Have you heard the story of the Blue Glove? Do you understand yet the part you have been cast to play? Can you hang on, for just a little while longer?
I felt my heart drop, I felt it, I swear. My throat was sore. The air was cold and rushing over my face when I closed my eyes and let go of the rail. I couldn't feel my feet any longer, but I thought they must still be down there, somewhere.
The old-timey nigger music floated in through the speaker. It reminded me of something, something dancing just outside my memory, or maybe just something dancing. I didn't think it was coincidence that the song started playing not long after we arrived, no sir. I may not have been a neuro-scientist or orthopedic surgeon, but I knew a thing or two, and I knew when someone was trying to make me the horse's ass. 'NOT TONIGHT' I whispered into her ear. Just when the tinny harmonica fill hushed and the foot stompin' and humming started up again, I told her one last time : 'I wish we would have brought the Camry tonight.' That's right about when that doctor walked up to me and started all the trouble.
How many times did we try? We thought we knew everything, so arrogant we were. I even checked out books from the library back when such a thing was still possible. So full of ourselves, right up to the very end. The bitter end.
The Jell-o had been chilling for hours. The guests were already arriving. I opened the refrigerator door and had to stifle a scream. To my horror, the peach and pineapple fragments had all congregated at the bottom of the bowl. On top of that, the lime delight was NOT YET COMPLETELY FIRM. What will I do? If worse comes to worst, I have the gun in my closet, a loaded gun...The itch still persisted still. I couldn't scratch it, however. Not like this. Not under these circumstances. What if she noticed? I could only fantasize briefly about casually sliding my hand under the table, to the itch, and then I would force myself to stop thinking about it. What if she noticed? What if she knew? Would she think me strange? What was she thinking right now?? JESUS. The itch again. The itch I just can't scratch.
"Will it last forever?" I asked the small man on the other side of the glass counter.
"Of course." He stated matter-of-factly. "If you treat it well it will."
"Wrap it up." I stated triumphantly. "I'll take it!"
Then, days later:
"I don't think I appreciate what you are suggesting." I warned the woman vacuuming out my car. "If you continue along this tack, you are not going to enjoy what you discover." A beat later I added "I'll see to that. There will be no pleasure for you here, that I can guarantee."
She turned her back to me and pressed the button on the machine again, and once more the room was filled with it's mindless piercing whine. Hunched over like a Mexican in a cantaloupe patch, she continued to probe about under the seat with the long black hose. The tension began to lift gradually, slowly, but then suddenly the screeching pitch of the vacuum cleaner went up three octaves, betraying the matter lodged at that very moment in it's wheezing black plastic tip.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Friday, September 24, 2010
MORE TO FOLLOW. STAY TUNED. History of my Alcoholism:
Probably not interesting, I KNOW. Maybe just for me?
I really did not drink a lot as a young person. I remember what may have been the first time I ever got 'drunk', or 'buzzed', or at least it is the first time I was in trouble for drinking too much.
I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, and went to go visit a friend of my mother's for Thanksgiving. (The Ruining of Thanksgiving Theme is a common one in the history of my (and everyone else's?) drinking) As I said, I was 8 or 9 years old, I forget which, but the point is I was not an experienced drinker. I think my mother's friend, or perhaps my mother herself thought it would be cute to have me take part in the toast before or after or during dinner. My mother typically treated me like an adult (at least until I turned 18, at which point she began to treat me like a child), openly discussing such topics as Hunger Strikes, Abortion, Henry Miller, Cinema, fine literature and high art... There was no topic too sensitive or 'adult' to discuss in the car on the way to my piano or swimming lessons. Apparently, by this Thanksgiving in 1978 or 19789, it was time for me to be introduced to the concept of 'A Few Drinks With Dinner'.
I remember very little of the occasion, but I have been reminded dozens of times by my mother of how I 'Embarrassed the shit out of her' when I tried to run through a closed sliding glass door. To be honest, I think she is making it up, or confusing this with another time several years later (during a different Thanksgiving) when I tried, successfully, to run through a closed sliding glass door. YES!, but it was on PURPOSE and not accidentally, I SWEAR TO GOD. Alcohol May Have Played Part In Incident. (Or, AMHPPII, for short. This will be another recurring theme in my drinking life) At any rate, during this Thanksgiving in 1978 (or 1979) I *do* remember feeling very grown up while being served several glasses of Champagne (I believe it was a cheap Asti Brut or Cold Duck, far beneath me, but satisfying at the time) and then talking to someone for a very long time about one of the romantic conquests in my third grade class, STAYCE I believe her name was, the tramp, and I had much to say on the subject - much to the delight of my audience as I recall - who kept my glass full of bubbly every time I would mention my broken heart or how this little hussy would no longer return my phone calls. My glass was filled often enough.
I do not think a sliding glass door was involved during this first drunk, but I may have knocked a baked good on the floor, and then doubled over laughing as the hostess tried to quickly scrape it back onto it's serving platter and back on the table before anyone noticed.
My mother and I had driven four hours to Portland for this Thanksgiving Event, and let me tell you : it was a long drive home. I DO remember that. I remember being accused at that very time of ramming the sliding glass door with my head, which I denied vigorously, and then asked repeatedly how many glasses of champagne I had drank.
"I don't know. Seven? You're my mother, WHERE WERE YOU?" I quizzed the driver of our vessel home.
"WHAT?!" she screamed " Don't make me pull this car over. I'LL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT NOW!" my mother continued "Are you drunk!!?!"
"I don't believe so" I hiccuped and began to fiddle with the wing window mechanism in the ancient Jaguar we were ensconced inside at the time, while my mother began to tap on the speedometer with a forefinger in an attempt to get it to register again. After a moment:
"Stop fucking with that window! ARE YOU DRUNK??!" she asked, for the fifteenth time in twelve miles.
"Bwaaah!" I bellowed, fidgeting even more furiously with the wing window mechanism "MyaaaaarhhhhhhhHH!! Bwah! PPPHHHHHHlllPH!" I chided her.
The car was immediately pulled over. Her hand and my face flashed slowly, strobed in the green light cast from the blinker indicator on the dashboard as sharp smacking sounds ensued, followed by three hours of complete silence except for my muted weeping. (This will be a common theme as well, to be copied by a series of other women over the years)
I was in trouble. I was grounded, or on restriction or something, for a while, and the event passed into history/memory as Christmas approached. New Year's shortly to follow. I was served, secretly, during these occasions.
Not too many years later, I turned eleven and was off of drinking altogether. 'Fuck it!' I thought, 'I have homework to do.'
Ah, yes. Homework To Do. Those Were The Days.
Years passed. We moved to a tiny Hippy town outside of Eugene Oregon, and at thirteen I was FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA by a gaggle of seniors at the local high school, who were entertained apparently by my following behavior enough to make it a habit. "I'm going to go play football!" I would call out to my parents as a decrepit 1970 Chevy Nova would pull up outside our country home, deep threatening idle shaking the panes of glass in our dining area facing the street. I would act enthusiastic while secretly dreading getting in the car as I bounded down the stairs and out the front door - and into the back seat of the car - where I would be FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA or take PILLS of which pedigree I had no concept. We would drive up some forgotten road into the forest, guns would be fired into the air, I would be teased and tormented ("We're going to KILL YOU!!!" was a frequent threat) and made to cry or dance or do some other humiliating act. This was 1983. I would then be deposited back onto the lawn of my parent's Country Home as it was getting dark, hunched over and laughing, eyes red and watery, and as I would try to stand upright and as the front door opened by some parent or other, the Nova would screech violently back onto the country lane, tires spinning, a white cloud of burning rubber hanging thick in the air.
Well, that time too slid into history. The good news is I was off of liquor. The bad news is that I was being secretly fed blotter acid as it was cheap entertainment for the high school seniors in the Nova. Another year or two passed, and then! :
Jason arrived in Lorane, Oregon.
We were... fourteen at the time? Before Sophomore year in high school, shortly after we met we both turned fifteen. I think.
I met Jason, who was obviously insane even at the time, at the end of a Summer
Vacation. My arm was in a cast as I had just had a motorcycle accident a few weeks earlier while with my high school seniors, who had abandoned me on some distant logging access road broken and bleeding. I met Jason weeks later while I was in a neighbor's above-ground swimming pool, keeping my cast elevated and in a plastic bag, and we immediately began to speak in code:
Jason : "Cast"
ME : "Yes. Tostada!"
Jason: "Reuben. Toolbox."
ME: (Laughing, getting it) "Combo Burrito!!!"
Jason: (Now laughing as well, finally echoed) "My throat feels funny. I'm in trouble. I should go to Bi-Mart"
Then we both laughed really hard for fifteen minutes, and then he took a shit in a plastic bag and put it on the neighbor's doorstep accompanied by a rose he picked off of their own bush. We have been best friends ever since.
We were sober together for - a year? - or so. But, by Junior year? I would beg him to steal his father's whiskey and bring it to school. Jason happily obliged. He would get off of his bus (we had to ride different buses usually for the 18-mile trip to school. ) and shuffle over to where I was waiting, and produce a jelly jar full of the tea-brown liquid, hidden under his trench coat. We would stroll back behind the school near the dumpsters and divvy up, drinking, chatting about how our respective parents knew nothing, about what girls were cute, about what teachers were AWFUL. By the time the first bell rang, we were wasted. We would go to our separate classes (By this time our teachers had us permanently separated, our combination too much for them to handle) and weave and bob in our desks, me in the front row loud and defiant , Jason in the back row of some other classroom trying to become invisible. When called upon, he would invariably use the words 'Fuck' or 'Shit' or 'Asshole' so to guarantee a trip to the Principal's Office and maybe earn him an expulsion if he were really lucky.
High School passed.
College! Beer Bongs, Liquor, stolen this-or-that - RIGHT? Right. WRONG. I had shit to do. Shit to do = Draw pictures of the back of girl's heads from my various classes. Write stories about who did not like me. I had shit to do. I had to sleep in. I was NOT drinking though! I was only nineteen or twenty years old.
Other shit happened. Check my other shit for details.
I turned twenty-one one day though! Bar-aged! YES!
My father showed up, as did my new friend the Jew, Edward Fine. His friend too, the pervert, someone-somebody. I got drunk at a bar with MY DAD and these other people. It was timid.
After I turned twenty-one, I had NO INTEREST in going out to bars or drinking, now that it was legal. A few more years passed in which alcohol was not really present in my life, there were no incidents in which it may have played a part.
I really did not drink a lot as a young person. I remember what may have been the first time I ever got 'drunk', or 'buzzed', or at least it is the first time I was in trouble for drinking too much.
I must have been about 8 or 9 years old, and went to go visit a friend of my mother's for Thanksgiving. (The Ruining of Thanksgiving Theme is a common one in the history of my (and everyone else's?) drinking) As I said, I was 8 or 9 years old, I forget which, but the point is I was not an experienced drinker. I think my mother's friend, or perhaps my mother herself thought it would be cute to have me take part in the toast before or after or during dinner. My mother typically treated me like an adult (at least until I turned 18, at which point she began to treat me like a child), openly discussing such topics as Hunger Strikes, Abortion, Henry Miller, Cinema, fine literature and high art... There was no topic too sensitive or 'adult' to discuss in the car on the way to my piano or swimming lessons. Apparently, by this Thanksgiving in 1978 or 19789, it was time for me to be introduced to the concept of 'A Few Drinks With Dinner'.
I remember very little of the occasion, but I have been reminded dozens of times by my mother of how I 'Embarrassed the shit out of her' when I tried to run through a closed sliding glass door. To be honest, I think she is making it up, or confusing this with another time several years later (during a different Thanksgiving) when I tried, successfully, to run through a closed sliding glass door. YES!, but it was on PURPOSE and not accidentally, I SWEAR TO GOD. Alcohol May Have Played Part In Incident. (Or, AMHPPII, for short. This will be another recurring theme in my drinking life) At any rate, during this Thanksgiving in 1978 (or 1979) I *do* remember feeling very grown up while being served several glasses of Champagne (I believe it was a cheap Asti Brut or Cold Duck, far beneath me, but satisfying at the time) and then talking to someone for a very long time about one of the romantic conquests in my third grade class, STAYCE I believe her name was, the tramp, and I had much to say on the subject - much to the delight of my audience as I recall - who kept my glass full of bubbly every time I would mention my broken heart or how this little hussy would no longer return my phone calls. My glass was filled often enough.
I do not think a sliding glass door was involved during this first drunk, but I may have knocked a baked good on the floor, and then doubled over laughing as the hostess tried to quickly scrape it back onto it's serving platter and back on the table before anyone noticed.
My mother and I had driven four hours to Portland for this Thanksgiving Event, and let me tell you : it was a long drive home. I DO remember that. I remember being accused at that very time of ramming the sliding glass door with my head, which I denied vigorously, and then asked repeatedly how many glasses of champagne I had drank.
"I don't know. Seven? You're my mother, WHERE WERE YOU?" I quizzed the driver of our vessel home.
"WHAT?!" she screamed " Don't make me pull this car over. I'LL SLAP THE SHIT OUT OF YOU RIGHT NOW!" my mother continued "Are you drunk!!?!"
"I don't believe so" I hiccuped and began to fiddle with the wing window mechanism in the ancient Jaguar we were ensconced inside at the time, while my mother began to tap on the speedometer with a forefinger in an attempt to get it to register again. After a moment:
"Stop fucking with that window! ARE YOU DRUNK??!" she asked, for the fifteenth time in twelve miles.
"Bwaaah!" I bellowed, fidgeting even more furiously with the wing window mechanism "MyaaaaarhhhhhhhHH!! Bwah! PPPHHHHHHlllPH!" I chided her.
The car was immediately pulled over. Her hand and my face flashed slowly, strobed in the green light cast from the blinker indicator on the dashboard as sharp smacking sounds ensued, followed by three hours of complete silence except for my muted weeping. (This will be a common theme as well, to be copied by a series of other women over the years)
I was in trouble. I was grounded, or on restriction or something, for a while, and the event passed into history/memory as Christmas approached. New Year's shortly to follow. I was served, secretly, during these occasions.
Not too many years later, I turned eleven and was off of drinking altogether. 'Fuck it!' I thought, 'I have homework to do.'
Ah, yes. Homework To Do. Those Were The Days.
Years passed. We moved to a tiny Hippy town outside of Eugene Oregon, and at thirteen I was FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA by a gaggle of seniors at the local high school, who were entertained apparently by my following behavior enough to make it a habit. "I'm going to go play football!" I would call out to my parents as a decrepit 1970 Chevy Nova would pull up outside our country home, deep threatening idle shaking the panes of glass in our dining area facing the street. I would act enthusiastic while secretly dreading getting in the car as I bounded down the stairs and out the front door - and into the back seat of the car - where I would be FORCED to smoke MARIJUANA or take PILLS of which pedigree I had no concept. We would drive up some forgotten road into the forest, guns would be fired into the air, I would be teased and tormented ("We're going to KILL YOU!!!" was a frequent threat) and made to cry or dance or do some other humiliating act. This was 1983. I would then be deposited back onto the lawn of my parent's Country Home as it was getting dark, hunched over and laughing, eyes red and watery, and as I would try to stand upright and as the front door opened by some parent or other, the Nova would screech violently back onto the country lane, tires spinning, a white cloud of burning rubber hanging thick in the air.
Well, that time too slid into history. The good news is I was off of liquor. The bad news is that I was being secretly fed blotter acid as it was cheap entertainment for the high school seniors in the Nova. Another year or two passed, and then! :
Jason arrived in Lorane, Oregon.
We were... fourteen at the time? Before Sophomore year in high school, shortly after we met we both turned fifteen. I think.
I met Jason, who was obviously insane even at the time, at the end of a Summer
Vacation. My arm was in a cast as I had just had a motorcycle accident a few weeks earlier while with my high school seniors, who had abandoned me on some distant logging access road broken and bleeding. I met Jason weeks later while I was in a neighbor's above-ground swimming pool, keeping my cast elevated and in a plastic bag, and we immediately began to speak in code:
Jason : "Cast"
ME : "Yes. Tostada!"
Jason: "Reuben. Toolbox."
ME: (Laughing, getting it) "Combo Burrito!!!"
Jason: (Now laughing as well, finally echoed) "My throat feels funny. I'm in trouble. I should go to Bi-Mart"
Then we both laughed really hard for fifteen minutes, and then he took a shit in a plastic bag and put it on the neighbor's doorstep accompanied by a rose he picked off of their own bush. We have been best friends ever since.
We were sober together for - a year? - or so. But, by Junior year? I would beg him to steal his father's whiskey and bring it to school. Jason happily obliged. He would get off of his bus (we had to ride different buses usually for the 18-mile trip to school. ) and shuffle over to where I was waiting, and produce a jelly jar full of the tea-brown liquid, hidden under his trench coat. We would stroll back behind the school near the dumpsters and divvy up, drinking, chatting about how our respective parents knew nothing, about what girls were cute, about what teachers were AWFUL. By the time the first bell rang, we were wasted. We would go to our separate classes (By this time our teachers had us permanently separated, our combination too much for them to handle) and weave and bob in our desks, me in the front row loud and defiant , Jason in the back row of some other classroom trying to become invisible. When called upon, he would invariably use the words 'Fuck' or 'Shit' or 'Asshole' so to guarantee a trip to the Principal's Office and maybe earn him an expulsion if he were really lucky.
High School passed.
College! Beer Bongs, Liquor, stolen this-or-that - RIGHT? Right. WRONG. I had shit to do. Shit to do = Draw pictures of the back of girl's heads from my various classes. Write stories about who did not like me. I had shit to do. I had to sleep in. I was NOT drinking though! I was only nineteen or twenty years old.
Other shit happened. Check my other shit for details.
I turned twenty-one one day though! Bar-aged! YES!
My father showed up, as did my new friend the Jew, Edward Fine. His friend too, the pervert, someone-somebody. I got drunk at a bar with MY DAD and these other people. It was timid.
After I turned twenty-one, I had NO INTEREST in going out to bars or drinking, now that it was legal. A few more years passed in which alcohol was not really present in my life, there were no incidents in which it may have played a part.
Monday, September 20, 2010
procrastinator
I have much difficulty finishing things. I have very little difficulty starting new things. I am easily excitable, overly optimistic, a romanticist, an ideas man.
My mind spins and swirls with new ideas, things I want to write, things I want to do, places I want to go, and in the meantime my kitchen wall is only half-painted and I have been wearing the same two t-shirts for a week because I need to do laundry ( I have a washer and dryer twelve feet away from me as I type this at this very moment) but can not muster the actual interest or time to do it.
I need to return phone calls, I need to return emails, I do not avoid them because I do not want to communicate with the senders, but because it seems the entire day has been spent looking for my keys and trying to box up and send the thing I was supposed to box up and send five days ago, and worrying about depositing money in the bank (which is across the street, and the cash is here with me) and trying to find the right song to play on my stereo, right now, and... now it is eleven o'clock at night and I need to wake up in the morning at six, and I am not in bed yet, and do I have Advil up here? All day. I need a schedule, I guess. I need help. I will need to find things for help to do if I have help here. This will take more time. I do not think anyone understands these things, as I can not even understand them myself. How does eighteen hours pass by in a flash, I have not sat down the entire time, and yet I accomplished nothing and have not eaten anything at all or exercised, and have still not enjoyed any self-indulgence. How? Tell me.
My mind spins and swirls with new ideas, things I want to write, things I want to do, places I want to go, and in the meantime my kitchen wall is only half-painted and I have been wearing the same two t-shirts for a week because I need to do laundry ( I have a washer and dryer twelve feet away from me as I type this at this very moment) but can not muster the actual interest or time to do it.
I need to return phone calls, I need to return emails, I do not avoid them because I do not want to communicate with the senders, but because it seems the entire day has been spent looking for my keys and trying to box up and send the thing I was supposed to box up and send five days ago, and worrying about depositing money in the bank (which is across the street, and the cash is here with me) and trying to find the right song to play on my stereo, right now, and... now it is eleven o'clock at night and I need to wake up in the morning at six, and I am not in bed yet, and do I have Advil up here? All day. I need a schedule, I guess. I need help. I will need to find things for help to do if I have help here. This will take more time. I do not think anyone understands these things, as I can not even understand them myself. How does eighteen hours pass by in a flash, I have not sat down the entire time, and yet I accomplished nothing and have not eaten anything at all or exercised, and have still not enjoyed any self-indulgence. How? Tell me.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Welcome back
I just stand and stare at the spot you just walked out of. I do not move at all. I hear the door open, shut, a minute later a car's engine start. I stare at the spot where you stood, but you stand there no longer, so I stare at a wall in the distance which is out of focus.
I do not feel anger or sadness or joy or despair. I feel absolutely nothing, not even the desire to get back to what it was I was doing before. Time passes. It gets dark. I become thirsty. I blink my eyes, I realize I have been waiting for you to return. If you did return, I would probably not speak to you, I have nothing I want to tell you, but I would like to see you standing in your spot again. I get an idea.
I go to the stereo and play a song, a song that I think should call you back. If you were to come back now, this would be the perfect score to your return. Turn the volume knob up a little more. I program the player to repeat this song. I go back and try to stare at that spot again, but it is different now, it feels contrived. I try for a full minute. I realize this is silly. I realize I am silly. I go back to whatever it was I was doing before.
I realize I am silly, but I leave the music on. Just in case.
I do not feel anger or sadness or joy or despair. I feel absolutely nothing, not even the desire to get back to what it was I was doing before. Time passes. It gets dark. I become thirsty. I blink my eyes, I realize I have been waiting for you to return. If you did return, I would probably not speak to you, I have nothing I want to tell you, but I would like to see you standing in your spot again. I get an idea.
I go to the stereo and play a song, a song that I think should call you back. If you were to come back now, this would be the perfect score to your return. Turn the volume knob up a little more. I program the player to repeat this song. I go back and try to stare at that spot again, but it is different now, it feels contrived. I try for a full minute. I realize this is silly. I realize I am silly. I go back to whatever it was I was doing before.
I realize I am silly, but I leave the music on. Just in case.
Monday, September 6, 2010
An Office Visit
Once in the office, she had to print and fill out her own U-Haul form, as the man did not have the patience, ability or interest in doing it himself. He grunted and pointed with a half-eaten sandwich at the computer balanced on top of a file cabinet on the other side of the room. She made her way across the floor littered with bottle caps, unopened mail and mummified food remnants, and was forced to stand as she wiggled the mouse back and forth, trying to get the computer screen to pop to life.
'otta turnip awm' She heard him say to her back. She looked up at him for a moment, confused. She wiggled the mouse some more.
'AWM!' he said again, and began to illustrate this statement with the sandwich, he was thrusting it forward in his right hand as if it were a sword and he was trying to dispatch an imaginary foe. 'Gotta' turnip AWM!!' Her confusion began to turn to fear as this charade became more violent, faster. Bits of lettuce and meat began to fly out of the end of the lazy, flapping bread and fall on the floor in front of his desk, limp and moist, like so many hopeless stockbrokers on Wall Street.
The man stopped stabbing the air with the sandwich and instead glared at her for a moment in full slack jawed disbelief before he slowly began chewing again in a bovine manner, and then swallowed whatever food was in his mouth.
After wiping a vibrant yellow smear of mustard across his sleeve from his mustache he said : 'ON. You've got to turn It ON. The button on front. The GREEN BUTTON on the .. the.. BOX there. PUSH IT.' He was able to communicate clearly now his mouth was more or less free of his bolus. She still stared at him blankly for a moment, just now comprehending, and he tore at the space between them one last time with his lunch in order to set her again in motion.
'otta turnip awm' She heard him say to her back. She looked up at him for a moment, confused. She wiggled the mouse some more.
'AWM!' he said again, and began to illustrate this statement with the sandwich, he was thrusting it forward in his right hand as if it were a sword and he was trying to dispatch an imaginary foe. 'Gotta' turnip AWM!!' Her confusion began to turn to fear as this charade became more violent, faster. Bits of lettuce and meat began to fly out of the end of the lazy, flapping bread and fall on the floor in front of his desk, limp and moist, like so many hopeless stockbrokers on Wall Street.
The man stopped stabbing the air with the sandwich and instead glared at her for a moment in full slack jawed disbelief before he slowly began chewing again in a bovine manner, and then swallowed whatever food was in his mouth.
After wiping a vibrant yellow smear of mustard across his sleeve from his mustache he said : 'ON. You've got to turn It ON. The button on front. The GREEN BUTTON on the .. the.. BOX there. PUSH IT.' He was able to communicate clearly now his mouth was more or less free of his bolus. She still stared at him blankly for a moment, just now comprehending, and he tore at the space between them one last time with his lunch in order to set her again in motion.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Recent Automotive Repair
My hand lingered there near the ignition switch, key turgid and aimed. Heavy, back dread was soon replaced with a solid sense of relief as I pushed the key home and turned it clockwise, the engine quickly spinning to life, babbling a satisfied and healthy idle.
I did a quick victory dance, stainless steel container of vodka fizzy in one hand, raised high above my head, and after checking under the vehicle for leaks, I turned the engine off. "You genius, you!" I congratulated myself. "You're GOOD."
I still had puddles of coolant and oil to mop up, but I was otherwise finished: 48 solid hours to change a timing belt in a 2001 Nissan X-Terra without benefit of prior experience, reference material, or a mentor of any degree, and the entire time I was holding steady or fluctuating just above a blood- alcohol level at least five times that of the legal definition of 'drunk'. It was just like college.
In college, my days in University, I would never actually go to my classes, instead sleeping in or hustling a few doughnuts someplace, or (later) drinking, but I would responsibly show up for almost every exam, turn in most every assigned paper, and without ever reading the required texts or witnessing the lectures, I would effortlessly pass nearly all classes with a "C".
The way the Nissan sounded though, I would have given myself at least a "B" on this one. A grade of "A" missed only because of a latent belt squeaking that was easily remedied.
My client, Miss W, had just arrived two days earlier for the six hour job. Since she wanted to suit up and help, I scheduled eight to ten hours into the week for this chore.
Not long before her arrival, however, my Opthomologist had shown up unexpected and hungry.
The time should be spent now to describe the geometry of my eye doctor, it is important to this story. At only five foot two he weighs in at nearly three hundred pounds. He is not "fat" in the traditional sense, although he is wide. My Opthamologist, Edward, could be drawn accurately on paper using only a pencil and a compass. Using a series of circles of varying diameter, his head and arms are attached to his body, much like those of a snowman. The only straight lines employed describe his legs, two toothpicks stabbed into the Earth, impossibly supporting the abomination above. The whole mess was, as always, tightly encased in black fabrics several sizes too small, threatening to rip or burst at their very seams.
It should be noted that Edward's perfectly round skull is always shaved clean, and his mouth hole is surrounded by a perfectly round jet-black goatee, often containing remnants of previous meals. His eyebrows are Jack-O-Lantern's peaked triangles, but composed of black fur. Edward's wardrobe consists only of three favorite items from the 1985 Calvin Klein Collection, and more often than not, his black leather jacket. That is, if he has elected to wear any clothing at all. This particular day was hot, and Edward wore only one item from his wardrobe, his tiny black pants, covering the stilettos of his legs.
I employed quotations when I used the word "fat" to describe Edward, as he is actually not fat, despite whatever medical chart this may contradict. Bloated and round? Yes. But oddly, even when he weighs only 120 lbs, he appears the same. At a glance, you see only a gargantuan expanse of flesh, but if you have the nerve to take a second, longer look, (and maybe a feel or poke) you would find his belly is as tight as a drum and inexplicably muscular. His tan corpus maximus is riddled with pulsing, visible veins. His eyes are always asquint with laughter, or hidden behind the finest and most expensive sunglasses money can buy. He is a demented, cherubic, Jewish Mr. Clean, crossed with the Angel of Death, crossed again with a circus midget.
I tell you this because you should know that a person needs to be ready, or warned at least, before meeting Edward in anything other than his professional setting, and even then I believe his nurses distribute a flier warning of his appearance and dimensions before his patients actually meet him face to face.
So I was able to stand my ground with only momentary fear, as a giant black Mercedes sedan pulled up to my garage, expelling Edward like some dark, new planet being belched from a distant galaxy aimed right towards me. The menacing celestial body of my eye doctor was immediately followed by a similarly described hairy and drooling, afterbirth named Beatrice. His black Pitbull sidekick, convincingly playing the role of lunar satellite to Edward's planetary mass.
As stated, initially I experienced fear, but I soon recognized his form as friendly. I stepped forward to meet his arrival and I tried, in vain, to reach my arms around him in a friendly embrace of welcome.
I naturally asked Edward if he would like to borrow a shirt (in case he left his somewhere, and to prevent a panic in my neighborhood in the event he was seen) to which he shortly barked "No!"
Alright. I'm not going to argue.
Backs were slapped, pleasantries exchanged, accommodations arranged. This was to be his vacation. It was July and hot, and tight black pants were not entirely practical, but always in fashion.
I did a quick victory dance, stainless steel container of vodka fizzy in one hand, raised high above my head, and after checking under the vehicle for leaks, I turned the engine off. "You genius, you!" I congratulated myself. "You're GOOD."
I still had puddles of coolant and oil to mop up, but I was otherwise finished: 48 solid hours to change a timing belt in a 2001 Nissan X-Terra without benefit of prior experience, reference material, or a mentor of any degree, and the entire time I was holding steady or fluctuating just above a blood- alcohol level at least five times that of the legal definition of 'drunk'. It was just like college.
In college, my days in University, I would never actually go to my classes, instead sleeping in or hustling a few doughnuts someplace, or (later) drinking, but I would responsibly show up for almost every exam, turn in most every assigned paper, and without ever reading the required texts or witnessing the lectures, I would effortlessly pass nearly all classes with a "C".
The way the Nissan sounded though, I would have given myself at least a "B" on this one. A grade of "A" missed only because of a latent belt squeaking that was easily remedied.
My client, Miss W, had just arrived two days earlier for the six hour job. Since she wanted to suit up and help, I scheduled eight to ten hours into the week for this chore.
Not long before her arrival, however, my Opthomologist had shown up unexpected and hungry.
The time should be spent now to describe the geometry of my eye doctor, it is important to this story. At only five foot two he weighs in at nearly three hundred pounds. He is not "fat" in the traditional sense, although he is wide. My Opthamologist, Edward, could be drawn accurately on paper using only a pencil and a compass. Using a series of circles of varying diameter, his head and arms are attached to his body, much like those of a snowman. The only straight lines employed describe his legs, two toothpicks stabbed into the Earth, impossibly supporting the abomination above. The whole mess was, as always, tightly encased in black fabrics several sizes too small, threatening to rip or burst at their very seams.
It should be noted that Edward's perfectly round skull is always shaved clean, and his mouth hole is surrounded by a perfectly round jet-black goatee, often containing remnants of previous meals. His eyebrows are Jack-O-Lantern's peaked triangles, but composed of black fur. Edward's wardrobe consists only of three favorite items from the 1985 Calvin Klein Collection, and more often than not, his black leather jacket. That is, if he has elected to wear any clothing at all. This particular day was hot, and Edward wore only one item from his wardrobe, his tiny black pants, covering the stilettos of his legs.
I employed quotations when I used the word "fat" to describe Edward, as he is actually not fat, despite whatever medical chart this may contradict. Bloated and round? Yes. But oddly, even when he weighs only 120 lbs, he appears the same. At a glance, you see only a gargantuan expanse of flesh, but if you have the nerve to take a second, longer look, (and maybe a feel or poke) you would find his belly is as tight as a drum and inexplicably muscular. His tan corpus maximus is riddled with pulsing, visible veins. His eyes are always asquint with laughter, or hidden behind the finest and most expensive sunglasses money can buy. He is a demented, cherubic, Jewish Mr. Clean, crossed with the Angel of Death, crossed again with a circus midget.
I tell you this because you should know that a person needs to be ready, or warned at least, before meeting Edward in anything other than his professional setting, and even then I believe his nurses distribute a flier warning of his appearance and dimensions before his patients actually meet him face to face.
So I was able to stand my ground with only momentary fear, as a giant black Mercedes sedan pulled up to my garage, expelling Edward like some dark, new planet being belched from a distant galaxy aimed right towards me. The menacing celestial body of my eye doctor was immediately followed by a similarly described hairy and drooling, afterbirth named Beatrice. His black Pitbull sidekick, convincingly playing the role of lunar satellite to Edward's planetary mass.
As stated, initially I experienced fear, but I soon recognized his form as friendly. I stepped forward to meet his arrival and I tried, in vain, to reach my arms around him in a friendly embrace of welcome.
I naturally asked Edward if he would like to borrow a shirt (in case he left his somewhere, and to prevent a panic in my neighborhood in the event he was seen) to which he shortly barked "No!"
Alright. I'm not going to argue.
Backs were slapped, pleasantries exchanged, accommodations arranged. This was to be his vacation. It was July and hot, and tight black pants were not entirely practical, but always in fashion.
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