Whenever Uncle Ralph got a few too many drinks in him, he'd gather all us kids around and tell us the story about the time when he was in grade school waiting for the bus and saw a three dog sex chain: One dog giving it to another dog who was giving it to another dog.
"Most of my adult life, I've felt like that middle dog," he'd tell us. "Sure, some dog is giving it to me, but I'm giving it right back to some other dog."
Amen, Uncle Ralph. Amen.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
February 28 - Dammit, Johnson!
Dammit, Johnson! Stop doing everything people tell you to do.
Sorry, sir.
For the love of God, grow a pair, man. Grow a pair already. Stand up to me for once in your life.
Yes, sir.
Dammit, Johnson. You'd find a way to blow a wet dream if you could.
Sorry, sir.
Don't be sorry, man. Be assertive! Be an individual, Johnson. Forge your own path. I'm not always going to be around, you know. You're going to have to learn to make decisions for yourself. Do you think you can manage that, Johnson?
I think so, sir.
Good, Johnson. Very good. You'll start today. Standing up to authority is a most strapping way to establish your own character. You can practice with me, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
That's the spirit, Johnson. That's the stuff, old boy. You're well on your way. Now, I'm going to give you an order, and I expect you to refuse it. Can you do that Johnson?
Yes, sir.
No, sir. Understood, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! Do you stand to mock me?
No, sir. It's not that at all. I --I--
Yes? Well, what is it then, Johnson?
Well, sir. I don't know how to disobey you when you're telling me to disobey you.
Is it intentional, Johnson?
Sir?
This addle-mindedness, Johnson. Is it intentional?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Oh, never mind. Just disobey me, Johnson. Nothing could be simpler. Just refuse to do as I say. My God, man. A drooling imbecile could manage this task. Are you telling me that you are the lesser of an imbecile, Johnson? Is that what you're telling me?
No, sir. It's just that I--
Well then, get on with it, man.
No, sir.
I do beg your pardon!
I said no, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! You shall receive your weight in drubbings for this insubordination! Doubt whatever you will, Johnson, but do not doubt that.
Oh, hold on there. Ah, I see now. Very clever, old boy. Well played indeed, Johnson.
Thank you, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! Do wipe that insouciant grin off your mug.
Yes, sir.
I will not abide a grin. Not on my watch, Johnson. Not on my watch.
Of course not, sir.
All right then. Well now, where were we then?
Not doing everything I'm told to do, sir.
Ah, yes. Very good, Johnson. Smashing good. Now, what have we learned?
Sir?
Simple question, actually. What have we learned from this exercise, Johnson?
Um, the importance of standing up for myself and not doing everything I'm told to do, sir.
Outstanding, Johnson. Good show, man! Jolly good show!
Thank you, sir.
Right. Now, do be a good lad and fetch my smoking jacket.
Right away, sir.
Sorry, sir.
For the love of God, grow a pair, man. Grow a pair already. Stand up to me for once in your life.
Yes, sir.
Dammit, Johnson. You'd find a way to blow a wet dream if you could.
Sorry, sir.
Don't be sorry, man. Be assertive! Be an individual, Johnson. Forge your own path. I'm not always going to be around, you know. You're going to have to learn to make decisions for yourself. Do you think you can manage that, Johnson?
I think so, sir.
Good, Johnson. Very good. You'll start today. Standing up to authority is a most strapping way to establish your own character. You can practice with me, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
That's the spirit, Johnson. That's the stuff, old boy. You're well on your way. Now, I'm going to give you an order, and I expect you to refuse it. Can you do that Johnson?
Yes, sir.
No, sir. Understood, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! Do you stand to mock me?
No, sir. It's not that at all. I --I--
Yes? Well, what is it then, Johnson?
Well, sir. I don't know how to disobey you when you're telling me to disobey you.
Is it intentional, Johnson?
Sir?
This addle-mindedness, Johnson. Is it intentional?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Oh, never mind. Just disobey me, Johnson. Nothing could be simpler. Just refuse to do as I say. My God, man. A drooling imbecile could manage this task. Are you telling me that you are the lesser of an imbecile, Johnson? Is that what you're telling me?
No, sir. It's just that I--
Well then, get on with it, man.
No, sir.
I do beg your pardon!
I said no, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! You shall receive your weight in drubbings for this insubordination! Doubt whatever you will, Johnson, but do not doubt that.
Oh, hold on there. Ah, I see now. Very clever, old boy. Well played indeed, Johnson.
Thank you, sir.
Dammit, Johnson! Do wipe that insouciant grin off your mug.
Yes, sir.
I will not abide a grin. Not on my watch, Johnson. Not on my watch.
Of course not, sir.
All right then. Well now, where were we then?
Not doing everything I'm told to do, sir.
Ah, yes. Very good, Johnson. Smashing good. Now, what have we learned?
Sir?
Simple question, actually. What have we learned from this exercise, Johnson?
Um, the importance of standing up for myself and not doing everything I'm told to do, sir.
Outstanding, Johnson. Good show, man! Jolly good show!
Thank you, sir.
Right. Now, do be a good lad and fetch my smoking jacket.
Right away, sir.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
February 27 - Accident Free
Rhonda Peterson did a double take at the digital sign near the foreman's office in the warehouse: Accident free since September 23, 2009.
The date that day was September 21, 2009.
Once she had triple-checked that that day was in fact the 21st and that therefore the 23rd hadn't happened yet, she asked her foreman if the sign was wrong. He told her it must have been, but he didn't have time to look into it. She asked other people around the warehouse what the deal with the sign was, but nobody seemed interested.
A superstitious woman, Rhonda called in sick on the 23rd.
On that day, two things happened. Buzz Stallwell broke his ankle falling down the stairs near the break room, and the digital sign reset itself: Acccident free since November 15, 2009.
She wanted to point out to her co-workers that the sign had more or less predicted the accident that had occured on the 23rd, but she was afraid of what people would think about her. So instead, she again asked people what the deal with the sign was. A few people humored her and looked at it, but they wouldn't commit to saying anything substantive about it. They mostly frowned and shrugged.
"Yeah, that's weird" was about all anyone would say.
November 15 came, and Rhonda took a personal day.
When she went back to work on the 16th, she learned that on the previous day Maria Hernandez had broken her wrist in a press accident.
Rhonda looked at the sign. It had reset itself for January 4, 2010. This time she took a picture.
On January 4, Rhonda took an extra vacation day.
She returned to work on the 5th to hear that on the previous day Pete Anders had dislocated shoulder as a result of slipping on the ice around back near the dumpsters.
The sign near the foreman's office was now set for February 20, 2010.
Rhonda showed the pictures she had taken of the Accident free since January 4, 2o10 version of the sign to Dale Patterson, her foreman, but he just looked at her like she was crazy, which Rhonda knew she was not. Then she asked him who set the machine's Accident free since date, but he didn't know and nobody else seemed to either. The best anybody could come up with was that it set itself automatically. This made no sense to Rhonda, but didn't seem to bother anyone else.
What's more, nobody even knew where the sign had come from. It was just there and had been there as long as anyone could remember. Whoever had installed it was long gone.
With extreme caution, she looked closely at the sign and found the name of its manufacturer: Hargrove Electronics, Bristol Tennessee.
Nothing on Google.
Next to nothing anywhere on the Internet.
The only thing she found was an article from a 1989 archived edition of the Bristol Monitor saying how the Hargrove Electronics factory was closing down and going out of business.
During the days leading up to February 20, she broached the sign with a few of her friends, but she felt too stupid to put the hard sell on them. An electronic sign that could predict when the next accident would happen was something out of Stephen King. It was ridiculous, obviously it was ridiculous.
And yet . . .
February 2oth came. Rhonda called in sick and did research while Cindy Merchant broke her arm in the break room, and the sign reset itself for March 1, 2010.
Rhonda took a week off in late February and traveled to Bristol, Tennessee where it took her a lot of asking around--and a lot of suspicious looks from the locals--before she found the address for Hargrove Electronics. She drove out there in her rented car, but it was long gone. Burned down, from the looks of the lot. There wasn't much there but weeds, rubble, and blackened cinder blocks.
Most people in town wouldn't talk about it; the best she could cobble together from the bits and pieces of people things would say was that Hargrove Electronics had been the town's primary employer through much of the 80s, but it had gone out of business when it had to do a massive recall of its flagship product, the Accident free since ____ signs which were defective. Nobody could tell her in what way they were defective, and nobody could tell her what ever became of the owner of the company or why nobody else ever built on the land where Hargrove Electronics had once stood or if it even had in fact burned down. Nobody told her much of anything.
Rhonda went back to work that Monday and told Dale that she quit. The sign creeped her out and she didn't want to work there anymore, plain and simple. She felt bad not giving him two weeks' notice, but she'd made up her mind.
She cleaned out her locker, said goodbye to everyone, and headed for the door. Just before she got there, she turned around to flip off the sign, but she noticed that it had reset itself for April 18, 2010.
And that's the last thing she ever saw.
The date that day was September 21, 2009.
Once she had triple-checked that that day was in fact the 21st and that therefore the 23rd hadn't happened yet, she asked her foreman if the sign was wrong. He told her it must have been, but he didn't have time to look into it. She asked other people around the warehouse what the deal with the sign was, but nobody seemed interested.
A superstitious woman, Rhonda called in sick on the 23rd.
On that day, two things happened. Buzz Stallwell broke his ankle falling down the stairs near the break room, and the digital sign reset itself: Acccident free since November 15, 2009.
She wanted to point out to her co-workers that the sign had more or less predicted the accident that had occured on the 23rd, but she was afraid of what people would think about her. So instead, she again asked people what the deal with the sign was. A few people humored her and looked at it, but they wouldn't commit to saying anything substantive about it. They mostly frowned and shrugged.
"Yeah, that's weird" was about all anyone would say.
November 15 came, and Rhonda took a personal day.
When she went back to work on the 16th, she learned that on the previous day Maria Hernandez had broken her wrist in a press accident.
Rhonda looked at the sign. It had reset itself for January 4, 2010. This time she took a picture.
On January 4, Rhonda took an extra vacation day.
She returned to work on the 5th to hear that on the previous day Pete Anders had dislocated shoulder as a result of slipping on the ice around back near the dumpsters.
The sign near the foreman's office was now set for February 20, 2010.
Rhonda showed the pictures she had taken of the Accident free since January 4, 2o10 version of the sign to Dale Patterson, her foreman, but he just looked at her like she was crazy, which Rhonda knew she was not. Then she asked him who set the machine's Accident free since date, but he didn't know and nobody else seemed to either. The best anybody could come up with was that it set itself automatically. This made no sense to Rhonda, but didn't seem to bother anyone else.
What's more, nobody even knew where the sign had come from. It was just there and had been there as long as anyone could remember. Whoever had installed it was long gone.
With extreme caution, she looked closely at the sign and found the name of its manufacturer: Hargrove Electronics, Bristol Tennessee.
Nothing on Google.
Next to nothing anywhere on the Internet.
The only thing she found was an article from a 1989 archived edition of the Bristol Monitor saying how the Hargrove Electronics factory was closing down and going out of business.
During the days leading up to February 20, she broached the sign with a few of her friends, but she felt too stupid to put the hard sell on them. An electronic sign that could predict when the next accident would happen was something out of Stephen King. It was ridiculous, obviously it was ridiculous.
And yet . . .
February 2oth came. Rhonda called in sick and did research while Cindy Merchant broke her arm in the break room, and the sign reset itself for March 1, 2010.
Rhonda took a week off in late February and traveled to Bristol, Tennessee where it took her a lot of asking around--and a lot of suspicious looks from the locals--before she found the address for Hargrove Electronics. She drove out there in her rented car, but it was long gone. Burned down, from the looks of the lot. There wasn't much there but weeds, rubble, and blackened cinder blocks.
Most people in town wouldn't talk about it; the best she could cobble together from the bits and pieces of people things would say was that Hargrove Electronics had been the town's primary employer through much of the 80s, but it had gone out of business when it had to do a massive recall of its flagship product, the Accident free since ____ signs which were defective. Nobody could tell her in what way they were defective, and nobody could tell her what ever became of the owner of the company or why nobody else ever built on the land where Hargrove Electronics had once stood or if it even had in fact burned down. Nobody told her much of anything.
Rhonda went back to work that Monday and told Dale that she quit. The sign creeped her out and she didn't want to work there anymore, plain and simple. She felt bad not giving him two weeks' notice, but she'd made up her mind.
She cleaned out her locker, said goodbye to everyone, and headed for the door. Just before she got there, she turned around to flip off the sign, but she noticed that it had reset itself for April 18, 2010.
And that's the last thing she ever saw.
February 26 - Mountain Pass - Part II
Continued from yesterday
Over the course of our elephant trek, I discern the following:
1) I am now part of an opium caravan;Over the course of our elephant trek, I discern the following:
2) My hosts/captors are a hill tribe of no nation that travels freely between Thailand, Burma, and China;
3) It is unlikely that I will make it to my original destination any time soon, and4) I am surprisingly fine with this.
The elephants move very slowly and deliberately, the air up here is clear and clean, and my motion sickness is long gone. I have traded it for a lift from lawless drug runners and I feel like I have come ahead in the bargain.
My cell phone is gone, of course. Not that we would get a signal here anyway. I am not at all familiar with the jungle here, and my navigational skills are nonexistent. As escape is out of the question, I lean back and try to enjoy the ride.
We arrive at the drug runners' village shortly before dusk. There are bamboo and thatch huts, chickens running around, men and women smoking on hammocks. Three toddlers without pants play tag near a stack of AK47s. After a meal of roots and grubs that is way better than it has any right to be, I am brought to the hut of the village/gang's chief, a weathered old man with teeth stained red from betel nut--at least I hope that's where the stains are from.
A portable generator is powering a Coca Cola vending machine. One of the chief's men opens it and hands a cold can of RC to me and one to the chief.
It quickly becomes evident that neither of us speaks the other's language, but he gets to the point rather quickly, motioning to a satellite dish and a 36-inch plasma TV and miming confusion.Despite the impossibility of conventional conversation, we are able to make this agreement: I will use the English instruction manual they have to hook up their satellite dish in exchange for my freedom.
It takes a while. Days first, and then weeks. The satellite dish is a remarkably complicated piece of equipment, and I'm no engineer, but I gradually chip away at it.
On a surprisingly positive note, throughout my time in the village, the chief and his gang are wonderful and I never once feel threatened. Nobody ever points a gun at me, nor am I ever tempted to run. And it's not just because I wouldn't know where to go. It's because I'm genuinely enjoying being here. During the days, I work on the satellite. In the evenings, I practice their language and learn the intricacies of their cooking. Sometimes we also play volleyball. With our feet!
After three weeks, we get the satellite system online, and to celebrate, we make it a real event and take the TV outside so that everyone can see it, and it's pretty fantastic: sitting Indian style under a canopy of verdant old growth jungle, lightening bugs twinkling all around us. We watch sports highlights, an episode of The Simpsons (dubbed in Chinese) and CNN. And it is during the news that a map of Thailand is shown and then moments later, a picture of me. There are interviews in Thai that some of the drug runners can follow, and interviews with Americans that I understand.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the news story about my disappearance/abduction kind of kills the mood a bit, and I hate that my new friends look so visibly guilty. I try to tell them it's OK and that I'm not upset, but it's hard, especially since I haven't made a ton of progress with their language.It's clear, though, that they will be taking me back to familiarity the next day. When they load up the elephants the next morning, the whole village turns out to see me off. And I don't have much of a frame of reference as far as dealing with Southeast Asian drug runners is concerned, but I can't imagine meeting a kinder, gentler group of them. We exchange heartfelt goodbyes, and then a small band of us is on our way.
They drop me off a couple of kilometers from Sukhothai, my original destination all those weeks ago. Not wanting to be seen with me (for obvious reasons), they make a quick and anticlimactic exit. I watch them for as long as I can before they disappear completely into the trees and vines, and then I truly feel all alone.I know I'll never have friends like the ones I made in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Jesus, does anyone?
February 25 - Mountain Pass - Part I
The jungle mountain road from Mae Sot, Thailand to Sukhothai was clearly designed by a crack team of incorrigible sadists from a Thai prison for the criminally insane. It makes the most vomit inducing roller coaster you can imagine seem like a farming road through central Kansas by comparison. It pitches and dives and winds around blind corners. It screams through hairpin turns and double backs, and changes course as unpredictably as a 5-year-old Tourette's syndrome kid jacked full of Pixie Stix and set loose in FAO Schwartz. It's like some cruel son of a bitch of an engineer pulled a clump of hair out of Edward Scissorhands' hairbrush, gave it to the most addle brained interns he could find, and said, "Here is your blueprint. Make this into a road."
And they did.
I am on this road now. Although it is less than 150 kilometers long and the driver is attacking it like he's got a truckload of bleeding patients he needs to get to the emergency room, the trip is taking hours. Days.
Or maybe that's just my imagination. My sense of time is not to be trusted. The terror and carsickness I'm feeling as a result of being driven by a lunatic with a chip on his shoulder has left me exhausted, but I don't dare close my eyes. Every speck of concentration I can muster is locked on focusing on the road and keeping my breakfast down.
I'm sweaty and dizzy. My mouth is watering and I keep swallowing it back down and burping. The driver can see me in the rear view and it's clear that he'd enjoying it: another foreigner moments away from doing the big spit all over the back of the truck.
I can't take it anymore.
I have to get out of this truck.
I motion for him to pull over, and he does. Stumbling out of the truck, weak-kneed and trembling, I come inches from careening into a motorcycle passing by and it doesn't phase me. I stagger over to the grassy side of the road, put my hands on my knees, and brace myself for the inevitable torrent of sick, but instead I just collapse. And even splayed out on the ground, I'm so dizzy that I have to clutch desperately to exposed tree roots to stop myself from flying off the face of the earth.
After a few minutes, I dare a look back at the truck. The driver is on his cell laughing, and the other passengers are outside stretching their legs. They've taken this road before. I haven't.
"How you doing over there?" asks someone from the truck, sounding less like a concerned soul and more like an upperclassman laughing at a puking freshman who's had too much to drink.
"How much further?" is my answer.
There is some consultation.
"We're a little more than halfway there."
"I'll walk."
They laugh, but it's not a joke. I can't get back in that truck. I really can't. It takes them a while before they accept this. There are offers to slow down, offers to wait, offers of seasickness pills. But there's no way.
And eventually they agree.
They give me a cell phone, two bottles of water, and a map. I clutch it all, still curled up on the ground, hours away from having my equilibrium restored.
They offer me a few more last chances and then they leave me and I fall asleep.
When I wake up, it is still daylight, but I am no longer on the side of the road. I am high above the ground and it takes me more than a few panicked seconds to realize that I am on the back of an elephant.
The elephant is being guided by a leathery Asian woman who could be anywhere from 45 to 115 years old. Noticing that I'm awake, she flashes a toothless grin at me, strikes a match against her cheek, and lights a cigar.
Part II - Coming tomorrow!
And they did.
I am on this road now. Although it is less than 150 kilometers long and the driver is attacking it like he's got a truckload of bleeding patients he needs to get to the emergency room, the trip is taking hours. Days.
Or maybe that's just my imagination. My sense of time is not to be trusted. The terror and carsickness I'm feeling as a result of being driven by a lunatic with a chip on his shoulder has left me exhausted, but I don't dare close my eyes. Every speck of concentration I can muster is locked on focusing on the road and keeping my breakfast down.
I'm sweaty and dizzy. My mouth is watering and I keep swallowing it back down and burping. The driver can see me in the rear view and it's clear that he'd enjoying it: another foreigner moments away from doing the big spit all over the back of the truck.
I can't take it anymore.
I have to get out of this truck.
I motion for him to pull over, and he does. Stumbling out of the truck, weak-kneed and trembling, I come inches from careening into a motorcycle passing by and it doesn't phase me. I stagger over to the grassy side of the road, put my hands on my knees, and brace myself for the inevitable torrent of sick, but instead I just collapse. And even splayed out on the ground, I'm so dizzy that I have to clutch desperately to exposed tree roots to stop myself from flying off the face of the earth.
After a few minutes, I dare a look back at the truck. The driver is on his cell laughing, and the other passengers are outside stretching their legs. They've taken this road before. I haven't.
"How you doing over there?" asks someone from the truck, sounding less like a concerned soul and more like an upperclassman laughing at a puking freshman who's had too much to drink.
"How much further?" is my answer.
There is some consultation.
"We're a little more than halfway there."
"I'll walk."
They laugh, but it's not a joke. I can't get back in that truck. I really can't. It takes them a while before they accept this. There are offers to slow down, offers to wait, offers of seasickness pills. But there's no way.
And eventually they agree.
They give me a cell phone, two bottles of water, and a map. I clutch it all, still curled up on the ground, hours away from having my equilibrium restored.
They offer me a few more last chances and then they leave me and I fall asleep.
When I wake up, it is still daylight, but I am no longer on the side of the road. I am high above the ground and it takes me more than a few panicked seconds to realize that I am on the back of an elephant.
The elephant is being guided by a leathery Asian woman who could be anywhere from 45 to 115 years old. Noticing that I'm awake, she flashes a toothless grin at me, strikes a match against her cheek, and lights a cigar.
Part II - Coming tomorrow!
February 24 - Empty Seat
The subway seat next to Malik's was empty. Across from him, a woman was sitting and her boyfriend was standing. Malik figured if he switched seats with the woman, then she and her boyfriend could sit together.
He got the woman's attention and pointed at her. Then he pointed at his lap and then back at her. When she didn't respond right away, he pointed at himself and then at her, and then he grinded his palms together which was a gesture that meant "change" where he came from.
But that was not the meaning her boyfriend got.
"Oi!" he shouted, towering over Malik. "I don't know where you come off, but ain't nobody talks to my lady like that, yeah?"
What had escaped the man, of course, was that Malik hadn't talked in any way to his lady or to anyone else for that matter. He couldn't. Malik had no tongue. To make matters worse, Malik couldn't understand English.
However, what he lacked in verbal articulation skills, he more than made up for in his ability to pick up on body language and other nonverbal clues. And it was clear that the man in front of him was none too pleased, though Malik had no idea why.
In moments of duress, the usually dormant corner of Malik's brain that controlled his vocal cords would spring to life and attempt vocal communication, but all that would come out would be moans and grunts. These were what accompanied Malik's frantic repetition of the hand gestures that had originally gotten him in trouble with the man. They didn't help the situation now. In fact, the only thing they did do was help the man's girlfriend understand why he was so angry. By now, they were both yelling at him.
The train arrived at the next stop and Malik decided to get off, even though it wasn't his stop. He continued moaning as he pointed at the woman and then at himself and then used his pinky to penetrate an opening in his fist, for that was how people apologized where he came from.
"Oi! Get off the train, you right perverted ponce!" The boyfriend showered Malik with fists as he scrambled to exit the train.
For several minutes afterwards, Malik replayed the episode in his mind, trying to figure out what had happened, but it was beyond him. Eventually, he left the station and decided to walk the rest of the way home, treating himself to a popsicle on the way to soothe his vocal cords.
While waiting for a crosswalk, he noticed a woman watching him eat the popsicle. Always a generous man, Malik offered it to her by pointing at her and then at himself and then miming the act of sucking on the popsicle.
The beating he got from her boyfriend was even worse than the one he'd gotten on the train.
He got the woman's attention and pointed at her. Then he pointed at his lap and then back at her. When she didn't respond right away, he pointed at himself and then at her, and then he grinded his palms together which was a gesture that meant "change" where he came from.
But that was not the meaning her boyfriend got.
"Oi!" he shouted, towering over Malik. "I don't know where you come off, but ain't nobody talks to my lady like that, yeah?"
What had escaped the man, of course, was that Malik hadn't talked in any way to his lady or to anyone else for that matter. He couldn't. Malik had no tongue. To make matters worse, Malik couldn't understand English.
However, what he lacked in verbal articulation skills, he more than made up for in his ability to pick up on body language and other nonverbal clues. And it was clear that the man in front of him was none too pleased, though Malik had no idea why.
In moments of duress, the usually dormant corner of Malik's brain that controlled his vocal cords would spring to life and attempt vocal communication, but all that would come out would be moans and grunts. These were what accompanied Malik's frantic repetition of the hand gestures that had originally gotten him in trouble with the man. They didn't help the situation now. In fact, the only thing they did do was help the man's girlfriend understand why he was so angry. By now, they were both yelling at him.
The train arrived at the next stop and Malik decided to get off, even though it wasn't his stop. He continued moaning as he pointed at the woman and then at himself and then used his pinky to penetrate an opening in his fist, for that was how people apologized where he came from.
"Oi! Get off the train, you right perverted ponce!" The boyfriend showered Malik with fists as he scrambled to exit the train.
For several minutes afterwards, Malik replayed the episode in his mind, trying to figure out what had happened, but it was beyond him. Eventually, he left the station and decided to walk the rest of the way home, treating himself to a popsicle on the way to soothe his vocal cords.
While waiting for a crosswalk, he noticed a woman watching him eat the popsicle. Always a generous man, Malik offered it to her by pointing at her and then at himself and then miming the act of sucking on the popsicle.
The beating he got from her boyfriend was even worse than the one he'd gotten on the train.
Monday, February 22, 2010
February 23 - The Human Punching Bag
Story was he'd killed a man in the ring, but nobody could confirm that.
He'd served overseas in the navy, possibly the Philippines, but they kicked him out. Some people said it was for being crazy. Other people said it was for hitting an officer.
Either story would make sense.
Rumor had it he could break a cinder block with his bare fists, but he had to hit it a bunch of times. He was definitely a boxer, though. Boxed in the Midwest back in the '50s, before doing time in Kansas City for armed robbery.
At least that's what people said, but nobody knew for sure.
He was part of the circus for some time, but they kicked him out for drinking. Did other things for a while. Rodeo clown. Stuntman. Miner. But that was ages ago. He hadn't had a real job in years.
Most people figured he was homeless.
Sometimes you'd see him standing outside the day labor place in the morning, but mostly he made his money as a human punching bag. Nobody knew his name, so that's what people called him, the human punching bag. Give him a dollar and he'd let you hit him in the gut as hard as you wanted. Three bucks would get you a face shot. And if he didn't think you hit him hard enough, he would make you do it again. If he still didn't think you hit him hard enough, he wouldn't take your money.
But he wouldn't turn down a cigarette, especially if it was a Marlboro Red. Smokes were the only thing he ever accepted from people.
Everything else he earned or stole.
He drank Schlitz Malt Liquor. He'd down a quart of it, and then choose a direction and just run. Didn't matter that he was in his jeans and army jacket and boots. Didn't matter that he was drunk. He would just run until he sweated out all the alcohol. Then he'd take enough shots from people to get another quart so he could do it again.
One day he found religion.
But then he lost it again.
Rumor had it he had a grown up daughter in Scappoose, Oregon that he never saw anymore.
He was definitely missing his left pinky. People said he couldn't remember how he lost it.
Either way, he had more fingers than teeth.
A guy I knew said if you got close enough you could see lines on his face where his beard didn't grow because of scars.
He didn't have any friends. But he didn't seem to have any enemies either.
Nobody knew how long he'd been around town or where he came from.
People said he was wanted for breaking and entering in Nashville, Tennessee.
But nobody knew for sure.
He'd served overseas in the navy, possibly the Philippines, but they kicked him out. Some people said it was for being crazy. Other people said it was for hitting an officer.
Either story would make sense.
Rumor had it he could break a cinder block with his bare fists, but he had to hit it a bunch of times. He was definitely a boxer, though. Boxed in the Midwest back in the '50s, before doing time in Kansas City for armed robbery.
At least that's what people said, but nobody knew for sure.
He was part of the circus for some time, but they kicked him out for drinking. Did other things for a while. Rodeo clown. Stuntman. Miner. But that was ages ago. He hadn't had a real job in years.
Most people figured he was homeless.
Sometimes you'd see him standing outside the day labor place in the morning, but mostly he made his money as a human punching bag. Nobody knew his name, so that's what people called him, the human punching bag. Give him a dollar and he'd let you hit him in the gut as hard as you wanted. Three bucks would get you a face shot. And if he didn't think you hit him hard enough, he would make you do it again. If he still didn't think you hit him hard enough, he wouldn't take your money.
But he wouldn't turn down a cigarette, especially if it was a Marlboro Red. Smokes were the only thing he ever accepted from people.
Everything else he earned or stole.
He drank Schlitz Malt Liquor. He'd down a quart of it, and then choose a direction and just run. Didn't matter that he was in his jeans and army jacket and boots. Didn't matter that he was drunk. He would just run until he sweated out all the alcohol. Then he'd take enough shots from people to get another quart so he could do it again.
One day he found religion.
But then he lost it again.
Rumor had it he had a grown up daughter in Scappoose, Oregon that he never saw anymore.
He was definitely missing his left pinky. People said he couldn't remember how he lost it.
Either way, he had more fingers than teeth.
A guy I knew said if you got close enough you could see lines on his face where his beard didn't grow because of scars.
He didn't have any friends. But he didn't seem to have any enemies either.
Nobody knew how long he'd been around town or where he came from.
People said he was wanted for breaking and entering in Nashville, Tennessee.
But nobody knew for sure.
February 22 - Small World
Glenda Haelstrom pays her bill and leaves the TGI Fridays at DFW to catch her flight for Phoenix. Less than half a minute later, she realizes she's forgotten her laptop and runs back to get it. On her way out of the restaurant the second time, she runs into Leanne Stuart, an old friend she had gone to graduate school with.
Although they are both in a hurry to catch their flights, they chat for a few minutes and do a rapid fire update on where all their mutual acquaintances are.
As they are finishing up their conversation, they discover that they're actually both on the same flight--a flight that Leanne had been thinking about changing until the following morning, but decides to stay on since her friend is on it.
All the way to the gate, Glenda keeps going on about the odds of it all, and how if she hadn't forgotten her laptop they wouldn't have met up, and isn't that crazy.
Yes, Glenda. Crazy indeed. And not the first time, either. There have been plenty of other instances of just happening to be in the right place at the right time to run into an old friend, classmate, or colleague. It's happened to everyone. But what goes undocumented are all the times in history when people have barely missed happening upon each other: Poorly timed crosswalk lights, elevator arrivals, conclusions of conversations, and deliveries of restaurant checks that if they had gone just the teensiest bit differently would have produced dramatically different outcomes. In fact, they would have changed history.
Dig:
November 21, 1963: Martha Hayes stops to tie her shoes, setting in motion a long ripple of consequences that ultimately results in her not running into her old high school flame who at the time was actually thinking of her and still very much on the fence about whether or not he was going to go into a certain Dallas book depository. The man's name? Lee Harvey Oswald.
July 13, 1957: A young man in Liverpool leaves his flat to catch the bus, gets about five steps down the sidewalk, and realizes he's forgotten his wallet. That extra half minute is all that's needed to throw off the cosmic clock and prevent him from catching the bus that's carrying his old grade school friend who's just back from the States looking for someone to take the extra football ticket he's got on his hands. Instead, the man catches the next bus and takes it downtown where he happens to meet another young man named John who's interested in forming a band. The man's name? Paul McCartney.
May 1, 1879: A young man's attention is momentarily distracted by a hummingbird hovering on a tree. While he is looking the other way, he misses seeing his best friend from boarding school who has just returned from a whirlwind tour abroad where he became hooked on a wonderful drink called absinthe. By looking away at just the right instant, the man avoids running into him, eventually becoming hooked on absinthe himself, and, in doing so, robbing the world of the invention of the automobile. The man's name? Henry Ford.
I could go on and on, but the point is it happens. A lot. Yes, people run into people all the time. But they miss running into each other much more often.
But not Glenda. Not this time. This time Glenda times things just right and runs into her friend who in deciding to fly that night rather than the next day ends up taking the seat that would have gone to Ray Stiegler, who's flying stand-by.
The same Ray Stiegler whose number was in Glenda's cell phone when she lost it just days after meeting him and hitting it off with him at a sales conference in Indianapolis.
The same Ray Stiegler who'd also misplaced Glenda's business card at about the same time and kicked himself about it for weeks.
The same Ray Stiegler who would have been seated next to Glenda on that flight.
The same Ray Stiegler who she almost certainly would have ended up marrying and having three beautiful children with if only she hadn't forgotten her laptop.
Although they are both in a hurry to catch their flights, they chat for a few minutes and do a rapid fire update on where all their mutual acquaintances are.
As they are finishing up their conversation, they discover that they're actually both on the same flight--a flight that Leanne had been thinking about changing until the following morning, but decides to stay on since her friend is on it.
All the way to the gate, Glenda keeps going on about the odds of it all, and how if she hadn't forgotten her laptop they wouldn't have met up, and isn't that crazy.
Yes, Glenda. Crazy indeed. And not the first time, either. There have been plenty of other instances of just happening to be in the right place at the right time to run into an old friend, classmate, or colleague. It's happened to everyone. But what goes undocumented are all the times in history when people have barely missed happening upon each other: Poorly timed crosswalk lights, elevator arrivals, conclusions of conversations, and deliveries of restaurant checks that if they had gone just the teensiest bit differently would have produced dramatically different outcomes. In fact, they would have changed history.
Dig:
November 21, 1963: Martha Hayes stops to tie her shoes, setting in motion a long ripple of consequences that ultimately results in her not running into her old high school flame who at the time was actually thinking of her and still very much on the fence about whether or not he was going to go into a certain Dallas book depository. The man's name? Lee Harvey Oswald.
July 13, 1957: A young man in Liverpool leaves his flat to catch the bus, gets about five steps down the sidewalk, and realizes he's forgotten his wallet. That extra half minute is all that's needed to throw off the cosmic clock and prevent him from catching the bus that's carrying his old grade school friend who's just back from the States looking for someone to take the extra football ticket he's got on his hands. Instead, the man catches the next bus and takes it downtown where he happens to meet another young man named John who's interested in forming a band. The man's name? Paul McCartney.
May 1, 1879: A young man's attention is momentarily distracted by a hummingbird hovering on a tree. While he is looking the other way, he misses seeing his best friend from boarding school who has just returned from a whirlwind tour abroad where he became hooked on a wonderful drink called absinthe. By looking away at just the right instant, the man avoids running into him, eventually becoming hooked on absinthe himself, and, in doing so, robbing the world of the invention of the automobile. The man's name? Henry Ford.
I could go on and on, but the point is it happens. A lot. Yes, people run into people all the time. But they miss running into each other much more often.
But not Glenda. Not this time. This time Glenda times things just right and runs into her friend who in deciding to fly that night rather than the next day ends up taking the seat that would have gone to Ray Stiegler, who's flying stand-by.
The same Ray Stiegler whose number was in Glenda's cell phone when she lost it just days after meeting him and hitting it off with him at a sales conference in Indianapolis.
The same Ray Stiegler who'd also misplaced Glenda's business card at about the same time and kicked himself about it for weeks.
The same Ray Stiegler who would have been seated next to Glenda on that flight.
The same Ray Stiegler who she almost certainly would have ended up marrying and having three beautiful children with if only she hadn't forgotten her laptop.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
February 21 - Inner Monologue of a Beagle on a Rainy Afternoon
Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?
I am! I am! Oh, yes I am! Yes I am!
Yes, yes, yes! Scratch my belly. Oh sweet Jesus, scratch my belly! Yes, right there. Right there. You've got it. Oh God. Woman, you are a miracle worker. Don't ever stop. Don't you dare ever stop.
Wait!
What?
Squeaky toy! Oh God, and it's the hamburger!
Oh! My! God! And it's right there. Give it to me! Give it to me! If I don't get that squeaky toy in my mouth five seconds ago, my little beagle heart is going to explode!
Stop teasing me with it. You don't need it.
I do!
HA! She threw it!
Yeah, I got it! I got it!
Sure, here you go.
Crap! Why do I always do that? Work my ass off for that toy and then I can't wait to give it back to her.
Oh, that squeaking. You have no idea what that does to me. God, I swear if I ever get it again, I swear I'll hold onto it forever.
Wait.
There's that new word. She just used it again. New something.
What?
Coats?
Where's everybody going? I'll go! Count me in! I wanna go, I wanna go, I wanna go!
Oh no! No! No! Not the raincoat! No, you idiot! Don't put that raincoat on me. I'm a dog! My fur is made to repel water. All that stupid raincoat does is get in my way.
Plus it makes me look like a total douche!
I wanna go! I wanna go!
Take me, take me!
No coat. No coat! And there's that new word again. I can almost catch it.
What? No, I do not loving wearing that coat. Don't mistake my jumping for wanting to wear the coat. I'm a freaking beagle. I can't help it. Jumping is what we do. Whenever you go to the door or give me any attention or--especially--do anything remotely involving food, it sets me off. I have no control over it. Can't you understand that? I just react. I just--
Squeaky toy! Yes!
Damn it, I fell for it again. Now I'm wearing that ridiculous coat.
She just used that word again. It sounds like--
Whoah! I can go! I can go! I can go!
A ride in the car! I hope they open the windows!
I wonder what "neuter" means.
I am! I am! Oh, yes I am! Yes I am!
Yes, yes, yes! Scratch my belly. Oh sweet Jesus, scratch my belly! Yes, right there. Right there. You've got it. Oh God. Woman, you are a miracle worker. Don't ever stop. Don't you dare ever stop.
Wait!
What?
Squeaky toy! Oh God, and it's the hamburger!
Oh! My! God! And it's right there. Give it to me! Give it to me! If I don't get that squeaky toy in my mouth five seconds ago, my little beagle heart is going to explode!
Stop teasing me with it. You don't need it.
I do!
HA! She threw it!
Yeah, I got it! I got it!
Sure, here you go.
Crap! Why do I always do that? Work my ass off for that toy and then I can't wait to give it back to her.
Oh, that squeaking. You have no idea what that does to me. God, I swear if I ever get it again, I swear I'll hold onto it forever.
Wait.
There's that new word. She just used it again. New something.
What?
Coats?
Where's everybody going? I'll go! Count me in! I wanna go, I wanna go, I wanna go!
Oh no! No! No! Not the raincoat! No, you idiot! Don't put that raincoat on me. I'm a dog! My fur is made to repel water. All that stupid raincoat does is get in my way.
Plus it makes me look like a total douche!
I wanna go! I wanna go!
Take me, take me!
No coat. No coat! And there's that new word again. I can almost catch it.
What? No, I do not loving wearing that coat. Don't mistake my jumping for wanting to wear the coat. I'm a freaking beagle. I can't help it. Jumping is what we do. Whenever you go to the door or give me any attention or--especially--do anything remotely involving food, it sets me off. I have no control over it. Can't you understand that? I just react. I just--
Squeaky toy! Yes!
Damn it, I fell for it again. Now I'm wearing that ridiculous coat.
She just used that word again. It sounds like--
Whoah! I can go! I can go! I can go!
A ride in the car! I hope they open the windows!
I wonder what "neuter" means.
Friday, February 19, 2010
February 20 - Pumpkin
Four-year-old Melinda was always skittish around animals. Maybe it was because of the rottweiler who lived (and barked loudly) in the apartment next door. Maybe it was because Melinda and her parents, Bill and Vicki, lived in the city and she just wasn't used to animals. Whatever the case, Bill and Vicki were beginning to worry that she would never be comfortable enough with animals to have a pet, and having a pet was definitely an experience they wanted for her (and themselves). So shortly before her 5th birthday, they took her to visit Uncle Phil and Aunt Alice's farm to introduce her to ponies, baby lambs, chicks and the like.
It went well. In the morning they took her to the pen where they kept the sheep. Phil and Alice's 11-year-old son Roy picked up the smallest, cutest baby lamb he could find and carried it over to Melinda and her parents. Following their exaggerated encouragement and modeling, she cautiously pet the sheep and even laughed a bit when the sheep bleated softly.
Next came the chickens. The hens' darting eyes and clucking made her nervous, but she enjoyed the chicks. Roy let her hold one. She gripped it delicately in one hand and pet it with the other, and Bill and Vicki smiled.
After lunch they even managed to get her on the back of a portly Shetland pony named Rufus. She held on tight and concentrated harder than she needed to--Phil led the very gentle Rufus himself while Bill and Vicki flanked/spotted her with studied casualness. But the important thing was that she seemed to be OK with it.
By that time, it was mid-afternoon and they needed to start getting back home. Bill and Vicki talked with Phil and Alice while Melinda and Roy played nearby with the cats who lived in the horse barn.
Vicki went over to tell Melinda it was time to go home. Melinda turned around with one of the cats, a bright orange scamp she was already calling Pumpkin.
"Mom, can we keep her?" Pumpkin squirmed out of her hands and ran into the barn.
Vicki laughed. "Well, um--"
She turned around to look at Bill. A big part of this trip had been to lay the groundwork for getting Melinda comfortable with the idea of having an animal in the house. Bill shrugged and looked at Phil. "Um?"
"It's OK by us," said Alice. "You'd be doing us a favor. We've been looking for homes for them anyway."
"Yeah," said Phil. "The dogs don't get along well with them at all and they're getting to be a bit of a handful as far as taking care of them is concerned. If they don't find homes soon, we're gonna have to, uh, get rid of them." He looked at Bill as if to say, If you know what I mean.
Bill and Vicki looked at each other and then Vicki was about to give Melinda a talk about the responsibility of taking care of a pet, but then there was a small commotion in the barn.
Moments later, Pumpkin came back outside and spit a dead mouse out at Melinda's feet. Roy was elated.
"Aw, cool! Mom, dad, Pumpkin got herself a mouse!"
Bill and Vicki looked over at where Melinda was kneeling and looking at the mouse with what looked like shock. She looked over at her parents, confused, moments away from a meltdown. They stumbled on their words, no idea how to spin this one. Was it time to tell her about how nature worked and gently tell her that sometimes animals eat other animals even though they're cute? When was that lesson supposed to come? Not today, that's all they knew.
Roy kept gushing over Pumpkin. "Wow, you're lucky! Pumpkin's super cute and she's a super good worker! She's gonna keep your house nice and safe!" He picked up Pumpkin and rubbed her belly. "Aren't you, girl! Aren't you!"
He held Pumpkin so that Melinda could pet her, too.
Melinda reached out and gingerly pet Pumpkin's head, and Bill and Vicki could have hugged Roy for how deftly he'd saved the day.
"It's too bad dad says we'll have to kill the rest of the litter, but at least Pumpkin's gonna have a good home."
Melinda looked at her parents in horror.
And that afternoon, Melinda and her parents went home with not only Pumpkin, but also her five brothers and sisters as well.
It went well. In the morning they took her to the pen where they kept the sheep. Phil and Alice's 11-year-old son Roy picked up the smallest, cutest baby lamb he could find and carried it over to Melinda and her parents. Following their exaggerated encouragement and modeling, she cautiously pet the sheep and even laughed a bit when the sheep bleated softly.
Next came the chickens. The hens' darting eyes and clucking made her nervous, but she enjoyed the chicks. Roy let her hold one. She gripped it delicately in one hand and pet it with the other, and Bill and Vicki smiled.
After lunch they even managed to get her on the back of a portly Shetland pony named Rufus. She held on tight and concentrated harder than she needed to--Phil led the very gentle Rufus himself while Bill and Vicki flanked/spotted her with studied casualness. But the important thing was that she seemed to be OK with it.
By that time, it was mid-afternoon and they needed to start getting back home. Bill and Vicki talked with Phil and Alice while Melinda and Roy played nearby with the cats who lived in the horse barn.
Vicki went over to tell Melinda it was time to go home. Melinda turned around with one of the cats, a bright orange scamp she was already calling Pumpkin.
"Mom, can we keep her?" Pumpkin squirmed out of her hands and ran into the barn.
Vicki laughed. "Well, um--"
She turned around to look at Bill. A big part of this trip had been to lay the groundwork for getting Melinda comfortable with the idea of having an animal in the house. Bill shrugged and looked at Phil. "Um?"
"It's OK by us," said Alice. "You'd be doing us a favor. We've been looking for homes for them anyway."
"Yeah," said Phil. "The dogs don't get along well with them at all and they're getting to be a bit of a handful as far as taking care of them is concerned. If they don't find homes soon, we're gonna have to, uh, get rid of them." He looked at Bill as if to say, If you know what I mean.
Bill and Vicki looked at each other and then Vicki was about to give Melinda a talk about the responsibility of taking care of a pet, but then there was a small commotion in the barn.
Moments later, Pumpkin came back outside and spit a dead mouse out at Melinda's feet. Roy was elated.
"Aw, cool! Mom, dad, Pumpkin got herself a mouse!"
Bill and Vicki looked over at where Melinda was kneeling and looking at the mouse with what looked like shock. She looked over at her parents, confused, moments away from a meltdown. They stumbled on their words, no idea how to spin this one. Was it time to tell her about how nature worked and gently tell her that sometimes animals eat other animals even though they're cute? When was that lesson supposed to come? Not today, that's all they knew.
Roy kept gushing over Pumpkin. "Wow, you're lucky! Pumpkin's super cute and she's a super good worker! She's gonna keep your house nice and safe!" He picked up Pumpkin and rubbed her belly. "Aren't you, girl! Aren't you!"
He held Pumpkin so that Melinda could pet her, too.
Melinda reached out and gingerly pet Pumpkin's head, and Bill and Vicki could have hugged Roy for how deftly he'd saved the day.
"It's too bad dad says we'll have to kill the rest of the litter, but at least Pumpkin's gonna have a good home."
Melinda looked at her parents in horror.
And that afternoon, Melinda and her parents went home with not only Pumpkin, but also her five brothers and sisters as well.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
February 19 - Have a Brownie
Here. Have a brownie. I just baked them myself. Don't they smell good? Look at them. They look good enough to eat, don't they? Ha ha!
What? No, sir! I made these brownies from scratch. I used the same recipe my mom made when she made brownies for us when we were growing up: cocoa, sugar, eggs, oil, a little this, a little that.
Go on, don't be shy. They're not gonna bite. That's your job! Ha ha ha!
That's it. Put it in your mouth. Yes. Yes . . .
What's that? Nope. No nuts. Just moist, delicious brownies and nothing else. Nothing to give you an allergic reaction or have any other adverse effects on you. Gosh, you're a paranoid little nutter, aren't you? Ha ha.
Me? No, I'm stuffed. Couldn't eat another bite. No, my friend. These brownies are all for you. So, no more hesitation. I don't see you chewing! Ha ha!
What are you waiting for? Man, if it were me, I'd be halfway through my third one by now. You must have some will power!
Here, let me get you a glass of milk. Here. There you go. Now you don't have any more excuses. It's pretty simple, actually. You just put it in your mouth, take a bite, and chew it.
Go on. One little brownie's not gonna kill you.
What? No, sir! I made these brownies from scratch. I used the same recipe my mom made when she made brownies for us when we were growing up: cocoa, sugar, eggs, oil, a little this, a little that.
Go on, don't be shy. They're not gonna bite. That's your job! Ha ha ha!
That's it. Put it in your mouth. Yes. Yes . . .
What's that? Nope. No nuts. Just moist, delicious brownies and nothing else. Nothing to give you an allergic reaction or have any other adverse effects on you. Gosh, you're a paranoid little nutter, aren't you? Ha ha.
Me? No, I'm stuffed. Couldn't eat another bite. No, my friend. These brownies are all for you. So, no more hesitation. I don't see you chewing! Ha ha!
What are you waiting for? Man, if it were me, I'd be halfway through my third one by now. You must have some will power!
Here, let me get you a glass of milk. Here. There you go. Now you don't have any more excuses. It's pretty simple, actually. You just put it in your mouth, take a bite, and chew it.
Go on. One little brownie's not gonna kill you.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
February 18 - Fish Tacos
Mindy left before dawn, a few hours ahead of the support team as usual.
The Mexican heat quickly became brutal during that time of summer. From 11am - 3pm, riding was out of the question, so Mindy generally tried to log at least 20 - 25 miles before the midday siesta.
She was cycling the entire length of the Gulf of Mexico, having undertaken the project to raise awareness (and maybe eventually funds) for the plight of indigenous Mexican Indian fishermen who were being squeezed out of their territorial waters by international corporate fishing concerns. She'd heard about this issue at Reed the previous fall, and unlike most of her classmates, had decided to do something about it.
Joining her on her trip were Ziggy, Janet, and Rochelle, three other Reeders who followed her in a beat-up VW van they nicknamed Whitney (as in Houston, as in Mission Control) that carried all their camping equipment, cooking supplies, Mindy's laptop (she was blogging the trip), a GPS, and four iPods that collectively held enough music to provide the soundtrack for a yearlong trip, even though they would only be gone a month.
Every morning she left before dawn. Well, not every morning: the day after Janet's 20th birthday she got a late start and at 9am declared herself too hungover to continue. But on every other day she got up well before the sun to ride along the route they'd mapped out the night before and then wait for the others at a designated spot for lunch and a long nap. Then, at around 3 or 4, she would do the same thing, riding for a couple more hours before stopping for a swim and blogging in Whitney. Finally, after dinner (usually fish tacos and fruit) she would crash, get up the next morning, and do it again.
Although the first week was a bitch, now that she was well into her trip, she quite enjoyed the routine. Cycling was very calming in a way. And even though her novice Spanish skills hadn't progressed much, she felt a strong bond with the locals who gave her strange looks or laughed good-naturedly when she tried to tell them in jumbled Spanglish about why she was riding.
Mostly though, she felt good--good to be out there doing something someplace real. The endless expanse of deep blue water, the impossibly wide sky, the little fishing villages with simple shacks and corrugated tin roofs, the tejano cassettes playing in boomboxes inside taquerias, the starry nights, the sun bleached afternoons. It was fantastic.
At about 10:30 she reached the rendezvous, a hole in the wall cantina they'd found on Google Earth the night before. She leaned her bicycle against the cinder block wall and went inside.
Compared to the outside, the inside of the cantina was as dark as a cave and it took Mindy's eyes several seconds to adjust. There were six tables. One of them was occupied by four fishermen. There was a dusty bar on one side of the room and a broken pool table on the other. The room smelled like cigarette smoke, stale beer, and cement.
By the time Mindy's eyes had adjusted themselves to the relative dimness of the room, the fishermen had also adjusted to her presence in the cantina and had gone back to their conversations.
A heavyset bartender of indeterminate gender came to her table.
"Hola," Mindy chirped. "Tres pescado tacos por favor."
She held up three fingers then remembered that the others would arrive (probably hungry) relatively soon. "Oh, wait. Un momento. Uh, diez-dos tacos."
The bartender looked at Mindy blankly.
"Um. Diez dos? Twelve?" She flashed all ten fingers and then two. "Diez dos? Crap, I forgot how to--habla ingles? Twelve?"
The bartender said nothing. A couple of the fishermen turned around.
Mindy looked around at the fishermen and then at the bartender. "Um, mi amigos?" She pointed at the table. "Aqui. Mas pronto. So, diez-dos tacos? God, why can't I remember how to say twelve?" She looked at the fishermen. "Hola. Habla ingles?"
None of them answered her. Instead, the ones who had turned around stared at her and the other two said a couple of sentences to each other and then laughed. Then one of them said something to the bartender who yelled at him in return.
Moments later, the bartender turned to Mindy and spoke at her quickly and waited for her to respond.
Mindy's heart beat a little faster.
All the fishermen were looking at her.
Her mouth was dry.
"No entiendo. Um, yo--"
The bartender cut her off with a flurry of language that Mindy didn't even recognize as Spanish. A few words sounded familiar, but it all came out so fast that she couldn't be sure. The bartender seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Mindy had no idea what the question was.
She was about to speak when one of the fishermen tapped her on the shoulder. His fingers felt hard, dry, and smooth, like wood, and Mindy could smell the alcohol in his sweat and on his breath.
He said something to her in the same language the bartender had used. Maybe it was Spanish, but she couldn't be sure. She just wanted to forget the order.
"I don't--no entiendo. I. Crap, I--"
Another fisherman spoke at her and then the one who had tapped her on the shoulder laughed and said something in response.
Mindy tried a smile and then focused on the bartender again. "OK," she said waving her hands to erase everything else. "Just forget it. Tres tacos frio. I mean, pescado. Jesus"
The bartender left the dining area shaking his/her head.
Mindy could feel them staring at her for another minute before turning around to their table and murmuring quietly among themselves.
She looked around the room and then checked her watch: 10:39. The others were supposed to arrive by 11, but they were often late. She rubbed her legs and looked around the room again, feeling the fishermen stealing glances at her.
She checked her watch again.
Still 10:39.
The other table was quiet.
Mindy sat for a couple of minutes and did a better job at checking her watch on the sly than the fishermen did at checking her out on the sly.
She stood up and said to no one in particular. "Yo espero," she pointed to the door. "Outside."
She could feel their eyes on her the whole way, but she forced herself to walk casually.
Once she was outside, the sun was so bright that she had to clamp her eyes shut for a few seconds. The street was quiet and empty. There was nothing there: no other people, no cars, no buses, nothing.
When she gradually opened her eyes, she saw that one of the fishermen was walking her bike away from the cantina.
"Hey!"
He continued walking her bike.
"Hey!"
He said something she couldn't understand over his shoulder.
"Hey! Viene aqui!"
There was no reply from the fisherman.
The bartender came out and said something to her while the man continued walking her bike.
Mindy started to follow him, but the bartender grabbed her arm and repeated whatever it was that he/she had said.
"Hey, espero! I mean, Jesus. Espera! Hey! That's my bike! Come back here!"
The bartender tugged at her to come back inside.
"WAIT!"
She glared at the bartender.
"He's got my bicycle! I'll be with you in a minute!"
The bartender shouted at Mindy and two of the other fishermen came outside and everything happened very quickly. "No problema," one of them said as they pushed and pulled her back inside, where the cantina felt darker than a closet. Mindy could feel the fishermen around her pulling her inside. The air reeked of fish, alcohol and smoke. The man repeated, "No problema" again and again.
Mindy ripped herself free of the fishermen and began screaming at them. She was in panic mode, her eyes still unable to adjust to the darkness. She could feel their presence, their hands and arms and breath all around her, but everything was a blur. She screamed and swung at everything around her with both fists.
Suddenly, Ziggy, Janet, and Rochelle came running in and it was chaos as they adjusted to the darkness in the room. Mindy screamed. Ziggy's ears zeroed in on her screams and he punched his way through the fishermen to get to her while Janet and Rochelle punched and kicked and screamed.
The fishermen raised their arms to block their punches, but they didn't hit back.
Ziggy, Janet, Rochelle, and Mindy--their eyes now adjusted to the darkness in the cantina--clutched pool cues and empty bottles and put up a defensive stand.
Everything became very quiet.
The fishermen stared at them.
One of the fishermen laughed.
Behind them the bartender glared at them and then turned around to clean up the big platter of fish tacos that was now littered on the floor near the overturned table where Mindy had been sitting.
The fisherman who had taken Mindy's bicycle walked it through the entrance. It dripped water on the dusty cement floor and sparkled in the sunlight that shone through the entrance.
Mindy was crying. Rochelle and Janet comforted her.
"Jesus Christ," said Ziggy between breaths. "What the hell's the matter with you people? Are you crazy? Son loco?"
The fishermen ignored them. One of them helped the bartender while the rest of them returned to their seats.
"This woman here," he pointed at Mindy. "She's trying to help you. Don't you get that?"
Nobody was listening.
Rochelle and Janet had Mindy on her feet.
"Just forget it," Janet said. "Let's go."
And they loaded Mindy's bike into the back of Whitney, and drove away.
The Mexican heat quickly became brutal during that time of summer. From 11am - 3pm, riding was out of the question, so Mindy generally tried to log at least 20 - 25 miles before the midday siesta.
She was cycling the entire length of the Gulf of Mexico, having undertaken the project to raise awareness (and maybe eventually funds) for the plight of indigenous Mexican Indian fishermen who were being squeezed out of their territorial waters by international corporate fishing concerns. She'd heard about this issue at Reed the previous fall, and unlike most of her classmates, had decided to do something about it.
Joining her on her trip were Ziggy, Janet, and Rochelle, three other Reeders who followed her in a beat-up VW van they nicknamed Whitney (as in Houston, as in Mission Control) that carried all their camping equipment, cooking supplies, Mindy's laptop (she was blogging the trip), a GPS, and four iPods that collectively held enough music to provide the soundtrack for a yearlong trip, even though they would only be gone a month.
Every morning she left before dawn. Well, not every morning: the day after Janet's 20th birthday she got a late start and at 9am declared herself too hungover to continue. But on every other day she got up well before the sun to ride along the route they'd mapped out the night before and then wait for the others at a designated spot for lunch and a long nap. Then, at around 3 or 4, she would do the same thing, riding for a couple more hours before stopping for a swim and blogging in Whitney. Finally, after dinner (usually fish tacos and fruit) she would crash, get up the next morning, and do it again.
Although the first week was a bitch, now that she was well into her trip, she quite enjoyed the routine. Cycling was very calming in a way. And even though her novice Spanish skills hadn't progressed much, she felt a strong bond with the locals who gave her strange looks or laughed good-naturedly when she tried to tell them in jumbled Spanglish about why she was riding.
Mostly though, she felt good--good to be out there doing something someplace real. The endless expanse of deep blue water, the impossibly wide sky, the little fishing villages with simple shacks and corrugated tin roofs, the tejano cassettes playing in boomboxes inside taquerias, the starry nights, the sun bleached afternoons. It was fantastic.
At about 10:30 she reached the rendezvous, a hole in the wall cantina they'd found on Google Earth the night before. She leaned her bicycle against the cinder block wall and went inside.
Compared to the outside, the inside of the cantina was as dark as a cave and it took Mindy's eyes several seconds to adjust. There were six tables. One of them was occupied by four fishermen. There was a dusty bar on one side of the room and a broken pool table on the other. The room smelled like cigarette smoke, stale beer, and cement.
By the time Mindy's eyes had adjusted themselves to the relative dimness of the room, the fishermen had also adjusted to her presence in the cantina and had gone back to their conversations.
A heavyset bartender of indeterminate gender came to her table.
"Hola," Mindy chirped. "Tres pescado tacos por favor."
She held up three fingers then remembered that the others would arrive (probably hungry) relatively soon. "Oh, wait. Un momento. Uh, diez-dos tacos."
The bartender looked at Mindy blankly.
"Um. Diez dos? Twelve?" She flashed all ten fingers and then two. "Diez dos? Crap, I forgot how to--habla ingles? Twelve?"
The bartender said nothing. A couple of the fishermen turned around.
Mindy looked around at the fishermen and then at the bartender. "Um, mi amigos?" She pointed at the table. "Aqui. Mas pronto. So, diez-dos tacos? God, why can't I remember how to say twelve?" She looked at the fishermen. "Hola. Habla ingles?"
None of them answered her. Instead, the ones who had turned around stared at her and the other two said a couple of sentences to each other and then laughed. Then one of them said something to the bartender who yelled at him in return.
Moments later, the bartender turned to Mindy and spoke at her quickly and waited for her to respond.
Mindy's heart beat a little faster.
All the fishermen were looking at her.
Her mouth was dry.
"No entiendo. Um, yo--"
The bartender cut her off with a flurry of language that Mindy didn't even recognize as Spanish. A few words sounded familiar, but it all came out so fast that she couldn't be sure. The bartender seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Mindy had no idea what the question was.
She was about to speak when one of the fishermen tapped her on the shoulder. His fingers felt hard, dry, and smooth, like wood, and Mindy could smell the alcohol in his sweat and on his breath.
He said something to her in the same language the bartender had used. Maybe it was Spanish, but she couldn't be sure. She just wanted to forget the order.
"I don't--no entiendo. I. Crap, I--"
Another fisherman spoke at her and then the one who had tapped her on the shoulder laughed and said something in response.
Mindy tried a smile and then focused on the bartender again. "OK," she said waving her hands to erase everything else. "Just forget it. Tres tacos frio. I mean, pescado. Jesus"
The bartender left the dining area shaking his/her head.
Mindy could feel them staring at her for another minute before turning around to their table and murmuring quietly among themselves.
She looked around the room and then checked her watch: 10:39. The others were supposed to arrive by 11, but they were often late. She rubbed her legs and looked around the room again, feeling the fishermen stealing glances at her.
She checked her watch again.
Still 10:39.
The other table was quiet.
Mindy sat for a couple of minutes and did a better job at checking her watch on the sly than the fishermen did at checking her out on the sly.
She stood up and said to no one in particular. "Yo espero," she pointed to the door. "Outside."
She could feel their eyes on her the whole way, but she forced herself to walk casually.
Once she was outside, the sun was so bright that she had to clamp her eyes shut for a few seconds. The street was quiet and empty. There was nothing there: no other people, no cars, no buses, nothing.
When she gradually opened her eyes, she saw that one of the fishermen was walking her bike away from the cantina.
"Hey!"
He continued walking her bike.
"Hey!"
He said something she couldn't understand over his shoulder.
"Hey! Viene aqui!"
There was no reply from the fisherman.
The bartender came out and said something to her while the man continued walking her bike.
Mindy started to follow him, but the bartender grabbed her arm and repeated whatever it was that he/she had said.
"Hey, espero! I mean, Jesus. Espera! Hey! That's my bike! Come back here!"
The bartender tugged at her to come back inside.
"WAIT!"
She glared at the bartender.
"He's got my bicycle! I'll be with you in a minute!"
The bartender shouted at Mindy and two of the other fishermen came outside and everything happened very quickly. "No problema," one of them said as they pushed and pulled her back inside, where the cantina felt darker than a closet. Mindy could feel the fishermen around her pulling her inside. The air reeked of fish, alcohol and smoke. The man repeated, "No problema" again and again.
Mindy ripped herself free of the fishermen and began screaming at them. She was in panic mode, her eyes still unable to adjust to the darkness. She could feel their presence, their hands and arms and breath all around her, but everything was a blur. She screamed and swung at everything around her with both fists.
Suddenly, Ziggy, Janet, and Rochelle came running in and it was chaos as they adjusted to the darkness in the room. Mindy screamed. Ziggy's ears zeroed in on her screams and he punched his way through the fishermen to get to her while Janet and Rochelle punched and kicked and screamed.
The fishermen raised their arms to block their punches, but they didn't hit back.
Ziggy, Janet, Rochelle, and Mindy--their eyes now adjusted to the darkness in the cantina--clutched pool cues and empty bottles and put up a defensive stand.
Everything became very quiet.
The fishermen stared at them.
One of the fishermen laughed.
Behind them the bartender glared at them and then turned around to clean up the big platter of fish tacos that was now littered on the floor near the overturned table where Mindy had been sitting.
The fisherman who had taken Mindy's bicycle walked it through the entrance. It dripped water on the dusty cement floor and sparkled in the sunlight that shone through the entrance.
Mindy was crying. Rochelle and Janet comforted her.
"Jesus Christ," said Ziggy between breaths. "What the hell's the matter with you people? Are you crazy? Son loco?"
The fishermen ignored them. One of them helped the bartender while the rest of them returned to their seats.
"This woman here," he pointed at Mindy. "She's trying to help you. Don't you get that?"
Nobody was listening.
Rochelle and Janet had Mindy on her feet.
"Just forget it," Janet said. "Let's go."
And they loaded Mindy's bike into the back of Whitney, and drove away.
Monday, February 15, 2010
February 16 - The First Day as a Kindergarten Teacher for Alec Baldwin's Character From Glengarry Glen Ross
"Let me have your attention for a moment, because you're talking about--what--some boy pulls your hair, some girl calling you names, mommy will only buy the store brand cookies? Let's talk about something important.
"Put. That juice box. Down.
"Juice boxes are for kids that have five or more gold stars.
"You think I'm teasing you?
"I am not teasing you.
"Your name's Josh, right? You call yourself a kindergartner, you little clown?
"OK, OK. Don't cry. Maybe I'm teasing you a little bit. You can have a juice box, but honestly it wouldn't kill you to rack up some more gold stars. I mean, seriously kiddo.
"OK, where was I? Oh, you're smiling now? Think this is all a big joke? Well, go ahead and laugh all you want, because the good news is: You just lost your nap time. The bad news is you've got--all of you've got just one day to get your nap time back. Starting this afternoon. Starting with this afternoon's arts and crafts time.
"Oh. Have I got your attention now? Good. Because we're adding a little something to this spring's arts and crafts contest. As you know, first prize is a trip to Hershey Park. Anybody wanna see second prize?
"Second prize is a new box of Crayons.
"Third prize is no nap time.
"Get the picture?
"You've got arts and crafts materials. Schraeder Kindgarten paid good money for those materials. Use those materials to make pretty pictures for your moms and dads. It's pretty simple, you little stinkers. Make some art. Use your pencil to connect the lines that are dotted. And then color inside the lines. A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-coloring. Always be coloring. Always be coloring.
"Your parents are coming to this Spring Festival next weekend. You think they're coming because they want to get out the house? No! Your parents don't come to this festival except to see what you made them. Are you going to show them something good?
"Are you talented enough to show them something good?
"Looking around at what you've got on the bulletin boards, I have to doubt it. What's that you've got there on the wall, a sun with a smily face? Some little girl with a triangle torso and a dog with five legs? A fire engine with a face? A fire engine with a face?
"I can take the materials you have today and make myself something pretty. Can you?
"Can you?
"Go and do likewise, boys and girls. Make something pretty and your parents are going to be awfully proud of you. Don't, and you can guarantee that they'll always love you just a little bit less than your brothers and sisters.
"OK, now who's ready for a snack?"
"Put. That juice box. Down.
"Juice boxes are for kids that have five or more gold stars.
"You think I'm teasing you?
"I am not teasing you.
"Your name's Josh, right? You call yourself a kindergartner, you little clown?
"OK, OK. Don't cry. Maybe I'm teasing you a little bit. You can have a juice box, but honestly it wouldn't kill you to rack up some more gold stars. I mean, seriously kiddo.
"OK, where was I? Oh, you're smiling now? Think this is all a big joke? Well, go ahead and laugh all you want, because the good news is: You just lost your nap time. The bad news is you've got--all of you've got just one day to get your nap time back. Starting this afternoon. Starting with this afternoon's arts and crafts time.
"Oh. Have I got your attention now? Good. Because we're adding a little something to this spring's arts and crafts contest. As you know, first prize is a trip to Hershey Park. Anybody wanna see second prize?
"Second prize is a new box of Crayons.
"Third prize is no nap time.
"Get the picture?
"You've got arts and crafts materials. Schraeder Kindgarten paid good money for those materials. Use those materials to make pretty pictures for your moms and dads. It's pretty simple, you little stinkers. Make some art. Use your pencil to connect the lines that are dotted. And then color inside the lines. A-B-C. A-always, B-be, C-coloring. Always be coloring. Always be coloring.
"Your parents are coming to this Spring Festival next weekend. You think they're coming because they want to get out the house? No! Your parents don't come to this festival except to see what you made them. Are you going to show them something good?
"Are you talented enough to show them something good?
"Looking around at what you've got on the bulletin boards, I have to doubt it. What's that you've got there on the wall, a sun with a smily face? Some little girl with a triangle torso and a dog with five legs? A fire engine with a face? A fire engine with a face?
"I can take the materials you have today and make myself something pretty. Can you?
"Can you?
"Go and do likewise, boys and girls. Make something pretty and your parents are going to be awfully proud of you. Don't, and you can guarantee that they'll always love you just a little bit less than your brothers and sisters.
"OK, now who's ready for a snack?"
February 15 - Fart in an Elevator (Stinking it Up When I'm Going Down)
The elevator arrived and Walter got on.
It was empty, but whoever had just gotten off had left behind the nastiest, most demonic egg fart you could imagine. By the time Walter realized this, the doors had closed and he was trapped.
He breathed through his mouth and pressed the button for his floor.
The elevator stopped at the next floor, the doors opened, and a striking brunette Walter had seen around the building got on. Walter nodded awkwardly at her as her face registered a sudden awareness of The Presence.
She pressed the button for her floor and the elevator continued its way up. The ride was interminable and the silence excruciating.
Finally, Walter spoke up.
"Um, yeah. It wasn't me."
"Sorry?"
"I said," he said, moving his head around to refer to the fart without using the F-word,"it wasn't me."
"Oh."
"Awful, isn't it?"
Not turning around to look at him, she reread the cover of the report she held in her hands and then checked her watch. "Yeah."
"Who does that, you know? I mean, if you absolutely have to do, you know, that--I don't know, go to the restroom or, you know, do something. But don't do it on an elevator. I mean, you know?"
"Yeah," she said. "It's pretty rude."
Walter was beginning to feel emboldened. He'd found a kindred spirit, someone else who was anti-fart and unafraid to say so. And speaking of that fart, it had dissipated and was almost completely gone.
Walter cleared his throat and moved in to introduce himself, but the elevator arrived at her floor.
"Well, this is me." She chuckled a bit and then added, "Hang in there," before stepping off and walking down the hall.
Walter's eyes followed her as far as they could before the doors closed--not quite long enough to see where her office was, but at least he knew her floor. He smiled and started thinking of excuses to visit her floor again and run into her in the near future.
And it was a second or two after the doors had closed and the elevator had resumed its climb that Walter discovered that the evil egg fart smell was not just back, but back with a vengeance.
It was empty, but whoever had just gotten off had left behind the nastiest, most demonic egg fart you could imagine. By the time Walter realized this, the doors had closed and he was trapped.
He breathed through his mouth and pressed the button for his floor.
The elevator stopped at the next floor, the doors opened, and a striking brunette Walter had seen around the building got on. Walter nodded awkwardly at her as her face registered a sudden awareness of The Presence.
She pressed the button for her floor and the elevator continued its way up. The ride was interminable and the silence excruciating.
Finally, Walter spoke up.
"Um, yeah. It wasn't me."
"Sorry?"
"I said," he said, moving his head around to refer to the fart without using the F-word,"it wasn't me."
"Oh."
"Awful, isn't it?"
Not turning around to look at him, she reread the cover of the report she held in her hands and then checked her watch. "Yeah."
"Who does that, you know? I mean, if you absolutely have to do, you know, that--I don't know, go to the restroom or, you know, do something. But don't do it on an elevator. I mean, you know?"
"Yeah," she said. "It's pretty rude."
Walter was beginning to feel emboldened. He'd found a kindred spirit, someone else who was anti-fart and unafraid to say so. And speaking of that fart, it had dissipated and was almost completely gone.
Walter cleared his throat and moved in to introduce himself, but the elevator arrived at her floor.
"Well, this is me." She chuckled a bit and then added, "Hang in there," before stepping off and walking down the hall.
Walter's eyes followed her as far as they could before the doors closed--not quite long enough to see where her office was, but at least he knew her floor. He smiled and started thinking of excuses to visit her floor again and run into her in the near future.
And it was a second or two after the doors had closed and the elevator had resumed its climb that Walter discovered that the evil egg fart smell was not just back, but back with a vengeance.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
February 14 - Bittersweet
Late at night every February 14th, Robert, John, Stu, and Mark got together for drinks and stories of self loathing for having gotten rich off of Valentine's Day, a holiday they all patently despised yet all owed their well being to.
Robert wrote greeting card messages for Hallmark.
John was in charge of seasonal promotions (in particular, the Valentine's Weekend Getaway packages) for Sheraton, Inc.
Stu was a pianist who came to fame performing with Celine Dion.
Mark was a chocolatier.
Although the stories they shared were familiar--practically identical from year to year--it was good to share them with friends who could relate.
"Don't get me wrong," Robert said. "Valentine's Day has been very good to me. Very good to me. And I hate to appear ungrateful . . . BUT--"
The others laughed.
"Basically, when it comes to Valentine's Day and my wife, I'm screwed, just screwed. She doesn't believe anything romantic I tell her, and she hasn't for a really freaking long time. And it's like, what the hell does she want from me? I spend my entire work day spinning ultra-sweet maudlin pap for the masses, and then I gotta come home and just magically pull some genuine, unique, uber-romantic, never seen by other eyes except hers magic out of my ass? I love my wife, but forgive the high holy hell out of me for not being able to express my love in a wholly original fashion that I haven't already done in one of our cards. I mean, Jesus. I'll cook a romantic dinner for her, I'll buy her flowers, I'll do whatever's in my power to do. But words? No. Can't do it.
"The thing is, I totally get where she's coming from. Really, I do. You marry a greeting card writer, and it's not so crazy to expect to hear some nice sentimental shit at home every once in a while. And I used to try, but it quickly--very quickly--got to where I knew she didn't believe it. Not a word of it. She knew it wasn't stuff that was especially for her. It was stuff for her and millions--honestly, millions--of other women. Jesus, what does she want from me? In this business, you have to keep it kind of broad and general so it can appeal to as many different people as possible. When you get specific, it's no good. Anyway, something I said to her one time popped up in one of my cards. And yeah, that sucks--even more so because I couldn't remember if I'd said it to her first or if I'd written it for a card first. It all just kind of blurs together after a while, but that doesn't mean I don't mean it.
"So yeah, I got burned out on 'expressing my love verbally' and tried to go the 'show me, don't tell me' route with her, but yeah, good luck. Being married to a romantic writer who won't say romantic things to you is like dating a porn star who won't screw you."
"Jesus," said Stu.
"OK, maybe not that bad, but like, Mark. You were dating that massage therapist for a while, right?"
"Yeah?"
"And when you started dating her, were you all psyched about all the free massages you were going to be getting?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your question. I was too busy wondering whether I should be insulted or flattered that your next stop after porn star was my massage therapist ex-girlfriend."
Robert laughed. "Did you expect her to give you massages?"
"Well, yeah. Right?"
"You're a terrible, terrible man."
Everyone laughed.
"No," Mark said. "I know. I mean, it sucked. Everybody was always like, 'Oh, you must be getting free massages every night,' and it's like, 'No, not really.' I mean, yeah, she gave me a massage a few times when we first started going out, but it didn't take me long to figure out that she wasn't into it. I mean, that's her job. She doesn't want to do that shit when she gets home. "
"Thank you. That's what I'm trying to say. If you still have her number, please tell her to talk to my wife."
"Or you could hire her to give her a massage."
"Jesus, don't tempt me. She was hot if I remember correctly."
"Yes, she was."Robert wrote greeting card messages for Hallmark.
John was in charge of seasonal promotions (in particular, the Valentine's Weekend Getaway packages) for Sheraton, Inc.
Stu was a pianist who came to fame performing with Celine Dion.
Mark was a chocolatier.
Although the stories they shared were familiar--practically identical from year to year--it was good to share them with friends who could relate.
"Don't get me wrong," Robert said. "Valentine's Day has been very good to me. Very good to me. And I hate to appear ungrateful . . . BUT--"
The others laughed.
"Basically, when it comes to Valentine's Day and my wife, I'm screwed, just screwed. She doesn't believe anything romantic I tell her, and she hasn't for a really freaking long time. And it's like, what the hell does she want from me? I spend my entire work day spinning ultra-sweet maudlin pap for the masses, and then I gotta come home and just magically pull some genuine, unique, uber-romantic, never seen by other eyes except hers magic out of my ass? I love my wife, but forgive the high holy hell out of me for not being able to express my love in a wholly original fashion that I haven't already done in one of our cards. I mean, Jesus. I'll cook a romantic dinner for her, I'll buy her flowers, I'll do whatever's in my power to do. But words? No. Can't do it.
"The thing is, I totally get where she's coming from. Really, I do. You marry a greeting card writer, and it's not so crazy to expect to hear some nice sentimental shit at home every once in a while. And I used to try, but it quickly--very quickly--got to where I knew she didn't believe it. Not a word of it. She knew it wasn't stuff that was especially for her. It was stuff for her and millions--honestly, millions--of other women. Jesus, what does she want from me? In this business, you have to keep it kind of broad and general so it can appeal to as many different people as possible. When you get specific, it's no good. Anyway, something I said to her one time popped up in one of my cards. And yeah, that sucks--even more so because I couldn't remember if I'd said it to her first or if I'd written it for a card first. It all just kind of blurs together after a while, but that doesn't mean I don't mean it.
"So yeah, I got burned out on 'expressing my love verbally' and tried to go the 'show me, don't tell me' route with her, but yeah, good luck. Being married to a romantic writer who won't say romantic things to you is like dating a porn star who won't screw you."
"Jesus," said Stu.
"OK, maybe not that bad, but like, Mark. You were dating that massage therapist for a while, right?"
"Yeah?"
"And when you started dating her, were you all psyched about all the free massages you were going to be getting?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your question. I was too busy wondering whether I should be insulted or flattered that your next stop after porn star was my massage therapist ex-girlfriend."
Robert laughed. "Did you expect her to give you massages?"
"Well, yeah. Right?"
"You're a terrible, terrible man."
Everyone laughed.
"No," Mark said. "I know. I mean, it sucked. Everybody was always like, 'Oh, you must be getting free massages every night,' and it's like, 'No, not really.' I mean, yeah, she gave me a massage a few times when we first started going out, but it didn't take me long to figure out that she wasn't into it. I mean, that's her job. She doesn't want to do that shit when she gets home. "
"Thank you. That's what I'm trying to say. If you still have her number, please tell her to talk to my wife."
"Or you could hire her to give her a massage."
"Jesus, don't tempt me. She was hot if I remember correctly."
"OK," said Stu, changing the subject. "How about this one? Go to the Julliard, train classically, hone your jazz chops by touring with Wayne freaking Shorter--"
"Hone your jazz chops?" asked Mark.
"That's right. Hone the hell out of your jazz chops. Write your own compositions, score an independent film, and then try not to hate everyone in the world but especially yourself when all anybody wants to hear you play is the music of Celine Dion."
"Come on, Stu. Those are really pretty songs," said Mark.
If Stu recognized Mark's remark as the sarcasm it was intended to be, he didn't acknowledge it. "No, I know. I mean, I'm not going to be a total dick snob about it. Yes, I'll admit it. It's not a total fluke that her songs have done so well. They're obviously well-written and well-crafted and all the rest of it. And while I'm being magnanimous, let me just say how much I appreciate Celine letting my use them in my set."
"Very nice of her, Stu," said Mark.
"And totally in keeping with her character. Yes. There, I said it. Celine Dion is a nice person, and playing with her--"
"You got to 'play' with her?" asked Mark.
"--Performing with her has definitely put some high quality bread on my table, but come on. Playing Because You Loved Me, especially on Valentine's Day for a bunch of rich housewives and their probably hating every minute of it husbands wasn't exactly my famous musician fantasy when I was growing up."
"Wait a minute, Stu. Are you famous?" asked John.
"No, I'm not. But Celine Dion's pianist is."
"Celine Dion has a pianist? Jesus, is it bigger than mine?" asked John.
"Ha ha. But seriously, try to imagine life in my shoes: 46 years old, professional musician more than 25 years. And I'm unbelievably fortunate to be able to do this full-time. Seriously, I mean that. But no matter what else I do for the rest of my life, my legacy--if I have one--will be this."
He held up his CD, From Me to You: Stu Tolliver Plays the Music of Celine Dion.
"You've seen the little sticker in the corner, right?"
"Yes," John said. "'The pianist from Celine Dion's legendary Las Vegas show A New Day!' It's the exclamation point that does it for me."
"Holy shit is it bland, man. I hate that people hear this and think that's all I'm capable of."
"Well yeah, hate it all you want, but you'll be milking that puppy for years. As long as there are people out there who dig the schmaltzy love songs, you'll never go hungry," said Mark.
"It gets promoted heavily every Valentine's Day and it does well every Valentine's Day--unlike, oh, every other non-Celine Dion project I've ever been involved with. I think 'bittersweet' is the word you're going for."
"Yes, and that's a perfect segue into my complaints," started Mark.
"Bittersweet," said Robert. "You know, because he's a chocolate maker?"
"You mean chocolatier," said John with mock sophistication.
"OK, yeah. Let's start with that word: chocolatier. Pretty much the perfect combination of pretentious and gay. I feel like such a dick every time I use it. And I never get it right, by the way. Like, if I say 'chocolatier' inevitably whoever it is I'm talking to will look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, which they don't, so I have to explain it. But then if I say 'chocolate maker' they'll correct me, like, 'Don't you mean chocolatier?' Like they're so fucking worldly because they know that word or like they're way smarter than me because they know what my job title is but I don't. And it's like, 'Yeah, ass. I know that word, too. But maybe I don't feel like using it right now.'"
"Wait a minute, chocolatier means chocolate maker?" asked Robert.
Mark flipped him off and continued. "And yeah, I've done pretty well with it, but it's not exactly a noble calling, is it? Yeah, I bust my ass to come out with new shit every year--"
"Eww," said Robert.
Mark flipped him off again and kept going. "But it's not like I'm curing cancer. I'm making freaking chocolate--for rich people. It's not even like I'm putting smiles on kids' faces or some Willy Wonka shit. I'm making chocolate for a bunch of rich fucks. And it's not exactly easy either. Did you know that the number of chocolatiers in New York City has quadrupled in the last two years?"
"I did not know that," said Robert.
"I did," said John. "You didn't know that, Robert? Jesus."
Mark was now flipping everyone off with both hands. "My point is, you can't just keep coming out with the same basic crap every year like you used to. Now you've got all these new assholes coming in and coming out with all these ridiculous boutique chocolates: organic chocolates, floral chocolates, fucking wheat chocolates? What the fuck is that? And don't even get me started on all the European shit you can find online."
"I thought your online shop was doing pretty well," said Stu.
"It is, but it's a pain in the ass. This time of year, most of our business is mail order. Whole industry is changing. I mean, I shouldn't complain. We're doing well. Actually, we're doing really well, but still. It's a whole new set of headaches."
"Well, don't get me started on headaches," said John. "And the need for originality. And busting your hump catering to rich people. And having mixed feelings about Valentine's Day. And on and on and on and on and on. Instead, let me just say how freaking glad I am that Valentine's Weekend Getaway package season is over for another year."
"How'd that go, by the way?" asked Stu.
"Full occupancy in most of our branches. Very few cancellations. It helps when the big day is actually on the weekend. Gets people off the fence, you know?"
"And Michelle?" asked Mark.
"She's used to it by now. She knows this is my busy time, even though I know she's not crazy about being a Sheraton widow on Valentine's Day. As usual, we'll be celebrating next weekend. And as usual, I'll insist that it's more special that way since we're the only ones who do it that way."
"Where are you going this year?" asked Mark.
"Miami."
"Nice."
"Yeah, it'll be cool. We're leaving on Thursday. Can't wait."
"Best time of year," said Stu.
"For Miami?" asked John."Hone your jazz chops?" asked Mark.
"That's right. Hone the hell out of your jazz chops. Write your own compositions, score an independent film, and then try not to hate everyone in the world but especially yourself when all anybody wants to hear you play is the music of Celine Dion."
"Come on, Stu. Those are really pretty songs," said Mark.
If Stu recognized Mark's remark as the sarcasm it was intended to be, he didn't acknowledge it. "No, I know. I mean, I'm not going to be a total dick snob about it. Yes, I'll admit it. It's not a total fluke that her songs have done so well. They're obviously well-written and well-crafted and all the rest of it. And while I'm being magnanimous, let me just say how much I appreciate Celine letting my use them in my set."
"Very nice of her, Stu," said Mark.
"And totally in keeping with her character. Yes. There, I said it. Celine Dion is a nice person, and playing with her--"
"You got to 'play' with her?" asked Mark.
"--Performing with her has definitely put some high quality bread on my table, but come on. Playing Because You Loved Me, especially on Valentine's Day for a bunch of rich housewives and their probably hating every minute of it husbands wasn't exactly my famous musician fantasy when I was growing up."
"Wait a minute, Stu. Are you famous?" asked John.
"No, I'm not. But Celine Dion's pianist is."
"Celine Dion has a pianist? Jesus, is it bigger than mine?" asked John.
"Ha ha. But seriously, try to imagine life in my shoes: 46 years old, professional musician more than 25 years. And I'm unbelievably fortunate to be able to do this full-time. Seriously, I mean that. But no matter what else I do for the rest of my life, my legacy--if I have one--will be this."
He held up his CD, From Me to You: Stu Tolliver Plays the Music of Celine Dion.
"You've seen the little sticker in the corner, right?"
"Yes," John said. "'The pianist from Celine Dion's legendary Las Vegas show A New Day!' It's the exclamation point that does it for me."
"Holy shit is it bland, man. I hate that people hear this and think that's all I'm capable of."
"Well yeah, hate it all you want, but you'll be milking that puppy for years. As long as there are people out there who dig the schmaltzy love songs, you'll never go hungry," said Mark.
"It gets promoted heavily every Valentine's Day and it does well every Valentine's Day--unlike, oh, every other non-Celine Dion project I've ever been involved with. I think 'bittersweet' is the word you're going for."
"Yes, and that's a perfect segue into my complaints," started Mark.
"Bittersweet," said Robert. "You know, because he's a chocolate maker?"
"You mean chocolatier," said John with mock sophistication.
"OK, yeah. Let's start with that word: chocolatier. Pretty much the perfect combination of pretentious and gay. I feel like such a dick every time I use it. And I never get it right, by the way. Like, if I say 'chocolatier' inevitably whoever it is I'm talking to will look at me like they have no idea what I'm talking about, which they don't, so I have to explain it. But then if I say 'chocolate maker' they'll correct me, like, 'Don't you mean chocolatier?' Like they're so fucking worldly because they know that word or like they're way smarter than me because they know what my job title is but I don't. And it's like, 'Yeah, ass. I know that word, too. But maybe I don't feel like using it right now.'"
"Wait a minute, chocolatier means chocolate maker?" asked Robert.
Mark flipped him off and continued. "And yeah, I've done pretty well with it, but it's not exactly a noble calling, is it? Yeah, I bust my ass to come out with new shit every year--"
"Eww," said Robert.
Mark flipped him off again and kept going. "But it's not like I'm curing cancer. I'm making freaking chocolate--for rich people. It's not even like I'm putting smiles on kids' faces or some Willy Wonka shit. I'm making chocolate for a bunch of rich fucks. And it's not exactly easy either. Did you know that the number of chocolatiers in New York City has quadrupled in the last two years?"
"I did not know that," said Robert.
"I did," said John. "You didn't know that, Robert? Jesus."
Mark was now flipping everyone off with both hands. "My point is, you can't just keep coming out with the same basic crap every year like you used to. Now you've got all these new assholes coming in and coming out with all these ridiculous boutique chocolates: organic chocolates, floral chocolates, fucking wheat chocolates? What the fuck is that? And don't even get me started on all the European shit you can find online."
"I thought your online shop was doing pretty well," said Stu.
"It is, but it's a pain in the ass. This time of year, most of our business is mail order. Whole industry is changing. I mean, I shouldn't complain. We're doing well. Actually, we're doing really well, but still. It's a whole new set of headaches."
"Well, don't get me started on headaches," said John. "And the need for originality. And busting your hump catering to rich people. And having mixed feelings about Valentine's Day. And on and on and on and on and on. Instead, let me just say how freaking glad I am that Valentine's Weekend Getaway package season is over for another year."
"How'd that go, by the way?" asked Stu.
"Full occupancy in most of our branches. Very few cancellations. It helps when the big day is actually on the weekend. Gets people off the fence, you know?"
"And Michelle?" asked Mark.
"She's used to it by now. She knows this is my busy time, even though I know she's not crazy about being a Sheraton widow on Valentine's Day. As usual, we'll be celebrating next weekend. And as usual, I'll insist that it's more special that way since we're the only ones who do it that way."
"Where are you going this year?" asked Mark.
"Miami."
"Nice."
"Yeah, it'll be cool. We're leaving on Thursday. Can't wait."
"Best time of year," said Stu.
"Actually, for everywhere. Valentine's Weekend Getaways are finished. Robert, you're done dealing with love messages for a while. Mark, you can concentrate on non-heart shaped chocolates, and I can play--I don't know--non-Celine Dion related music." He lifted his glass. "To the end of the season."
They all clinked glasses and--now that they were done complaining about Valentine's Day--started bitching about the Knicks.
They all clinked glasses and--now that they were done complaining about Valentine's Day--started bitching about the Knicks.
Friday, February 12, 2010
February 13 - After Happily Ever After: What Happens After the Endings of Various Romantic Comedies
Splash - Allen and Madison seem like they're headed for a wonderful life together under the sea; however, Madison's friends, none of whom speak a word of English, freaking hate Allen. He has a hell of a time learning Mermaidese, Madison gets tired of translating everything for him, and the sex is pretty much godawful because from the waist down she's a fucking fish.
Sleepless in Seattle - Deciding that ditching your fiance on a whim to stalk a guy you've never met isn't exactly the kind of behavior he's looking for in a life partner, Sam drops Annie like a bag of bad habits, becomes the president of a chain of mega-bookstores, and, in an absurdly complicated barrage of plot twists, ends up falling for an independent bookstore owner who looks exactly like Annie.
Dirty Dancing - Everyone is all smiles when Johnny Castle and Baby are having the time of their lives on the last night of the season at Kellerman's Resort. But nobody is smiling a year later when Baby's father shows up at the Kellerman's practice studio stinking drunk and on the warpath. As far as catch phrases go, "Nobody knocks up Baby" may never catch on like "Nobody puts Baby in the corner," but it sure makes an impression on the dirty dancers who are on hand to hear Baby's dad say it just before he clocks Johnny in the jaw.
Pretty Woman - What does the princess do after the prince rescues her? She gives him the clap and then unceremoniously takes the red eye back to LA and goes back to work.
16 Candles - Jake and Samantha stay together until the fall, but then Jake goes off to the University of Illinois where he spends the next four years taking care of plenty of hot, hot sorority ass. Samantha tries to rebound with Farmer Ted, but he's too busy making millions in software design. The Donger also gives her a miss, and she ends up marrying Farmer Ted's friend Bryce. But seeing as how Bryce is played by John Cusak, hey, not bad, Samantha.
Shallow Hal - The good news? Hal finally learns to accept the morbidly obese Rosemary for the beautiful-on-the-inside person she is. The bad news? Hal's acceptance of who she is only serves to enable her breathtakingly unhealthy lifestyle, and it'll be a shock if she hasn't been hospitalized for heart disease by the time you finish reading this story.
Say Anything - Diane Court goes away to college and tries to play the "open relationship/see other people" card, but Lloyd Dobbler ain't having it. Diane's roommates are less than enchanted when Lloyd shows up at her dorm and does his In Your Eyes boombox shtick. It takes five police officers to subdue him and he ends up getting 18 months for assault. However, the silver lining to this cloud is that Lloyd becomes the kickboxing champion of the county joint. So, you know, there's that.
Sleepless in Seattle - Deciding that ditching your fiance on a whim to stalk a guy you've never met isn't exactly the kind of behavior he's looking for in a life partner, Sam drops Annie like a bag of bad habits, becomes the president of a chain of mega-bookstores, and, in an absurdly complicated barrage of plot twists, ends up falling for an independent bookstore owner who looks exactly like Annie.
Dirty Dancing - Everyone is all smiles when Johnny Castle and Baby are having the time of their lives on the last night of the season at Kellerman's Resort. But nobody is smiling a year later when Baby's father shows up at the Kellerman's practice studio stinking drunk and on the warpath. As far as catch phrases go, "Nobody knocks up Baby" may never catch on like "Nobody puts Baby in the corner," but it sure makes an impression on the dirty dancers who are on hand to hear Baby's dad say it just before he clocks Johnny in the jaw.
Pretty Woman - What does the princess do after the prince rescues her? She gives him the clap and then unceremoniously takes the red eye back to LA and goes back to work.
16 Candles - Jake and Samantha stay together until the fall, but then Jake goes off to the University of Illinois where he spends the next four years taking care of plenty of hot, hot sorority ass. Samantha tries to rebound with Farmer Ted, but he's too busy making millions in software design. The Donger also gives her a miss, and she ends up marrying Farmer Ted's friend Bryce. But seeing as how Bryce is played by John Cusak, hey, not bad, Samantha.
Shallow Hal - The good news? Hal finally learns to accept the morbidly obese Rosemary for the beautiful-on-the-inside person she is. The bad news? Hal's acceptance of who she is only serves to enable her breathtakingly unhealthy lifestyle, and it'll be a shock if she hasn't been hospitalized for heart disease by the time you finish reading this story.
Say Anything - Diane Court goes away to college and tries to play the "open relationship/see other people" card, but Lloyd Dobbler ain't having it. Diane's roommates are less than enchanted when Lloyd shows up at her dorm and does his In Your Eyes boombox shtick. It takes five police officers to subdue him and he ends up getting 18 months for assault. However, the silver lining to this cloud is that Lloyd becomes the kickboxing champion of the county joint. So, you know, there's that.
February 12 - Storybook Romance
Oh God, I've made a terrible mistake, thought Sid.
But it was too late. The ball was already rolling, the plan set in motion. There was no turning back.
He'd put together a surprise party for Cindy's 31st birthday, or as he put it on the icing he'd ordered for her cake, the 10th anniversary of her 21st birthday. All of their friends, plus a lot of Cindy's had turned out to the Brooklyn loft that Sid and Cindy had shared since last November. The publishing world was well-represented of course, as were artists of both the established and the up and coming/struggling variety. There were plenty of indie rockers, hipsters, models, etc., too. In short, it was exactly the kind of crowd that always made Sid feel self conscious both because of and despite the fact that he was not just successful, but wildly successful in what few could disagree was a cool/artistic field: writing. But even still, he always felt several rungs beneath this crowd on the credibility ladder. Whereas the rest of the writers in this group trafficked in design magazines, graphic novels, online music zines, and Tweeted short stories, he created pop-up books--and not quirky, edgy alterna-pop-up books like the ones approved of by the hipsteratti on hand that night. No. His were unabashedly, unambiguously mainstream: The Topper Twin series. You've probably seen them at Costco or Sam's Club: The Topper Twins Go to the Zoo, The Topper Twins Go to the City, The Topper Twins Go Trick or Treating, etc. Over the course of a series that counted 23 titles (so far), the Topper Twins had gone pretty much everywhere, but especially to the bank. They'd made it more than possible for Sid to write full time and finance the expensive and expansive loft filled with Cool People he was all but convinced didn't approve of his craft.
Whenever he and Cindy would hang out at a publishing event--which was often, given his job and Cindy's position at Random House--he was pretty sure he knew how The Wiggles must have felt at music industry functions. Or not. For all Sid knew, maybe The Wiggles were perfectly comfortable with the obscene amounts of money they made by using their talents for something so unapologetically Made for Kids.
If so, he envied them. For whatever reason, he always felt the need to scoff at his success, and in a way he did. He definitely didn't have an attitude about it. He knew he was lucky and that there were plenty of other people out there who were perfectly capable of doing what he did, but he was the one who'd been blessed with the winning ticket in the publishing lottery. He always felt like he didn't deserve it, like he hadn't suffered enough for it. Whereas lots of other people there that night were struggling to just get something published, he'd pretty much hit a home run his first time at bat, and had been batting 1.000 ever since. How could people not resent him?
But he knew Cindy liked the group, and in fairness, some of them were OK, but a big party like the one he was hosting wouldn't be the way he would choose to celebrate his birthday. A nice unpretentious dinner with Cindy would be perfect for him. But that would have to wait until July, if they were still together then--hell, if they were still together at the end of the evening.
Meanwhile, Cindy was opening her presents and she had saved Sid's for last. He was nervous to the point of nausea as she picked up the flat package and shook it next to her ear for comedic effect. Everyone laughed and Sid managed something that passed for a smile. "It's a puppy," he said but nobody heard him.
She opened it, registered delight and surprise, and showed it to the rest of the guests: Cindy and Sid Go on a Date. He had made her a pop-up book.
Before he could stop her, she opened it up to the first spread and showed it to everyone like a first grade teacher showing the pictures of a storybook to the class: It was a faithfully rendered replica of the children's room at the main branch of the New York City Public Library, the place where Sid and Cindy had first met when he was doing publicity for The Topper Twins Go to the Park.
His stomach doing a gymnastics floor exercise, Sid forced a smile as Cindy read from the page: "Sid, the super famous, super fabulous children's book writer (He was going for self deprecation via overly fawning self glorification) was on the final leg of an intensely wanky book promotion tour when the most amazing creature in the universe caught his eye." Cindy pulled a lever and a big heart skittered across the page from a cutout photo of Sid to a cutout photo of Cindy.
Although the mixture of laughs and aws were more than he'd allowed himself to hope for when making the book, it was impossible for him to enjoy the moment. He knew what was coming.
It continued with Cindy excruciatingly reading aloud Sid's recounting of their courtship: Their first date (represented in the book by a canoe that could be dragged across a pond), their trip to San Fran (shown in the book by a plane that rose up from one side of the spread (NYC) and then descended onto the other side (San Fran)), and several other relationship milestones. And through it all, Cindy was game. She laughed where she was supposed to laugh and looked touched when she was supposed to.
And yet Sid felt carsick as she made her way inexorably to the end of the book. He knew the whole thing had been a big mistake. He wanted to rip the book out of her hands and save it for a more private moment, but instead he just stood there as she turned to the last page.
A folded up version of Sid popped up and into a kneeling position. In his hands, the folded up Sid clutched Sid's grandmother's diamond engagement ring. Beneath him, the caption read, "Happily ever after?"
Cindy was frozen. The laughter that Sid was sure would come didn't. Instead, all of the oxygen was sucked out of the room by the 50-plus hipster elite who all gasped simultaneously.
Sid swallowed.
His knees trembled.
He couldn't speak.
She said yes.
But it was too late. The ball was already rolling, the plan set in motion. There was no turning back.
He'd put together a surprise party for Cindy's 31st birthday, or as he put it on the icing he'd ordered for her cake, the 10th anniversary of her 21st birthday. All of their friends, plus a lot of Cindy's had turned out to the Brooklyn loft that Sid and Cindy had shared since last November. The publishing world was well-represented of course, as were artists of both the established and the up and coming/struggling variety. There were plenty of indie rockers, hipsters, models, etc., too. In short, it was exactly the kind of crowd that always made Sid feel self conscious both because of and despite the fact that he was not just successful, but wildly successful in what few could disagree was a cool/artistic field: writing. But even still, he always felt several rungs beneath this crowd on the credibility ladder. Whereas the rest of the writers in this group trafficked in design magazines, graphic novels, online music zines, and Tweeted short stories, he created pop-up books--and not quirky, edgy alterna-pop-up books like the ones approved of by the hipsteratti on hand that night. No. His were unabashedly, unambiguously mainstream: The Topper Twin series. You've probably seen them at Costco or Sam's Club: The Topper Twins Go to the Zoo, The Topper Twins Go to the City, The Topper Twins Go Trick or Treating, etc. Over the course of a series that counted 23 titles (so far), the Topper Twins had gone pretty much everywhere, but especially to the bank. They'd made it more than possible for Sid to write full time and finance the expensive and expansive loft filled with Cool People he was all but convinced didn't approve of his craft.
Whenever he and Cindy would hang out at a publishing event--which was often, given his job and Cindy's position at Random House--he was pretty sure he knew how The Wiggles must have felt at music industry functions. Or not. For all Sid knew, maybe The Wiggles were perfectly comfortable with the obscene amounts of money they made by using their talents for something so unapologetically Made for Kids.
If so, he envied them. For whatever reason, he always felt the need to scoff at his success, and in a way he did. He definitely didn't have an attitude about it. He knew he was lucky and that there were plenty of other people out there who were perfectly capable of doing what he did, but he was the one who'd been blessed with the winning ticket in the publishing lottery. He always felt like he didn't deserve it, like he hadn't suffered enough for it. Whereas lots of other people there that night were struggling to just get something published, he'd pretty much hit a home run his first time at bat, and had been batting 1.000 ever since. How could people not resent him?
But he knew Cindy liked the group, and in fairness, some of them were OK, but a big party like the one he was hosting wouldn't be the way he would choose to celebrate his birthday. A nice unpretentious dinner with Cindy would be perfect for him. But that would have to wait until July, if they were still together then--hell, if they were still together at the end of the evening.
Meanwhile, Cindy was opening her presents and she had saved Sid's for last. He was nervous to the point of nausea as she picked up the flat package and shook it next to her ear for comedic effect. Everyone laughed and Sid managed something that passed for a smile. "It's a puppy," he said but nobody heard him.
She opened it, registered delight and surprise, and showed it to the rest of the guests: Cindy and Sid Go on a Date. He had made her a pop-up book.
Before he could stop her, she opened it up to the first spread and showed it to everyone like a first grade teacher showing the pictures of a storybook to the class: It was a faithfully rendered replica of the children's room at the main branch of the New York City Public Library, the place where Sid and Cindy had first met when he was doing publicity for The Topper Twins Go to the Park.
His stomach doing a gymnastics floor exercise, Sid forced a smile as Cindy read from the page: "Sid, the super famous, super fabulous children's book writer (He was going for self deprecation via overly fawning self glorification) was on the final leg of an intensely wanky book promotion tour when the most amazing creature in the universe caught his eye." Cindy pulled a lever and a big heart skittered across the page from a cutout photo of Sid to a cutout photo of Cindy.
Although the mixture of laughs and aws were more than he'd allowed himself to hope for when making the book, it was impossible for him to enjoy the moment. He knew what was coming.
It continued with Cindy excruciatingly reading aloud Sid's recounting of their courtship: Their first date (represented in the book by a canoe that could be dragged across a pond), their trip to San Fran (shown in the book by a plane that rose up from one side of the spread (NYC) and then descended onto the other side (San Fran)), and several other relationship milestones. And through it all, Cindy was game. She laughed where she was supposed to laugh and looked touched when she was supposed to.
And yet Sid felt carsick as she made her way inexorably to the end of the book. He knew the whole thing had been a big mistake. He wanted to rip the book out of her hands and save it for a more private moment, but instead he just stood there as she turned to the last page.
A folded up version of Sid popped up and into a kneeling position. In his hands, the folded up Sid clutched Sid's grandmother's diamond engagement ring. Beneath him, the caption read, "Happily ever after?"
Cindy was frozen. The laughter that Sid was sure would come didn't. Instead, all of the oxygen was sucked out of the room by the 50-plus hipster elite who all gasped simultaneously.
Sid swallowed.
His knees trembled.
He couldn't speak.
She said yes.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
February 11 - Metro Story
Brian found a seat on the Metro, opened his laptop, and started working on his report, but was soon distracted by the perfume of the woman sitting next to him. He stole a glance at her. She was young, Japanese, and good looking, though not in an intimidating way--approachably attractive.
Even still, Brian wasn't one for starting conversations with strangers, especially not in Tokyo where his goals of learning Japanese had stalled out somewhere after chapter 2 of Japanese for Busy People. He'd long since gotten used to the idea of keeping to himself in public places. Besides, it's what everybody else there seemed to do, so he gave himself points for being culturally appropriate, and logged it in his book as a victory.
However, the woman sitting next to him smelled good. He tried to work on his report, but it was hard to concentrate. He began typing: Our third quarter earnings have surpassed even our most modest projections primarily because the woman sitting next to me smells so unbelievably good.
He chanced a look at her and could have sworn he detected a trace of a smile. He continued typing.
Other factors include increased brand awareness, strong launches in new markets, and the way her hair sets off her eyes.
He wasn't exactly sure what that line meant, but he liked both her hair and her eyes so it seemed to him a good way to combine the two. He looked out the corner of his eye and there was another hint of a smile, accompanied by a casual, almost subliminal twirl of her hair and--it wasn't just his imagination--a surreptitious glance his way.
More typing: Another reason could be the possibility that she can read and understand English.
He almost winced a bit at being so forward and tipping his hand, but this time there was definitely a smile. There was no mistaking it. And then a split second of eye contact between them.
I wonder what her name is.
She gave him another smile, making no attempt to hide it, but she didn't volunteer a name.
Maybe she's shy?
She smiled again and shook her head. Then after a couple of seconds of eye contact, she pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
He returned to the keyboard. She--His fingers paused over the keys while he tried to think of the most sensitive way to articulate what he thought she meant, and then he went with the simplest and most direct--cannot speak.
She confirmed this by smiling.
He looked at her and pointed at his ears. She shook her head again.
He decided against typing deaf mute because he wasn't sure if that was the polite way of saying it. Besides, it didn't seem necessary: What else could she mean?
The train was getting close to his stop. He typed quickly.
She knows sign language, of course.
She nodded.
And if she can read English, she can probably type it, too.
She nodded again.
And she would probably like nothing better than to email a guy she met on the Metro whose name is Brian and who she thinks is pretty cute.
She looked around the subway car a moment before pointing at the old man sleeping across the aisle, as if to say You mean him?
All this and a sense of humor.
She laughed a bit.
Can you read lips?
She shook her head, then reconsidered and gave him a so-so gesture.
The fact that he wasn't speaking out loud had an emboldening effect on Brian. It enabled him to be more direct and blunt than he would normally have been. That, along with his impending stop, pushed him to be more brazenly flirtatious. He whispered an overly enunciated, "I think you are totally cute."
She laughed a bit and mouthed, "Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."
He hadn't completely understood her, but her expression indicated that it was something good, so he smiled, maybe a bit too much. But she'd seen overcompensating smiles before, so she clarified herself by pointing at him and then holding up two fingers and mouthing, "You too."
They arrived at his stop.
All around them, people stood up and moved toward the door. It opened and the people by the door pushed their way off and were replaced by the people crowding on the platform. The doors remained open a few seconds longer. Brian's body tensed up, but other than that he didn't move.
The doors closed and the train pulled out of the station.
He typed: That was my stop.
She pointed at herself and held up two fingers again, and they both laughed, and that's how it started. Brian and Moeka (She had to type it for him after mouthing it three times without him being able to understand it) quickly became a couple. On their dates, they each brought their laptops and communicated via MSN Messenger. When that quickly got too unwieldy, they took turns typing on the same computer. It was faster, plus it gave them a chance to sit closer.
Brian soon begain studying Japanese sign language and with Moeka's help he progressed a lot further and faster than he had with conversational Japanese.
It was the smoothest, most stress-free relationship either of them had ever had. Moeka's friends in Tokyo's Deaf community were very welcoming and encouraging toward Brian, and Brian's friends likewise took to Moeka. Not that it mattered too much. They preferred to spend their time together, just the two of them--cooking, reading, writing, signing, and dancing (Moeka could feel the rhythm). Moeka was happy, and so was Brian.
All those years, all the sayings and cliches about love were wrong. Love wasn't blind. It was deaf.
Even still, Brian wasn't one for starting conversations with strangers, especially not in Tokyo where his goals of learning Japanese had stalled out somewhere after chapter 2 of Japanese for Busy People. He'd long since gotten used to the idea of keeping to himself in public places. Besides, it's what everybody else there seemed to do, so he gave himself points for being culturally appropriate, and logged it in his book as a victory.
However, the woman sitting next to him smelled good. He tried to work on his report, but it was hard to concentrate. He began typing: Our third quarter earnings have surpassed even our most modest projections primarily because the woman sitting next to me smells so unbelievably good.
He chanced a look at her and could have sworn he detected a trace of a smile. He continued typing.
Other factors include increased brand awareness, strong launches in new markets, and the way her hair sets off her eyes.
He wasn't exactly sure what that line meant, but he liked both her hair and her eyes so it seemed to him a good way to combine the two. He looked out the corner of his eye and there was another hint of a smile, accompanied by a casual, almost subliminal twirl of her hair and--it wasn't just his imagination--a surreptitious glance his way.
More typing: Another reason could be the possibility that she can read and understand English.
He almost winced a bit at being so forward and tipping his hand, but this time there was definitely a smile. There was no mistaking it. And then a split second of eye contact between them.
I wonder what her name is.
She gave him another smile, making no attempt to hide it, but she didn't volunteer a name.
Maybe she's shy?
She smiled again and shook her head. Then after a couple of seconds of eye contact, she pointed at her mouth and shook her head.
He returned to the keyboard. She--His fingers paused over the keys while he tried to think of the most sensitive way to articulate what he thought she meant, and then he went with the simplest and most direct--cannot speak.
She confirmed this by smiling.
He looked at her and pointed at his ears. She shook her head again.
He decided against typing deaf mute because he wasn't sure if that was the polite way of saying it. Besides, it didn't seem necessary: What else could she mean?
The train was getting close to his stop. He typed quickly.
She knows sign language, of course.
She nodded.
And if she can read English, she can probably type it, too.
She nodded again.
And she would probably like nothing better than to email a guy she met on the Metro whose name is Brian and who she thinks is pretty cute.
She looked around the subway car a moment before pointing at the old man sleeping across the aisle, as if to say You mean him?
All this and a sense of humor.
She laughed a bit.
Can you read lips?
She shook her head, then reconsidered and gave him a so-so gesture.
The fact that he wasn't speaking out loud had an emboldening effect on Brian. It enabled him to be more direct and blunt than he would normally have been. That, along with his impending stop, pushed him to be more brazenly flirtatious. He whispered an overly enunciated, "I think you are totally cute."
She laughed a bit and mouthed, "Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."
He hadn't completely understood her, but her expression indicated that it was something good, so he smiled, maybe a bit too much. But she'd seen overcompensating smiles before, so she clarified herself by pointing at him and then holding up two fingers and mouthing, "You too."
They arrived at his stop.
All around them, people stood up and moved toward the door. It opened and the people by the door pushed their way off and were replaced by the people crowding on the platform. The doors remained open a few seconds longer. Brian's body tensed up, but other than that he didn't move.
The doors closed and the train pulled out of the station.
He typed: That was my stop.
She pointed at herself and held up two fingers again, and they both laughed, and that's how it started. Brian and Moeka (She had to type it for him after mouthing it three times without him being able to understand it) quickly became a couple. On their dates, they each brought their laptops and communicated via MSN Messenger. When that quickly got too unwieldy, they took turns typing on the same computer. It was faster, plus it gave them a chance to sit closer.
Brian soon begain studying Japanese sign language and with Moeka's help he progressed a lot further and faster than he had with conversational Japanese.
It was the smoothest, most stress-free relationship either of them had ever had. Moeka's friends in Tokyo's Deaf community were very welcoming and encouraging toward Brian, and Brian's friends likewise took to Moeka. Not that it mattered too much. They preferred to spend their time together, just the two of them--cooking, reading, writing, signing, and dancing (Moeka could feel the rhythm). Moeka was happy, and so was Brian.
All those years, all the sayings and cliches about love were wrong. Love wasn't blind. It was deaf.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
February 10 - Transcript from the All Things Considered Story about Teros
Melissa Block: You're listening to All Things Considered. I'm Melissa Block.
Robert Siegel: And I'm Robert Seigel. It's been called the Relationship Paradox: When you're a single man or woman actively looking for that special someone, it can be next to impossible to get someone's attention, much less their interest. But once you're in a relationship, all of a sudden, attractive would be suitors can't leave you alone. They're interested in your stories, laughing at your jokes--and it's all without you putting forth any effort at all. It's a conundrum that has confounded people and frustrated singles for decades, but researchers at Stanford University may have discovered the chemistry behind chemistry. Steve Inskeep has this report.
Steve Inskeep (voiceover): Two identical twins walk into a bar. One of them is married, the other one single. Which one of them will women be more interested in? No, it's not the set-up for a bad joke, it's the scenario that Doctor Yusuf Ahmedov of Stanford University's Biomedical Research Center uses to explain the science of attraction.
Dr. Yusuf Ahmedov: In almost every case, women will be more attracted to, more drawn to, the married man.
SI: Even though everything else about the two men is exactly the same.
YA: Exactly the same, that's right.
SI (voiceover): If you're confused, then chances are you haven't been to a singles bar in a long time. But if you yourself are unattached and on the market, the story might be more familiar: You're in good shape, attractive, witty. You have a good job and people seem to like you, and yet--no luck with the opposite sex. Oh sure you might get some interest here or there, but overall it's an uphill climb. Now, jump ahead six months. You're in a relationship and things are going well. You're off the market and now all of a sudden--
YA: Women are all over you (laughs).
SI (voiceover): Well, maybe not all over you, but at least much more interested in you than before. The only thing is, now you're with somebody, you're happy, and you're not looking, begging the question: Where were these women when you were single and looking for them? According to Doctor Ahmedov, you shouldn't take it too personally. It's not you, it's them. Well, it's not exactly them either. It's both of you--or something like that. I'll let Dr. Ahmedov explain.
YA: It is chemistry, pure and simple. When you are in a relationship, your body recognizes this and it prepares itself on all levels--on the cellular level, the hormonal level, the psychological level, all levels--for procreation. Although members of the opposite sex may not be consciously aware of your romantic involvement, they do have hormonal receptors that recognize it when a potential mate is engaged. And they respond accordingly.
SI (voiceover): By engaged he doesn't mean to be married, although that is sometimes the case. No, what he means is biologically engaged--as in preparing for reproduction. Or in layman's terms--
YA: Ready to make babies (laughs).
SI (voiceover): When this happens our bodies go through many changes, a fact we've all been aware of since our middle school days when the boys had to go with the male gym teacher and the girls had to go with the female gym teacher and we all watched embarrassing movies about puberty. But what is new in this case is the discovery of how quickly these changes take place--well before you are even thinking about having children. According to Dr. Ahmedov, once you have more or less made a mental commitment to someone, your body begins manufacturing and emitting an unusual pheromone that Dr. Ahmedov and his Stanford colleagues have taken to calling the Teros pheromone not because it's terrifying--though to some it might be--but because it combines territoriality with eros--or love for those of you unfamiliar with Greek. The message this pheromone sends is, "I'm spoken for, romantically speaking."
YA: The peculiar thing about the Teros pheromone is its complexity. Its primary function is to serve as a signal to your mate that you are at least to some degree on a track toward reproduction. However, sometimes this message is intercepted by other potential partners. Now we'll talk about this in terms of women receiving the signal from men, although it also applies to men receiving it from women. First of all, before we get into the Teros effect, a man who is attached is more likely to be aloof and cool because they are not actively looking for a partner. This always makes them more of an intriguing challenge and thus awakens in women a kind of competitive instinct. However, on a deeper, more primal and pheromonal level, the women--again, on a level they are probably not aware of--perceive the man as someone who is effectively reaching out and sending signals. And even though those signals may not be meant for them, they can be very hard to resist.
SI (voiceover) Prompting the question, is there any way for singles to generate this pheromone? Dr. Ahmedov believes so, as do researchers at Pfizer who are developing a synthetic version of Teros they hope to have on the shelves by 2012. They see huge potential for a prescribed or even over-the-counter version of the attraction pheromone. Dr. Gail Roberts is the head of research and development for Pfizer.
Dr. Gail Roberts: Oh, it's a game changer, no doubt about it. This will give single people everywhere the chance to carry themselves with swagger and confidence, knowing that people are just going to be naturally attracted to them.
SI (voiceover): Which inevitably raises a thorny ethical issue: Is it fair? Is it manipulative and misleading? Is it, for lack of a better word, false advertising? Dr. Roberts says no.
GR: (laughing) Of course not. I would put Teros in the same category as a toupee or breast implants. Are these things completely accurate representations of who we are? Of course not. But I think people recognize that and they also recognize that none of these things in and of themselves is going to land you a partner. That's up to you. However, they will get someones's attention. After that, it's up to you.
SI: All's fair in love and war?
GR: (laughing) I don't know if I would go that far, but what we're ultimately talking about it something that will help bring people together. And how could that not be a good thing?
SI (voiceover): Singles of the world, you've been warned. For All Things Considered, I'm Steve Inskeep.
Outro music: Love Potion #9
Robert Siegel: And I'm Robert Seigel. It's been called the Relationship Paradox: When you're a single man or woman actively looking for that special someone, it can be next to impossible to get someone's attention, much less their interest. But once you're in a relationship, all of a sudden, attractive would be suitors can't leave you alone. They're interested in your stories, laughing at your jokes--and it's all without you putting forth any effort at all. It's a conundrum that has confounded people and frustrated singles for decades, but researchers at Stanford University may have discovered the chemistry behind chemistry. Steve Inskeep has this report.
Steve Inskeep (voiceover): Two identical twins walk into a bar. One of them is married, the other one single. Which one of them will women be more interested in? No, it's not the set-up for a bad joke, it's the scenario that Doctor Yusuf Ahmedov of Stanford University's Biomedical Research Center uses to explain the science of attraction.
Dr. Yusuf Ahmedov: In almost every case, women will be more attracted to, more drawn to, the married man.
SI: Even though everything else about the two men is exactly the same.
YA: Exactly the same, that's right.
SI (voiceover): If you're confused, then chances are you haven't been to a singles bar in a long time. But if you yourself are unattached and on the market, the story might be more familiar: You're in good shape, attractive, witty. You have a good job and people seem to like you, and yet--no luck with the opposite sex. Oh sure you might get some interest here or there, but overall it's an uphill climb. Now, jump ahead six months. You're in a relationship and things are going well. You're off the market and now all of a sudden--
YA: Women are all over you (laughs).
SI (voiceover): Well, maybe not all over you, but at least much more interested in you than before. The only thing is, now you're with somebody, you're happy, and you're not looking, begging the question: Where were these women when you were single and looking for them? According to Doctor Ahmedov, you shouldn't take it too personally. It's not you, it's them. Well, it's not exactly them either. It's both of you--or something like that. I'll let Dr. Ahmedov explain.
YA: It is chemistry, pure and simple. When you are in a relationship, your body recognizes this and it prepares itself on all levels--on the cellular level, the hormonal level, the psychological level, all levels--for procreation. Although members of the opposite sex may not be consciously aware of your romantic involvement, they do have hormonal receptors that recognize it when a potential mate is engaged. And they respond accordingly.
SI (voiceover): By engaged he doesn't mean to be married, although that is sometimes the case. No, what he means is biologically engaged--as in preparing for reproduction. Or in layman's terms--
YA: Ready to make babies (laughs).
SI (voiceover): When this happens our bodies go through many changes, a fact we've all been aware of since our middle school days when the boys had to go with the male gym teacher and the girls had to go with the female gym teacher and we all watched embarrassing movies about puberty. But what is new in this case is the discovery of how quickly these changes take place--well before you are even thinking about having children. According to Dr. Ahmedov, once you have more or less made a mental commitment to someone, your body begins manufacturing and emitting an unusual pheromone that Dr. Ahmedov and his Stanford colleagues have taken to calling the Teros pheromone not because it's terrifying--though to some it might be--but because it combines territoriality with eros--or love for those of you unfamiliar with Greek. The message this pheromone sends is, "I'm spoken for, romantically speaking."
YA: The peculiar thing about the Teros pheromone is its complexity. Its primary function is to serve as a signal to your mate that you are at least to some degree on a track toward reproduction. However, sometimes this message is intercepted by other potential partners. Now we'll talk about this in terms of women receiving the signal from men, although it also applies to men receiving it from women. First of all, before we get into the Teros effect, a man who is attached is more likely to be aloof and cool because they are not actively looking for a partner. This always makes them more of an intriguing challenge and thus awakens in women a kind of competitive instinct. However, on a deeper, more primal and pheromonal level, the women--again, on a level they are probably not aware of--perceive the man as someone who is effectively reaching out and sending signals. And even though those signals may not be meant for them, they can be very hard to resist.
SI (voiceover) Prompting the question, is there any way for singles to generate this pheromone? Dr. Ahmedov believes so, as do researchers at Pfizer who are developing a synthetic version of Teros they hope to have on the shelves by 2012. They see huge potential for a prescribed or even over-the-counter version of the attraction pheromone. Dr. Gail Roberts is the head of research and development for Pfizer.
Dr. Gail Roberts: Oh, it's a game changer, no doubt about it. This will give single people everywhere the chance to carry themselves with swagger and confidence, knowing that people are just going to be naturally attracted to them.
SI (voiceover): Which inevitably raises a thorny ethical issue: Is it fair? Is it manipulative and misleading? Is it, for lack of a better word, false advertising? Dr. Roberts says no.
GR: (laughing) Of course not. I would put Teros in the same category as a toupee or breast implants. Are these things completely accurate representations of who we are? Of course not. But I think people recognize that and they also recognize that none of these things in and of themselves is going to land you a partner. That's up to you. However, they will get someones's attention. After that, it's up to you.
SI: All's fair in love and war?
GR: (laughing) I don't know if I would go that far, but what we're ultimately talking about it something that will help bring people together. And how could that not be a good thing?
SI (voiceover): Singles of the world, you've been warned. For All Things Considered, I'm Steve Inskeep.
Outro music: Love Potion #9
Monday, February 8, 2010
February 9 - A Nasty Case
VD?
Thanks, but no thanks. I've played that game before and believe me, I do not want to go there again.
Shit just messes with you, man. Every time you think you're in the clear with it, BAM! There it is again: VD!
It screws up everything, especially when you have to deal with it early in a relationship. Everything seems cool, you're digging each other, the relationship is progressing naturally, and then all of a sudden?
Bingo.
VD.
God, it sucks.
And you'd think it would get easier to deal with the longer you're with someone, because you've dealt with it before and it totally shouldn't be that big of a deal. But that's not the case, of course it's not. Actually, if anything, VD becomes more complicated the longer you've been with someone. Which I guess makes sense, but still.
One semi-cool thing about living in Japan, though, is that somehow it was decided by whoever decides these things that taking care of VD would be the woman's responsibility. And I'm all for gender equality and shit, but you know what I say to that?
Fine with me.
But who are we kidding? Guys still have to deal with it. Everybody does. And no matter how much money you spend, no matter how hard you try, no matter what innovative tricks you come up with for fighting it, there's no way to get rid of VD. I freaking hate that shit.
What's that? Oh, Valentine's Day.
Why? What did you think I was talking about?
Thanks, but no thanks. I've played that game before and believe me, I do not want to go there again.
Shit just messes with you, man. Every time you think you're in the clear with it, BAM! There it is again: VD!
It screws up everything, especially when you have to deal with it early in a relationship. Everything seems cool, you're digging each other, the relationship is progressing naturally, and then all of a sudden?
Bingo.
VD.
God, it sucks.
And you'd think it would get easier to deal with the longer you're with someone, because you've dealt with it before and it totally shouldn't be that big of a deal. But that's not the case, of course it's not. Actually, if anything, VD becomes more complicated the longer you've been with someone. Which I guess makes sense, but still.
One semi-cool thing about living in Japan, though, is that somehow it was decided by whoever decides these things that taking care of VD would be the woman's responsibility. And I'm all for gender equality and shit, but you know what I say to that?
Fine with me.
But who are we kidding? Guys still have to deal with it. Everybody does. And no matter how much money you spend, no matter how hard you try, no matter what innovative tricks you come up with for fighting it, there's no way to get rid of VD. I freaking hate that shit.
What's that? Oh, Valentine's Day.
Why? What did you think I was talking about?
February 8 - God, Suzanne
God, Suzanne. Just talk to him.
I don't know.
What don't you know?
I don't know what I don't know.
That makes sense.
It does, actually.
Yeah, this coming from the only chick in here who has an inner dialogue instead of an inner monologue.
Well, yeah. It'd get boring and one-sided if I didn't.
Very true.
I thought you might agree.
Ha ha. But anyway . . .
Yeah. Anyway.
So just, like, start a conversation with him. How hard can it be?
No, you're right. I totally agree. I should totally just start a conversation with him.
Good. So? Do it then.
I don't know what to say
How about you just introduce yourself and take it from there?
He knows who I am. I'm in here, like, every week. Sometimes more than once. Usually. Always. Jesus, he probably thinks I'm an alcoholic or something.
I'm sure he doesn't think that. Do you, like, ever get drunk?
No, but . . .
But nothing then. So you have a couple of drinks here every once in a while. Big deal. Besides, he's the one that works in a bar. Plus, it's not like you're in here by yourself. Karen and Michelle are usually with you, so whatever.
True.
OK, then.
Maybe I could bum a cigarette from him.
Yeah, I'm sure he'd love that.
Well, God, I don't know. Do you have any better ideas?
Like I said, you should just introduce yourself. Just be like, Hi, I'm Suzanne. You're Luke, right?
Yeah, because it wouldn't be creepy and awkward at all to introduce myself and already know the guy's name.
Actually, it wouldn't. You're a regular. There's no way he doesn't know who you are. Hell, you've even talked to him a couple of times. Remember that one time right when Adventureland had just come out and he and a few other people at the bar were talking about it, and he said it was funny, and you were like, I really want to see it?
Yeah.
Yeah. And then there was that time when everybody was talking about True Blood and he'd never seen it and you were like I can't believe you've never seen True Blood and he was like, It's a chick show, and you were like, Yeah, kind of, but still, you should watch it.
True.
So yeah, it's not like you're a total stranger. Just be like--
--Shut up, here he comes.
"Hey."
"Hey, how's it going?"
"Pretty good . . . Hey, I finally saw that movie."
"Hmm?"
"Uh, yeah. Adventureland? I remember we were all talking about it a while back. Here. And yeah, I remember you were saying it was pretty funny. And so, yeah, I saw it, like, a couple of days ago. You were right. It was funny. I don't know what made me think of that, but yeah. Good times. Good times."
"Yeah, Bill Hader cracked me up in that one."
"Yeah, totally. Right?"
"And the main guy--what's his name? I always get him mixed up with what's-his-butt, Arrested Development guy. George Michael."
"Oh, right. Michael Cera. Yeah, me too. Um yeah, I always space his name, but he was in Zombieland, too."
"Yeah, that's right."
"He's into those 'land' movies."
"Yeah, totally."
"Down with the land-based flicks."
"Yeah."
"By the way, my name's Suzanne."
"Yeah, I've seen you in here before. Nice to meet you. Luke."
"Nice to finally meet you. Like, officially. I mean, we've seen each other a bunch of times, but it's weird we've never actually met."
"Yeah, that's true. It's like that with regulars, though."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"Yeah."
"Ha ha."
"Anyway, um. Vodka gimlet, right?"
"Yep."
"Cool. Be right back--Suzanne."
"I'll be here--Luke."
Not bad, Suzanne. Not bad at all.
I know, right? He even knew my drink!
Very true. And now you know each other's names.
Damn, right.
See, that wasn't so bad. You hadn't even started drinking yet.
Stone cold, baby.
Hell yeah, girl.
Hell yeah.
Yeah.
But um, Down with the land-based flicks? Not your shiningest moment.
Shut up.
Good times, good times?
Bite me.
Ha ha.
I don't know.
What don't you know?
I don't know what I don't know.
That makes sense.
It does, actually.
Yeah, this coming from the only chick in here who has an inner dialogue instead of an inner monologue.
Well, yeah. It'd get boring and one-sided if I didn't.
Very true.
I thought you might agree.
Ha ha. But anyway . . .
Yeah. Anyway.
So just, like, start a conversation with him. How hard can it be?
No, you're right. I totally agree. I should totally just start a conversation with him.
Good. So? Do it then.
I don't know what to say
How about you just introduce yourself and take it from there?
He knows who I am. I'm in here, like, every week. Sometimes more than once. Usually. Always. Jesus, he probably thinks I'm an alcoholic or something.
I'm sure he doesn't think that. Do you, like, ever get drunk?
No, but . . .
But nothing then. So you have a couple of drinks here every once in a while. Big deal. Besides, he's the one that works in a bar. Plus, it's not like you're in here by yourself. Karen and Michelle are usually with you, so whatever.
True.
OK, then.
Maybe I could bum a cigarette from him.
Yeah, I'm sure he'd love that.
Well, God, I don't know. Do you have any better ideas?
Like I said, you should just introduce yourself. Just be like, Hi, I'm Suzanne. You're Luke, right?
Yeah, because it wouldn't be creepy and awkward at all to introduce myself and already know the guy's name.
Actually, it wouldn't. You're a regular. There's no way he doesn't know who you are. Hell, you've even talked to him a couple of times. Remember that one time right when Adventureland had just come out and he and a few other people at the bar were talking about it, and he said it was funny, and you were like, I really want to see it?
Yeah.
Yeah. And then there was that time when everybody was talking about True Blood and he'd never seen it and you were like I can't believe you've never seen True Blood and he was like, It's a chick show, and you were like, Yeah, kind of, but still, you should watch it.
True.
So yeah, it's not like you're a total stranger. Just be like--
--Shut up, here he comes.
"Hey."
"Hey, how's it going?"
"Pretty good . . . Hey, I finally saw that movie."
"Hmm?"
"Uh, yeah. Adventureland? I remember we were all talking about it a while back. Here. And yeah, I remember you were saying it was pretty funny. And so, yeah, I saw it, like, a couple of days ago. You were right. It was funny. I don't know what made me think of that, but yeah. Good times. Good times."
"Yeah, Bill Hader cracked me up in that one."
"Yeah, totally. Right?"
"And the main guy--what's his name? I always get him mixed up with what's-his-butt, Arrested Development guy. George Michael."
"Oh, right. Michael Cera. Yeah, me too. Um yeah, I always space his name, but he was in Zombieland, too."
"Yeah, that's right."
"He's into those 'land' movies."
"Yeah, totally."
"Down with the land-based flicks."
"Yeah."
"By the way, my name's Suzanne."
"Yeah, I've seen you in here before. Nice to meet you. Luke."
"Nice to finally meet you. Like, officially. I mean, we've seen each other a bunch of times, but it's weird we've never actually met."
"Yeah, that's true. It's like that with regulars, though."
"Yeah, I'll bet."
"Yeah."
"Ha ha."
"Anyway, um. Vodka gimlet, right?"
"Yep."
"Cool. Be right back--Suzanne."
"I'll be here--Luke."
Not bad, Suzanne. Not bad at all.
I know, right? He even knew my drink!
Very true. And now you know each other's names.
Damn, right.
See, that wasn't so bad. You hadn't even started drinking yet.
Stone cold, baby.
Hell yeah, girl.
Hell yeah.
Yeah.
But um, Down with the land-based flicks? Not your shiningest moment.
Shut up.
Good times, good times?
Bite me.
Ha ha.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
February 7 - 38 Special
If you're the kind of person who thinks there's nothing to coincidences, you might want to sit this one out. But if you have an open mind, dig this:
On a recent flight to Thailand I sat in seat 38H. No big deal, right?
Wrong.
I am 38 years old and my last name begins with the letter H.
A few days after my arrival, I took a night bus up north to Mae Sot and the bus left from platform 38.
I returned to Tokyo from Thailand on February 7, which is the 38th day of the year.
Upon arriving in Mae Sot I was booked into room 209 of the DK Hotel. Hmm. What is 2 x 9? 18. And what do you get when you drop the 9 from 209 and then add what's left over (20) to 18? That's right. 38.
Are you starting to get creeped out yet? If so, you might want to hold on to your hat because A-Hock is about to blow your mind.
One afternoon in Thailand I sat outside at a table that had a chessboard built into it and the sun was hitting it in a way that formed a perfect 45-45-90 triangle across with board with exactly 36 squares in the sunlight. I hear what you're saying: But that's 36, not 38.
How right you are.
But how many people do you need for a game of chess?
Just wait because it gets even weirder.
For my most recent birthday (my 38th, in case you forgot), I received a gift certificate for Baskin Robbins, which is an ice cream chain that boasts 31 flavors. My birthday was seven months ago.
You do the math.
Want more?
A standard American roulette wheel has 38 slots. Although I've never played roulette or even been to Vegas, I know people who have. More intriguingly, it's all but a certainty that at some point today, somebody won on #38.
What?
In Taiwan, where I used to live, people speak Mandarin Chinese and the numbers 3-8 are pronounced san-ba, which I think you'll agree sounds an awful lot like samba, which is a genre of music that hails from Brazil.
Know what else is from Brazil? The movie City of God.
And I really like that movie.
Starting to get the picture?
One thing I really enjoy doing is writing. This morning before I began writing I had some eggs. The English alphabet--my alphabet of choice when it comes to writing--has 26 letters. Eggs are generally sold in sets of 12.
I don't think you need a calculator to figure that one out.
My girlfriend has 10 fingers and 10 toes. I also have 10 fingers and 10 toes. If we both decided to cut one of them off in a digit reduction pact, we would have--that's right--38 digits between the two of us.
Are you seriously going to try to keep a straight face when you tell me that's just a coincidence?
Dude, please.
Please.
This is the 38th posting of my year in ultra-short fiction.
Yeah, that's a coincidence all right.
Coincidence your ass.
On a recent flight to Thailand I sat in seat 38H. No big deal, right?
Wrong.
I am 38 years old and my last name begins with the letter H.
A few days after my arrival, I took a night bus up north to Mae Sot and the bus left from platform 38.
I returned to Tokyo from Thailand on February 7, which is the 38th day of the year.
Upon arriving in Mae Sot I was booked into room 209 of the DK Hotel. Hmm. What is 2 x 9? 18. And what do you get when you drop the 9 from 209 and then add what's left over (20) to 18? That's right. 38.
Are you starting to get creeped out yet? If so, you might want to hold on to your hat because A-Hock is about to blow your mind.
One afternoon in Thailand I sat outside at a table that had a chessboard built into it and the sun was hitting it in a way that formed a perfect 45-45-90 triangle across with board with exactly 36 squares in the sunlight. I hear what you're saying: But that's 36, not 38.
How right you are.
But how many people do you need for a game of chess?
Just wait because it gets even weirder.
For my most recent birthday (my 38th, in case you forgot), I received a gift certificate for Baskin Robbins, which is an ice cream chain that boasts 31 flavors. My birthday was seven months ago.
You do the math.
Want more?
A standard American roulette wheel has 38 slots. Although I've never played roulette or even been to Vegas, I know people who have. More intriguingly, it's all but a certainty that at some point today, somebody won on #38.
What?
In Taiwan, where I used to live, people speak Mandarin Chinese and the numbers 3-8 are pronounced san-ba, which I think you'll agree sounds an awful lot like samba, which is a genre of music that hails from Brazil.
Know what else is from Brazil? The movie City of God.
And I really like that movie.
Starting to get the picture?
One thing I really enjoy doing is writing. This morning before I began writing I had some eggs. The English alphabet--my alphabet of choice when it comes to writing--has 26 letters. Eggs are generally sold in sets of 12.
I don't think you need a calculator to figure that one out.
My girlfriend has 10 fingers and 10 toes. I also have 10 fingers and 10 toes. If we both decided to cut one of them off in a digit reduction pact, we would have--that's right--38 digits between the two of us.
Are you seriously going to try to keep a straight face when you tell me that's just a coincidence?
Dude, please.
Please.
This is the 38th posting of my year in ultra-short fiction.
Yeah, that's a coincidence all right.
Coincidence your ass.
Friday, February 5, 2010
February 6 - EIP
I've just returned from a week of volunteering at the English Immersion Program (EIP) at Umphiem, a refugee camp on the Thai/Burmese border.
EIP is a two-year program that trains young refugee adults from Burma (most in their early 20s) in sustainable development, project management, leadership, community development, conflict resolution, and other skills. During the first year, the students learn these skills in an all-English environment. During the second year, they do internships at NGOs (non-governmental organizations) or CBOs (community based organizations) in Mae Sot, Thailand (which is home to thousands of undocumented Burmese migrants), Umphiem, or at any of the other eight camps that collectively shelter the more than 140,000 Burmese who have fled civil war and ethnic cleansing in Burma. When the students complete the program, they work for NGOs, CBOs, schools, or any other organization dedicated to improving conditions for people living in the camps or elsewhere on the Thai/Burmese border.
Although the circumstances that brought the majority of EIP's 24 students to Umphiem are dire to say the least, the atmosphere around EIP is anything but somber. One reason why is because the students are too busy to let themselves get down. In addition to their classes and homework, they are expected to lead and facilitate development projects in areas near their school, and volunteer as Big Brothers/Big Sisters for local children (many of them orphans) who need positive role models. On top of all this, they're also responsible for taking care of their daily living needs: each day one team of students is responsible for cooking breakfast and dinner for the school (all EIP students live in dorms), another for doing the shopping, another for cleaning, etc.
Perhaps a bit surprisingly, all of this work doesn't put a damper on their moods. The students at EIP are among the loosest, cheeriest, funnest students I've ever been around. After their classes, their time is split between doing homework and writing project proposals and horsing around, and the vibe is generally somewhere between summer camp and graduate school. It's a fun vibe to be around.
For me, staying in a refugee camp--even for a few days--is an eye-opening experience. Life in Umphiem is rustic. There is little electricity, all cooking is done from scratch, and all household chores are very labor intensive. Almost every building is made of bamboo with a thatch roof, and the whole camp is densely populated. Wherever there is a free spot of land, people have started gardens, there are goats and chickens everywhere, and the smells of burning garbage are never far away. You're awoken every morning before dawn first by the Muslim call to prayer (in addition to a large Muslim population, there are also thousands of Christians and Buddhists) and then by thousands of roosters. At night when things quiet down, the silence is total.
I was able to spend some time at Umphiem because the university where I work in Tokyo was generous enough to let me tack on an extra week in Thailand to work at EIP after attending an English teachers conference in Bangkok.
While there, I mostly worked with the two World Education teachers who work with the students and live with them during the week. We spent most of the week helping the students develop job hunting skills like writing cover letters, making resumes, and interviewing. By the way, I call them teachers, but theirs are not typical teaching jobs. A more accurate description would be that they are "teachers/mentors/trainers/co-workers/counselors/older siblings/friends," and the job continues around the clock. Like the students they work with, both of these teachers are immensely talented, energetic, dedicated and practical, and it was a privilege to work with them.
For me, this was my sixth time working with refugees from Burma. The first time I came here was four years ago when I did my graduate school internship at Mae La, another refugee camp in the area. Since then, I've come back as often as possible, mostly because I really enjoy the work, the students, and the other teachers. Plus, at the risk of sounding totally wanky, it's inspiring. Anyone who knows anything about the last several decades of Burmese history is aware of the fact that the Burmese people have been dealt an extraordinarily bad hand of cards. Rather than going into it right now, suffice it to say that anyone living in Umphiem or any of the other refugee camps on the border would be well within their rights to be bitter, sullen, and hopeless; however, that's not what I saw at EIP. The focus there is not on what brought them there, but on what they're going to do now and in the future. For a number of reasons, most of the people in Umphiem and the other camps won't be leaving anytime in the near future. Therefore, the goal is to make life there as positive and livable as possible.
During my time there, the atrocities back in Burma were hardly mentioned; however, at times Burma made its presence known through darkly absurd classroom moments you couldn't imagine happening anywhere else: During a resume writing activity, one student who had been conscripted into forced labor by the Burmese army for several of his years living in Burma wondered if this work was something that could be put on his resume. We figured why not.
What really had an impact on me this past week was the sense of community that permeates the camp. One evening after dinner, I went with three students to check out a student dormitory where they were looking to do a project. Coming from a Western perspective, the word dormitory conjures up images of study lounges with big screen TVs and comfortable bedrooms with beds, phones, and computers--or at the very least, rooms with walls and lights. Not so with this dorm where there were not enough blankets to go around and barely enough food. What's more, the closest thing they had to adult supervision was older high school students who took care of the younger ones by cooking breakfast every morning and dinner every evening. Both meals consisted of little more than the rice and yellow beans that are part of every Umphiem resident's monthly rations. The students at this dorm ate theirs squatting in a lean-to that acted as their kitchen. There were no tables or chairs.
It's easy to see scenes like that and wonder how they were possible, to wonder how there wasn't somebody, some group, some organization taking care of it, but there are lots of needs that go unmet there. People do the best they can with what they have, but in a lot of cases there just aren't enough resources.
The EIP students are hoping to rectify this particular situation, or at least ameliorate it a bit. Their proposed project is to provide money for blankets and additional kitchen utensils, as well as the means for the students to become more self sufficient by starting their own garden and raising animals.
I won't nag you with Sally Struthers figures about how big a difference a little pocket change can make. Instead, I'll try to express how impressed I was at the extent to which people at Umphiem help themselves and others. These are not people who are waiting for a handout. These are immensely resourceful people who are stepping up to take care of themselves.
The students of EIP enroll in the program with the understanding that they are expected to stay in the camps or the border area to serve the refugee/migrant community for at least a year upon completion of the program. EIP was founded seven years ago and now has an alumni base of more than 100 graduates actively working in the camps and outlying areas. The community is fortunate to have them.
In a perfect world, the military regime that has spent the last several decades running a once thriving Burma into the ground would step down and let people like the students I worked with this past week get started with the rebuilding process. Until that happens--and it's probably going to be a long time before it does--the future of Umphiem and the other camps is that much brighter because of the students of EIP.
EIP is a two-year program that trains young refugee adults from Burma (most in their early 20s) in sustainable development, project management, leadership, community development, conflict resolution, and other skills. During the first year, the students learn these skills in an all-English environment. During the second year, they do internships at NGOs (non-governmental organizations) or CBOs (community based organizations) in Mae Sot, Thailand (which is home to thousands of undocumented Burmese migrants), Umphiem, or at any of the other eight camps that collectively shelter the more than 140,000 Burmese who have fled civil war and ethnic cleansing in Burma. When the students complete the program, they work for NGOs, CBOs, schools, or any other organization dedicated to improving conditions for people living in the camps or elsewhere on the Thai/Burmese border.
Although the circumstances that brought the majority of EIP's 24 students to Umphiem are dire to say the least, the atmosphere around EIP is anything but somber. One reason why is because the students are too busy to let themselves get down. In addition to their classes and homework, they are expected to lead and facilitate development projects in areas near their school, and volunteer as Big Brothers/Big Sisters for local children (many of them orphans) who need positive role models. On top of all this, they're also responsible for taking care of their daily living needs: each day one team of students is responsible for cooking breakfast and dinner for the school (all EIP students live in dorms), another for doing the shopping, another for cleaning, etc.
Perhaps a bit surprisingly, all of this work doesn't put a damper on their moods. The students at EIP are among the loosest, cheeriest, funnest students I've ever been around. After their classes, their time is split between doing homework and writing project proposals and horsing around, and the vibe is generally somewhere between summer camp and graduate school. It's a fun vibe to be around.
For me, staying in a refugee camp--even for a few days--is an eye-opening experience. Life in Umphiem is rustic. There is little electricity, all cooking is done from scratch, and all household chores are very labor intensive. Almost every building is made of bamboo with a thatch roof, and the whole camp is densely populated. Wherever there is a free spot of land, people have started gardens, there are goats and chickens everywhere, and the smells of burning garbage are never far away. You're awoken every morning before dawn first by the Muslim call to prayer (in addition to a large Muslim population, there are also thousands of Christians and Buddhists) and then by thousands of roosters. At night when things quiet down, the silence is total.
I was able to spend some time at Umphiem because the university where I work in Tokyo was generous enough to let me tack on an extra week in Thailand to work at EIP after attending an English teachers conference in Bangkok.
While there, I mostly worked with the two World Education teachers who work with the students and live with them during the week. We spent most of the week helping the students develop job hunting skills like writing cover letters, making resumes, and interviewing. By the way, I call them teachers, but theirs are not typical teaching jobs. A more accurate description would be that they are "teachers/mentors/trainers/co-workers/counselors/older siblings/friends," and the job continues around the clock. Like the students they work with, both of these teachers are immensely talented, energetic, dedicated and practical, and it was a privilege to work with them.
For me, this was my sixth time working with refugees from Burma. The first time I came here was four years ago when I did my graduate school internship at Mae La, another refugee camp in the area. Since then, I've come back as often as possible, mostly because I really enjoy the work, the students, and the other teachers. Plus, at the risk of sounding totally wanky, it's inspiring. Anyone who knows anything about the last several decades of Burmese history is aware of the fact that the Burmese people have been dealt an extraordinarily bad hand of cards. Rather than going into it right now, suffice it to say that anyone living in Umphiem or any of the other refugee camps on the border would be well within their rights to be bitter, sullen, and hopeless; however, that's not what I saw at EIP. The focus there is not on what brought them there, but on what they're going to do now and in the future. For a number of reasons, most of the people in Umphiem and the other camps won't be leaving anytime in the near future. Therefore, the goal is to make life there as positive and livable as possible.
During my time there, the atrocities back in Burma were hardly mentioned; however, at times Burma made its presence known through darkly absurd classroom moments you couldn't imagine happening anywhere else: During a resume writing activity, one student who had been conscripted into forced labor by the Burmese army for several of his years living in Burma wondered if this work was something that could be put on his resume. We figured why not.
What really had an impact on me this past week was the sense of community that permeates the camp. One evening after dinner, I went with three students to check out a student dormitory where they were looking to do a project. Coming from a Western perspective, the word dormitory conjures up images of study lounges with big screen TVs and comfortable bedrooms with beds, phones, and computers--or at the very least, rooms with walls and lights. Not so with this dorm where there were not enough blankets to go around and barely enough food. What's more, the closest thing they had to adult supervision was older high school students who took care of the younger ones by cooking breakfast every morning and dinner every evening. Both meals consisted of little more than the rice and yellow beans that are part of every Umphiem resident's monthly rations. The students at this dorm ate theirs squatting in a lean-to that acted as their kitchen. There were no tables or chairs.
It's easy to see scenes like that and wonder how they were possible, to wonder how there wasn't somebody, some group, some organization taking care of it, but there are lots of needs that go unmet there. People do the best they can with what they have, but in a lot of cases there just aren't enough resources.
The EIP students are hoping to rectify this particular situation, or at least ameliorate it a bit. Their proposed project is to provide money for blankets and additional kitchen utensils, as well as the means for the students to become more self sufficient by starting their own garden and raising animals.
I won't nag you with Sally Struthers figures about how big a difference a little pocket change can make. Instead, I'll try to express how impressed I was at the extent to which people at Umphiem help themselves and others. These are not people who are waiting for a handout. These are immensely resourceful people who are stepping up to take care of themselves.
The students of EIP enroll in the program with the understanding that they are expected to stay in the camps or the border area to serve the refugee/migrant community for at least a year upon completion of the program. EIP was founded seven years ago and now has an alumni base of more than 100 graduates actively working in the camps and outlying areas. The community is fortunate to have them.
In a perfect world, the military regime that has spent the last several decades running a once thriving Burma into the ground would step down and let people like the students I worked with this past week get started with the rebuilding process. Until that happens--and it's probably going to be a long time before it does--the future of Umphiem and the other camps is that much brighter because of the students of EIP.
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