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.
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