue Chevy Nova, the most welcomed and amazing gift I had ever received. It was quirky, and developed rust holes in the floorboards through which you could put your feet and drive Flintstones style. It had an awful backfire; if you let off the gas too quickly it sounded off like a firing squad, or the finale of a fourth of July celebration. But there weren't too many cars in town that could outrun it; she could do the Kessel run in less than 12 parsecs.
Mom came to see my high school graduation, bless her heart. It must have been some shock to come from the land of consumerism, big houses and new cars to no-man's-land Alaska and take up guest accommodations in our shanty trailer. My car must have been the deal breaker, because when I started at college, she told me to get myself down to Houston, because she was sending me home in a new car.
It was a Chevy Cavalier, replete with a strange odor that I had never experienced without a fancy air freshener: new car smell. But that as it turned out would be fleeting.
I gathered a couple of my friends for the road trip back to Washington where I was attending college. We rolled a few joints for the trip and agreed to take shifts and drive straight through. I drove to College Station, home of the Aggies, to pick them up. On the way, a little rock flew into my windshield and created a spider web crack, my first ding, and I cursed the heavens, steaming all the way.
We set out for Washington and I drove for as long as I could take it, and turned the wheel over to Alan, or Tex as everybody called him. I met him in Alaska, and it was by sheerest coincidence that he moved near my mother in Texas. His accent was thick, which earned him his incredibly inventive nickname, and aside from being unemployed, he had every bit of the car salesman personality. He had long blonde hair and fair, feminine features, and was smash hit with the ladies, a great ice breaker at parties.
I decided to get some sleep, so I showed him the map and told him where to go, and he said, "Yeah yeah," in a dismissive tone. When I woke up, we were on a farm road a distance north of where we should have been, and nearly ran into a cow sleeping in the road. I had to get out and shoo him away.
Tex pulled out one of our joints, and after a few pulls, the mood was once again serene as we flew down the highway, once again on track, somewhere in the middle of rural Texas.
"Look," said Tex, pointing ahead to the side of the road, "a deer."
Most people would have slowed down, but he kept on going, happy as you please at eight five. As we approached, the deer decided that it needed to be on the other side of the highway, and shot in front of us in a single bound, and there was nothing we could do. It was in the midst of a jump when we collided, which pushed it's legs forward, spinning the deer a three quarter rotation before it shattered our windshield; it exploded like a water balloon and double layered the interior and everything in it with blood, excrement and liquid the color of wheat grass, and fell into a formless heap onto Tex's lap.
He screamed like a B movie actress and forgot to drive the car, which flew in auto pilot, thankfully straight.
"Tex!" I panicked. "Do not panic! Step on the brake and stop the car."
He looked at me uncomprehendingly and yelled, "What?!"
"Stop the car!"
"Oh my god! I can't hear anything." He put his fingers to his ears and pulled out clumps of green, undigested grass. His face was starting to bleed from a hundred tiny glass cuts, but his eyes registered relief as he realized that he was not deaf after all. He looked at the deer and his panic heightened again.
"Tex just stop the car god dammit," but he picked up the deer instead with two hands and threw it in my lap. I recoiled in disgust and kicked it into the floor boards and jumped up on my seat, every bit as panicked as he was moments before. Tex got control of the car and brought it to a stop.
We realized that the deers head and right front leg had been severed, so out of morbid curiosity I walked back the surprisingly short distance to where the rest was laying alongside the road. It's jaws were lying beside the mouth like a set of dentures.
Eventually an elderly couple stopped to give us a hand. The car had a new interior and a gaping wound through the windshield on the drivers side. They had a large supply of water, as they were coming back from a camping trip, so we each took turns washing the glass and body juices off us. They also gave us three or four old sheets to cover the seats with.
We drove the car to the nearest town and found a Chevy dealership. By now the car smelled like a slaughter house. The head mechanic, with a white patch on his breast that said 'Earl', sporting a lump of Copenhagen between his cheek and gum, took a long appraising look at the damage.
He turned to one of his men and laughed sadistically, "Better call in Billy on this one, he's low man on the totem pole."
Thursday, July 21, 2005
A Load of Bull
My cousin Fess was a cowboy in every sense of the word, and even Conway Twitty -- may he rest in peace -- who lamented, "don't call him a cowboy until you've seen him ride," would have agreed. His bull riding buddies were a breed apart, sculpted from the rock of our eastern Washington canyons, living their lives from one rodeo to the next.
One of his friends, Crazy Joe, I met at an overnight campout before the Winthrop Rodeo, where, to quote David Allan Coe, "the bikers stare at cowboys, who are laughing at the hippies, who are praying they get out of here alive." The town was a juxtaposition of Harleys and pickup trucks, "Mom" tattoos and oversized belt buckles. Crazy Joe was the quintessential bull rider, full of bravado and afraid of no man. Around the camp fire, he told the story of how he managed to evade the long arm of the law.
"The cop tells me to put my hands on the hood of the car and starts pattin' me down, so I bashed my fuckin' face like three times until I'm black and blue and blood is gushing from mouth and nose."
"Holy shit," I was stunned.
"Yeah, and the cop is yellin' at me to stop, and I'm yellin' stop hurtin' me, and people was drivin' by starin' and all."
"So he let you go?"
"Had no fuckin' choice."
Fess, sitting with me, laughed, "That's why they call him Crazy Joe."
Another of his friends, John, was a short and squat bulldog of a man, whose anger spit fumes like sauna rocks. Nobody ever said an unkind word to his face and walked away with theirs as originally arranged. He was a zen buddhist of attitude adjustment, and I've seen him back off men twice his size.
I saw a drunk once in the stands of another rodeo, popping off at everyone that walked by, spoiling for a fight. After a half hour of not finding any takers, he wandered back to where the bull riders were preparing, and started his flap with John. He stumbled back out of the chutes holding onto his nose like that little boy with his thumb in the dike.
All of Fess' friends had similar stories. But for all their grit and steel, they were the best people to be around, full of fun and good times, and as welcoming and considerate as you would please.
At this particular rodeo, Fess had finally convinced me to give it a crack. He was pleased with the bull that I had drawn. When my turn came to ride, the bull was fairly sedate in the chute. Fess coached me on what to do. I put a glove on my left hand, which had some kind of resin on it for grip. The bull had a loop at the base of it's neck through which I could barely slip my hand, and I feared that it would never come back out. The bull was furious but still, it's heaving breath sounded like a steam engine. Fess raised his right arm and slugged the bull in the nose, and the bull roared and tried to crawl out of the chute and nearly smashed me flat into the ceiling.
"What the fuck are you doing Fess?!"
"Getting him angry! He's too calm, you'll never score any points if he doesn't try to throw you."
Several cowboys jumped up and ushered him back down into the chute, but I was nearly spent. What courage I had mustered was quickly failing me, but I got back on.
What happened next might as well have been a dream. I nodded my head, which was the ready signal, but from behind myself, like I was a spectator at my own execution. The bull shot out and I fell off, simple as that. Fess took a picture and my long lanky body was already half way to the ground. The bull kicked up his back legs and landed in front of my chest by a few inches, then was ran off by rodeo clowns. Aside from the dirt sandwhich, I was fine, and feeling quite satisfied that I had tried.
But in neglect of conventional wisdom, I did not try try again.
One of his friends, Crazy Joe, I met at an overnight campout before the Winthrop Rodeo, where, to quote David Allan Coe, "the bikers stare at cowboys, who are laughing at the hippies, who are praying they get out of here alive." The town was a juxtaposition of Harleys and pickup trucks, "Mom" tattoos and oversized belt buckles. Crazy Joe was the quintessential bull rider, full of bravado and afraid of no man. Around the camp fire, he told the story of how he managed to evade the long arm of the law.
"The cop tells me to put my hands on the hood of the car and starts pattin' me down, so I bashed my fuckin' face like three times until I'm black and blue and blood is gushing from mouth and nose."
"Holy shit," I was stunned.
"Yeah, and the cop is yellin' at me to stop, and I'm yellin' stop hurtin' me, and people was drivin' by starin' and all."
"So he let you go?"
"Had no fuckin' choice."
Fess, sitting with me, laughed, "That's why they call him Crazy Joe."
Another of his friends, John, was a short and squat bulldog of a man, whose anger spit fumes like sauna rocks. Nobody ever said an unkind word to his face and walked away with theirs as originally arranged. He was a zen buddhist of attitude adjustment, and I've seen him back off men twice his size.
I saw a drunk once in the stands of another rodeo, popping off at everyone that walked by, spoiling for a fight. After a half hour of not finding any takers, he wandered back to where the bull riders were preparing, and started his flap with John. He stumbled back out of the chutes holding onto his nose like that little boy with his thumb in the dike.
All of Fess' friends had similar stories. But for all their grit and steel, they were the best people to be around, full of fun and good times, and as welcoming and considerate as you would please.
At this particular rodeo, Fess had finally convinced me to give it a crack. He was pleased with the bull that I had drawn. When my turn came to ride, the bull was fairly sedate in the chute. Fess coached me on what to do. I put a glove on my left hand, which had some kind of resin on it for grip. The bull had a loop at the base of it's neck through which I could barely slip my hand, and I feared that it would never come back out. The bull was furious but still, it's heaving breath sounded like a steam engine. Fess raised his right arm and slugged the bull in the nose, and the bull roared and tried to crawl out of the chute and nearly smashed me flat into the ceiling.
"What the fuck are you doing Fess?!"
"Getting him angry! He's too calm, you'll never score any points if he doesn't try to throw you."
Several cowboys jumped up and ushered him back down into the chute, but I was nearly spent. What courage I had mustered was quickly failing me, but I got back on.
What happened next might as well have been a dream. I nodded my head, which was the ready signal, but from behind myself, like I was a spectator at my own execution. The bull shot out and I fell off, simple as that. Fess took a picture and my long lanky body was already half way to the ground. The bull kicked up his back legs and landed in front of my chest by a few inches, then was ran off by rodeo clowns. Aside from the dirt sandwhich, I was fine, and feeling quite satisfied that I had tried.
But in neglect of conventional wisdom, I did not try try again.
Monday, July 18, 2005
The Snake
My dad got a job building an apple warehouse in Leavenworth Washington, where I spent my eighth grade year. Dad was on his third wife, and now I had a step-brother whose name I shall omit, because I am quite sure the name is so unique that it could be looked up without his last.
Socially, I had my best chance since I left Ohio to fit it, but I have never been one for politics, and playing the game to rise to the top is not my idea of a life well spent. I was told by several of my classmates that Patricia had taken a shine to me, and she was a cheerleader for the football team. I was attracted to her, but it was such a circus, and the school had us marked as a couple without any response from me. I confided my problem to a friend.
"There's all this pressure to just start going with her." I complained.
"Hey," he replied, "just go out with her for a while. I mean, have you seen her legs?"
"Yeah, she's hot, I guess. But I don't like being told what to do."
"Listen, just date her, she's a cheerleader. Date her for a while then dump her later. It will make you very popular and then you'll have it made."
But I couldn't do it. What I should have done though, is something other than give her the cold shoulder, because what has the power to raise you up can cast you down. And frankly, as hard as it was on me, it must have been really embarrassing to her.
I think though, that more than for any other reason, I was scared. She was hot, and would have been good for me to try "going steady" like all my friends were already doing. It would have initiated me into the fun and frolic of young love. But I wouldn't look for a healthy relationship until I was in my thirties. Instead, what followed was the first of many mistakes I would be doomed to repeat.
She was called the Snake by everybody in town. I met her at a volleyball game at the local high school, sitting in the bleachers. She was a flirt, and I couldn't resist. She kissed me in the parking lot outside, in front of a few of my classmates.
The word got around, and everywhere I went I heard the same sound, "Ssssssss," like air leaking from a tire.
We talked on the phone every day, and I became obsessed with speaking to her. Before long we were saying I love you, but I really meant it, or thought I did anyway.
I went to her house when her parents were out of town, and she took me to her room. I was totally clueless. Only now can I understand what she wanted, but I didn't know then. I didn't even know how to french kiss, and I asked her to teach me. That was probably the breaker for her, finally realizing what an innocent boy I was, not the hyper-spermatic man she needed.
A friend of mine told me that she had sex with somebody on "the hill" beyond the bleachers at the football field. I was heartbroken, I called her up, and when I hung up the phone, it was over.
I sat next to her sister in science class, who asked me, "have you ever french kissed a woman?"
I looked at her suspiciously, "not that it's any of your business, but no."
"Would you like me to teach you?" She laughed her cruel mocking laugh, and I knew that I was totally ruined.
Socially, I had my best chance since I left Ohio to fit it, but I have never been one for politics, and playing the game to rise to the top is not my idea of a life well spent. I was told by several of my classmates that Patricia had taken a shine to me, and she was a cheerleader for the football team. I was attracted to her, but it was such a circus, and the school had us marked as a couple without any response from me. I confided my problem to a friend.
"There's all this pressure to just start going with her." I complained.
"Hey," he replied, "just go out with her for a while. I mean, have you seen her legs?"
"Yeah, she's hot, I guess. But I don't like being told what to do."
"Listen, just date her, she's a cheerleader. Date her for a while then dump her later. It will make you very popular and then you'll have it made."
But I couldn't do it. What I should have done though, is something other than give her the cold shoulder, because what has the power to raise you up can cast you down. And frankly, as hard as it was on me, it must have been really embarrassing to her.
I think though, that more than for any other reason, I was scared. She was hot, and would have been good for me to try "going steady" like all my friends were already doing. It would have initiated me into the fun and frolic of young love. But I wouldn't look for a healthy relationship until I was in my thirties. Instead, what followed was the first of many mistakes I would be doomed to repeat.
She was called the Snake by everybody in town. I met her at a volleyball game at the local high school, sitting in the bleachers. She was a flirt, and I couldn't resist. She kissed me in the parking lot outside, in front of a few of my classmates.
The word got around, and everywhere I went I heard the same sound, "Ssssssss," like air leaking from a tire.
We talked on the phone every day, and I became obsessed with speaking to her. Before long we were saying I love you, but I really meant it, or thought I did anyway.
I went to her house when her parents were out of town, and she took me to her room. I was totally clueless. Only now can I understand what she wanted, but I didn't know then. I didn't even know how to french kiss, and I asked her to teach me. That was probably the breaker for her, finally realizing what an innocent boy I was, not the hyper-spermatic man she needed.
A friend of mine told me that she had sex with somebody on "the hill" beyond the bleachers at the football field. I was heartbroken, I called her up, and when I hung up the phone, it was over.
I sat next to her sister in science class, who asked me, "have you ever french kissed a woman?"
I looked at her suspiciously, "not that it's any of your business, but no."
"Would you like me to teach you?" She laughed her cruel mocking laugh, and I knew that I was totally ruined.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Intercourse Discourse
"It seems like everybody has had sex but me," I told John G. We were standing on the second floor of our high school at the intersection of two hallways. Around us our fellow students toiled between classes, animated in their own discussions, solving the problems of our tiny world on the capital island of Alaska.
Like my mother, I have always tended to reveal too much too soon, and the effect on people is either disarming or alarming. John took a consipiratorial survey of our personal space, his eyes darted left, then right. Satisfied, he leaned closer and whispered, "I haven't either."
"No way!" I whispered back. "There is hope then." We both laughed. "I wouldn't dare tell Eric; he would have me for lunch. I'd never hear the end of it."
John grinned, that evil Chesire Cat grin that connects the ears.
"What?" I said, my mouth hung open because I forgot to close it. "You know something don't you?"
John nodded his head, but his eyes kept mine locked.
"Oh come on, don't make me beg!"
"Let's just say, that I've had this very same conversation with Eric last weekend."
"And he's a virgin?!"
John held out his hand and made a peace sign. "The big V."
"Oh man, this is unbelievable," I said too loudly, but we both had forgotten the world around us. Eric was a football star, and was in the top eschelon of guys in our school. The girls that John and I wouldn't dream of approaching were friends of Erics, so naturally we looked up to him. This development was nothing short of a miracle.
John had told me this for a reason. While it is true that we looked up to Eric, we were jealous too. Add to this that Eric was incredibly confident, arrogant even, and seemingly never made a mistake. To make it worse, Eric was intolerant of the mistakes of others, and because of his competitive nature, was always exploiting his chances to smear it in your face. Thus, when the rare opportunity presented itself for payback, it had to be cherished like a rare and expensive wine. John and I were smelling the cork.
"Ok, this is good. This is real good." I rubbed my hands together; he saw the wheels turning in my head and waited patiently. "Ok, I'll handle this. Don't tell him that I know."
John watched me skip away, probably feeling a warm glow, like a boy scout that just earned a merit badge.
My dad in those days was a house builder. Eric and I would always buy a "half-rack" of Miller and drive to whatever house dad was in the process of building, get suitably buzzed, then continue to wherever the action was happening that night. And yes, we were driving drunk, and yes, it was very irresponsible, and yes, we could have killed somone, and no, we didn't. The cops were different back then. They just expected you were driving drunk on friday and saturday night, because as Sam Kinison once said, there was no other way to get your car back to the bleeping house. Ironically, Sam was killed by a drunk driver -- but I digress.
Tonight we drank our beers in a rough framed house; the roof was shingled and the outside walls were covered in plywood; the windows, as yet uninstalled, leaned against their empty openings, allowing the night free reign. We sat on the second story floor that was lightly peppered with sawdust, which danced in tiny whorls from the cool night breeze that carried the sweet smell of new lumber.
"Eric, we never really talk about all the girls that we have been with, do we?"
He looked instantly uncomfortable. Steee-rrrike one! "Uhh, yeah."
"Well, do tell! You must have stories, and you are not one to miss an opportunity to brag."
He reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield, who always pulls on his collar like it is suddenly too tight. I had Eric on the ropes.
"Why don't you start," he dodged. "Who have you ever been with?"
"Heather," I said simply.
"When!?" Slap! "I didn't know about that, you never said."
"I'm not a bragging man Eric, I leave that to you. Actually, it was more than once; she couldn't get enough. Once she got a taste, well, you know what I mean."
He was squirming. "So, how about you then?"
"Just once." He was such a bad liar.
"Reeeeeealllly? With whom may I ask?"
"Just some girl I met last summer, you wouldn't know her."
"Juneau is a small town Eric, and I know a lot of people. " His head was starting to lilt. "Why don't you indulge me on this one, hmmm?"
"Oh, all right. I lied."
"What was that, I couldn't hear you?"
"I lied, I've never been with a girl before."
Strike two!
"I can't believe that you could just sit there and fill me with your lies Eric. I thought you were my friend!"
He shook his head helplessly, "I.. uhhh.."
I know that most people would let it end with that, maybe rub it in for a while, relish the victory for as long as possible. But to Eric, losing to a friend, losing to anybody, was the most unsavory morsel to chew. Like a comic bad guy, I wanted Super Eric to know that I got him.
"That's ok Eric, I lied about Heather."
"What the..." His shock was total. "You lied to me, I can't..."
Strike three, and you're out!
Like my mother, I have always tended to reveal too much too soon, and the effect on people is either disarming or alarming. John took a consipiratorial survey of our personal space, his eyes darted left, then right. Satisfied, he leaned closer and whispered, "I haven't either."
"No way!" I whispered back. "There is hope then." We both laughed. "I wouldn't dare tell Eric; he would have me for lunch. I'd never hear the end of it."
John grinned, that evil Chesire Cat grin that connects the ears.
"What?" I said, my mouth hung open because I forgot to close it. "You know something don't you?"
John nodded his head, but his eyes kept mine locked.
"Oh come on, don't make me beg!"
"Let's just say, that I've had this very same conversation with Eric last weekend."
"And he's a virgin?!"
John held out his hand and made a peace sign. "The big V."
"Oh man, this is unbelievable," I said too loudly, but we both had forgotten the world around us. Eric was a football star, and was in the top eschelon of guys in our school. The girls that John and I wouldn't dream of approaching were friends of Erics, so naturally we looked up to him. This development was nothing short of a miracle.
John had told me this for a reason. While it is true that we looked up to Eric, we were jealous too. Add to this that Eric was incredibly confident, arrogant even, and seemingly never made a mistake. To make it worse, Eric was intolerant of the mistakes of others, and because of his competitive nature, was always exploiting his chances to smear it in your face. Thus, when the rare opportunity presented itself for payback, it had to be cherished like a rare and expensive wine. John and I were smelling the cork.
"Ok, this is good. This is real good." I rubbed my hands together; he saw the wheels turning in my head and waited patiently. "Ok, I'll handle this. Don't tell him that I know."
John watched me skip away, probably feeling a warm glow, like a boy scout that just earned a merit badge.
My dad in those days was a house builder. Eric and I would always buy a "half-rack" of Miller and drive to whatever house dad was in the process of building, get suitably buzzed, then continue to wherever the action was happening that night. And yes, we were driving drunk, and yes, it was very irresponsible, and yes, we could have killed somone, and no, we didn't. The cops were different back then. They just expected you were driving drunk on friday and saturday night, because as Sam Kinison once said, there was no other way to get your car back to the bleeping house. Ironically, Sam was killed by a drunk driver -- but I digress.
Tonight we drank our beers in a rough framed house; the roof was shingled and the outside walls were covered in plywood; the windows, as yet uninstalled, leaned against their empty openings, allowing the night free reign. We sat on the second story floor that was lightly peppered with sawdust, which danced in tiny whorls from the cool night breeze that carried the sweet smell of new lumber.
"Eric, we never really talk about all the girls that we have been with, do we?"
He looked instantly uncomfortable. Steee-rrrike one! "Uhh, yeah."
"Well, do tell! You must have stories, and you are not one to miss an opportunity to brag."
He reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield, who always pulls on his collar like it is suddenly too tight. I had Eric on the ropes.
"Why don't you start," he dodged. "Who have you ever been with?"
"Heather," I said simply.
"When!?" Slap! "I didn't know about that, you never said."
"I'm not a bragging man Eric, I leave that to you. Actually, it was more than once; she couldn't get enough. Once she got a taste, well, you know what I mean."
He was squirming. "So, how about you then?"
"Just once." He was such a bad liar.
"Reeeeeealllly? With whom may I ask?"
"Just some girl I met last summer, you wouldn't know her."
"Juneau is a small town Eric, and I know a lot of people. " His head was starting to lilt. "Why don't you indulge me on this one, hmmm?"
"Oh, all right. I lied."
"What was that, I couldn't hear you?"
"I lied, I've never been with a girl before."
Strike two!
"I can't believe that you could just sit there and fill me with your lies Eric. I thought you were my friend!"
He shook his head helplessly, "I.. uhhh.."
I know that most people would let it end with that, maybe rub it in for a while, relish the victory for as long as possible. But to Eric, losing to a friend, losing to anybody, was the most unsavory morsel to chew. Like a comic bad guy, I wanted Super Eric to know that I got him.
"That's ok Eric, I lied about Heather."
"What the..." His shock was total. "You lied to me, I can't..."
Strike three, and you're out!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
The One That Didn't Get Away
My little brother and I -- he doesn't like that term now -- were fishing on the dock on Hayden Lake in Idaho when I was eleven and he was six. My dad was still married to John's mother back then, but these were the twilight years of that era. My brother John, the official junior of my father, was in many ways just like him. At six years old he was the scrappiest kid on the block, and was unafraid to take on kids several pounds and several years his elder. He once took on a whole little league baseball team, saved only by his superior speed that kept him ahead of the pursuing mob.
John cast his line into the water and scrutinized his bobber. I grew bored of fishing quickly, and had developed an empathy for the fish. I walked down the length of the dock, and much to my surprise, there, just under the surface, was a little crappie, staring at me in what I could only regard as wonder. I got down on my belly and stared back. His little fins worked against the mild current to keep him steady.
"John, look at this fish, he's just staring at me."
John rushed over to see. "Hold on, I'll get the net!"
When I was my brothers age, fishing with my dad was all I could think about. Our time together by the lakeside or wading in creeks was like being in heaven. He taught me how to bait the hook and clean the fish, and how to find a fishing spot that was just right.
While dad was at work one day, I told me step-mother a lie. I don't remember what it was about, probably that I had cleaned my room but really hadn't, but whatever the lie, it became a big issue.
Dad and I were going on a fishing trip that weekend, and I had built it up to be bigger than Christmas and my birthday combined. I was outside playing when I saw my dad approach from the direction of our apartment.
"Hey dad," I yelled, running up and giving him a hug.
His manner was cold as he held me at arms length. "You're mother told me that you lied to her."
I looked down. "Yeah."
"Well, I'm sorry, but you are staying home this weekend."
"No dad! I won't lie any more, I promise."
"I know you won't."
And I did stay home, but he went with friends. Even then I felt like it was an excuse to go without me, but now I am sure. Something died within me that day, in that moment. Fishing was never the same, and maybe that is why I always throw them back.
I managed to net the little crappie, and I felt bad for betraying the trust between us.
"I want to throw him back, John."
"Are you crazy, NO!"
"C'mon, we have a whole pile, why is it so important to have this one?"
But he wouldn't relent, so I let him keep it.
For years those eyes haunted me, to remember caused me a contraction in my chest. I've learned to live with some of my mistakes, to forgive myself perhaps for not listening to my heart. But if I could take anything back that I have done in this life, well, this wouldn't be it. But it says something that it's on the list.
John cast his line into the water and scrutinized his bobber. I grew bored of fishing quickly, and had developed an empathy for the fish. I walked down the length of the dock, and much to my surprise, there, just under the surface, was a little crappie, staring at me in what I could only regard as wonder. I got down on my belly and stared back. His little fins worked against the mild current to keep him steady.
"John, look at this fish, he's just staring at me."
John rushed over to see. "Hold on, I'll get the net!"
When I was my brothers age, fishing with my dad was all I could think about. Our time together by the lakeside or wading in creeks was like being in heaven. He taught me how to bait the hook and clean the fish, and how to find a fishing spot that was just right.
While dad was at work one day, I told me step-mother a lie. I don't remember what it was about, probably that I had cleaned my room but really hadn't, but whatever the lie, it became a big issue.
Dad and I were going on a fishing trip that weekend, and I had built it up to be bigger than Christmas and my birthday combined. I was outside playing when I saw my dad approach from the direction of our apartment.
"Hey dad," I yelled, running up and giving him a hug.
His manner was cold as he held me at arms length. "You're mother told me that you lied to her."
I looked down. "Yeah."
"Well, I'm sorry, but you are staying home this weekend."
"No dad! I won't lie any more, I promise."
"I know you won't."
And I did stay home, but he went with friends. Even then I felt like it was an excuse to go without me, but now I am sure. Something died within me that day, in that moment. Fishing was never the same, and maybe that is why I always throw them back.
I managed to net the little crappie, and I felt bad for betraying the trust between us.
"I want to throw him back, John."
"Are you crazy, NO!"
"C'mon, we have a whole pile, why is it so important to have this one?"
But he wouldn't relent, so I let him keep it.
For years those eyes haunted me, to remember caused me a contraction in my chest. I've learned to live with some of my mistakes, to forgive myself perhaps for not listening to my heart. But if I could take anything back that I have done in this life, well, this wouldn't be it. But it says something that it's on the list.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Knock Knock
I am fortunate that my boss valued my services enough to retain me as a remote employee when I left California for the east coast. With my two hour roundtrip commute, most of my day was spent away from my wife and children, as any working parent can attest. Working out of the home holds a special advantage in that regard, in that I can watch my children grow.
I heard the truck fire up from the garage and thought the family was pulling out, when I heard the familiar footfalls of my five year old son Jackson clopping up the stairs.
"Daddy! " he gushed with excitement, "I have a good knock knock joke for you! Knock knock."
"Whose there," he answered himself, "Lettuce. Lettuce who? Lettuce go to Chuck E. Cheese!"
"Oh, that was very cute," I chuckled, rubbing his short brown hair, rife with all the same cowlicks as my own.
"Knock knock," he started again.
"Whose there?" I helped this time.
"Let me." He was making one up from scratch. Cute how kids don't really get the subtlety of the knock knock construct.
"Let me who?"
"Let me give daddy a hug and a kiss before I go to Chuck E. Cheese."
And he did.
I heard the truck fire up from the garage and thought the family was pulling out, when I heard the familiar footfalls of my five year old son Jackson clopping up the stairs.
"Daddy! " he gushed with excitement, "I have a good knock knock joke for you! Knock knock."
"Whose there," he answered himself, "Lettuce. Lettuce who? Lettuce go to Chuck E. Cheese!"
"Oh, that was very cute," I chuckled, rubbing his short brown hair, rife with all the same cowlicks as my own.
"Knock knock," he started again.
"Whose there?" I helped this time.
"Let me." He was making one up from scratch. Cute how kids don't really get the subtlety of the knock knock construct.
"Let me who?"
"Let me give daddy a hug and a kiss before I go to Chuck E. Cheese."
And he did.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Joy Ride
I'm forty years old, and still afraid to tell my dad what I'm about to tell you.
First, a little background. If you've read my blog so far, you've probably noticed a theme of underlying sadness, and may conclude that my life, at least in my estimation, has been one sorrow to the next. It's true that I yearned for a normal life, but in between the bad times there were some incredible moments that sometimes stretched for months, even years.
My dad. My incredible, adventurous, fearless, reckless, defiant and rebellious dad. Rules were for other men, and nothing was too immoral. His mind was like a prism that refracted life in all it's glorious color. There was nothing he couldn't do, and nothing he was afraid to try. For all the carnage he left in his wake, he made me the man I am today. He won't author any bestselling parenting books, but the man taught me to fly.
Mostly by reverse example. I credit a lucrative career and a wonderful marriage to a lifetime of eating Top Ramen and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, sleeping in the back of pickup trucks under leaky tarps, and playing Name That Step-mother.
But sometimes the old man was a lot of fun. When I was eleven, he called me from a bar in Hayden Lake, Idaho. Apparently there had been a police raid and he was twelve beers over his limit. He needed me to come get him. Dad had recently come into some money, and true to form, when dad had money, everybody had money or toys or both. He came home with a motorcycle trailer loaded with new bikes for myself, my six year old brother, and my step-mother Lorrie. His was a Suzuki 250, a very loud and very fast bike that I had been eyeballing for some time, but dad wouldn't let me touch.
"Now listen to me," he said, "you have to ride my motorcycle, because it's equipped for the road."
"You're kidding," I screamed.
"Now hold on a minute," he warned, "I'm absofuckinlutely serious here, so listen up!"
"Ok," I said meekly, but the excitement bubbling and he knew it.
"You drive the speed limit and don't attract any attention to yourself. Do you understand me?"
"No problem dad, speed limit, no attention. Got it. Be right there."
He paused. "I'm serious..."
"Ok," I said, feigning exasperation.
The bike was in the garage. I stepped onto the left peg and kicked my right leg over and sat down on the seat. Neither foot could reach the ground at the same time as the other. I turned the key on and kicked started the engine. One kick and it roared to life. I pulled the clutch and shifted it into first, then rocked the bike until it stood almost upright and let it rip. I flew out of the garage like I was shot from a cannon, leaned left and turned onto the street and opened it up, full throttle. What a rush.
Dad loves to tell the story today -- with grand embellishments, of course. Sure he was mad that he could hear me coming for blocks, or that I kicked up gravel in the parking lot as I skidded to a stop, but he was also proud of his boy, with a distinctly familiar irrespressible spirit.
So, back to the raison d'être. Jeez.
When I was fifteen, I was aching to drive a car. My dad had an old style Voltswagon Beetle, dark blue like a festering bruise. It was a small car and had a manual transmission, which I reasoned would not be unlike shifting a motorcycle. One night, when dad had been drinking and was definitely passed out for good, I decided to take it for a ride. It was probably one or two in the morning, and most of the world was comfortably numb. In those days, Juneau only had a few cops, and they weren't hard core like they are today, but still, even they would have found some fault in what I was doing, so I was scared to get caught for more than one reason.
I put the car in neutral and pushed it down the street a ways, fearing that dad would wake up to the distintive cough of old reliable's engine. I drove up the highway towards the Mendenhall Glacier. I was doing good for a while, until I turned too sharply and scraped the entire passenger side on a stop sign (that appeared out of nowhere, I swear!), clipping off the door handle and denting the rear tire well.
This is one of those times in life that I really wished I was dreaming, and for a moment I actually considered that it might be true. There were only two things certain in life, imminent death and taxes. Like Arnold Swartzeneger in Terminator, possible excuses were scrolling through my mind, but unlike Arny, I was shooting blanks. There wasn't anything more for me to do now but go home and meet my maker.
I acquired a full head of steam, turned the car off and coasted it in neutral for half a block and into my driveway. I snuck into my room and tried to sleep, which seemed like an eternity in the making.
"God dammit!" I bolted awake. Dad was having the expected reaction. Any minute now my bedroom door would implode. I only prayed that my death would come quickly. "Somebody wrecked the f$#^& car!"
The storm was collecting and the cloud was about to burst over my head, when there came a knock on the front door.
I ran to my bedroom door and put an ear to it. A woman who lived in the apartment across from us introduced herself, and said that she knew what happened to the car. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I'm so dead.
Then, the most amazing, most miraculous words came from her mouth. "Last night, I heard a car screeching in the driveway, and a loud crashing noise. I heard someone cussing, the slamming of a car door, then the squeal of tires. I ran to my window just in time to see a green station wagon fish-tailing out of the driveway and onto the street. I came out and saw the dents on your car."
I don't know if you believe in God, but that night, an angel arrived upon the Chinook wind and delivered me from the beating of a lifetime.
First, a little background. If you've read my blog so far, you've probably noticed a theme of underlying sadness, and may conclude that my life, at least in my estimation, has been one sorrow to the next. It's true that I yearned for a normal life, but in between the bad times there were some incredible moments that sometimes stretched for months, even years.
My dad. My incredible, adventurous, fearless, reckless, defiant and rebellious dad. Rules were for other men, and nothing was too immoral. His mind was like a prism that refracted life in all it's glorious color. There was nothing he couldn't do, and nothing he was afraid to try. For all the carnage he left in his wake, he made me the man I am today. He won't author any bestselling parenting books, but the man taught me to fly.
Mostly by reverse example. I credit a lucrative career and a wonderful marriage to a lifetime of eating Top Ramen and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, sleeping in the back of pickup trucks under leaky tarps, and playing Name That Step-mother.
But sometimes the old man was a lot of fun. When I was eleven, he called me from a bar in Hayden Lake, Idaho. Apparently there had been a police raid and he was twelve beers over his limit. He needed me to come get him. Dad had recently come into some money, and true to form, when dad had money, everybody had money or toys or both. He came home with a motorcycle trailer loaded with new bikes for myself, my six year old brother, and my step-mother Lorrie. His was a Suzuki 250, a very loud and very fast bike that I had been eyeballing for some time, but dad wouldn't let me touch.
"Now listen to me," he said, "you have to ride my motorcycle, because it's equipped for the road."
"You're kidding," I screamed.
"Now hold on a minute," he warned, "I'm absofuckinlutely serious here, so listen up!"
"Ok," I said meekly, but the excitement bubbling and he knew it.
"You drive the speed limit and don't attract any attention to yourself. Do you understand me?"
"No problem dad, speed limit, no attention. Got it. Be right there."
He paused. "I'm serious..."
"Ok," I said, feigning exasperation.
The bike was in the garage. I stepped onto the left peg and kicked my right leg over and sat down on the seat. Neither foot could reach the ground at the same time as the other. I turned the key on and kicked started the engine. One kick and it roared to life. I pulled the clutch and shifted it into first, then rocked the bike until it stood almost upright and let it rip. I flew out of the garage like I was shot from a cannon, leaned left and turned onto the street and opened it up, full throttle. What a rush.
Dad loves to tell the story today -- with grand embellishments, of course. Sure he was mad that he could hear me coming for blocks, or that I kicked up gravel in the parking lot as I skidded to a stop, but he was also proud of his boy, with a distinctly familiar irrespressible spirit.
So, back to the raison d'être. Jeez.
When I was fifteen, I was aching to drive a car. My dad had an old style Voltswagon Beetle, dark blue like a festering bruise. It was a small car and had a manual transmission, which I reasoned would not be unlike shifting a motorcycle. One night, when dad had been drinking and was definitely passed out for good, I decided to take it for a ride. It was probably one or two in the morning, and most of the world was comfortably numb. In those days, Juneau only had a few cops, and they weren't hard core like they are today, but still, even they would have found some fault in what I was doing, so I was scared to get caught for more than one reason.
I put the car in neutral and pushed it down the street a ways, fearing that dad would wake up to the distintive cough of old reliable's engine. I drove up the highway towards the Mendenhall Glacier. I was doing good for a while, until I turned too sharply and scraped the entire passenger side on a stop sign (that appeared out of nowhere, I swear!), clipping off the door handle and denting the rear tire well.
This is one of those times in life that I really wished I was dreaming, and for a moment I actually considered that it might be true. There were only two things certain in life, imminent death and taxes. Like Arnold Swartzeneger in Terminator, possible excuses were scrolling through my mind, but unlike Arny, I was shooting blanks. There wasn't anything more for me to do now but go home and meet my maker.
I acquired a full head of steam, turned the car off and coasted it in neutral for half a block and into my driveway. I snuck into my room and tried to sleep, which seemed like an eternity in the making.
"God dammit!" I bolted awake. Dad was having the expected reaction. Any minute now my bedroom door would implode. I only prayed that my death would come quickly. "Somebody wrecked the f$#^& car!"
The storm was collecting and the cloud was about to burst over my head, when there came a knock on the front door.
I ran to my bedroom door and put an ear to it. A woman who lived in the apartment across from us introduced herself, and said that she knew what happened to the car. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I'm so dead.
Then, the most amazing, most miraculous words came from her mouth. "Last night, I heard a car screeching in the driveway, and a loud crashing noise. I heard someone cussing, the slamming of a car door, then the squeal of tires. I ran to my window just in time to see a green station wagon fish-tailing out of the driveway and onto the street. I came out and saw the dents on your car."
I don't know if you believe in God, but that night, an angel arrived upon the Chinook wind and delivered me from the beating of a lifetime.
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