So... walking through my house today I found a pair of shoes that I haven't worn in ages. They are kick-ass black patent, with gold buckles gracing the open toes. Best of all? Four inch heels. When I stand in these things, it's like I already rule the whole world (as opposed to only NH, Vermont, and Half of South Dakota).
But they looked so sad. I could feel them staring at me accusingly, as though saying,
"Verge... You don't love us anymore. You never take us ANYWHERE."
I felt so guilty and ashamed. I had totally neglected those magnificent shoes. Surely they were deserving of better treatment from me. Neglect is not pretty, especially when you love someone/something.
So I decided that it was time to rectify this situation.
I got dressed up for a night (or rather, late afternoon) on the town. An hour later, there I was... Hair done, perfume lightly spritzed, pink lipstick applied, little black dress donned, and clad in those badass shoes. I even went the extra step and pulled out my black nylons with the seams that run up the back of the legs. I felt pretty good.
The next question was... Where do I go?
I settled on taking the shoes out to a nice dinner. Shimmying out to my car, I headed to Nonni's. It's an Italian restaurant located on scenic main street of Smallborotonville. It's a pretty decent place, dimly lit, with probably the best food you can get in this rural part of the great state of New Nowhereton. Most importantly of all, they make halfway decent Tiramisu, which I fell totally in lust with when I went to Paris four years ago. (No seriously, I really did go to Paris. Hard to believe, but true).
So when I entered this fine establishment, I sauntered in like a cat, and told the hostess that I would really like to sit at a table near the window, if it wasn't in use or reserved. She looked a bit lost for an instant, and then said,
"Wil you be waiting for someone?"
For a moment I was a bit lost. I could feel my brows draw together in confusion. I replied, "Um, no."
And apparently, she saw something crazy in my eyes, because she backed a step away and said, "Uh, right this way."
After seating me and informing me that my "server" would be right out, she left me in a large booth where I could see the foot and car traffic outside. I crossed my legs, admired my shoes for another moment, and then just enjoyed the atmosphere and sense of freedom. For a few minutes I spaced out, and thought how wonderful it felt to be able to just do whatever I wanted on a Sunday in June.
You see, for a long time I was accustomed to having no freedom at all... a very sheltered childhood turned into an early marriage that doesn't bear dwelling on (Hell, sometimes I even forget that I was once married). So being free, even after several years (seven to be exact), still feels pretty good.
Sometime later a uniformed gentleman appeared and offered to take my order. Once again, I was asked,
"Are you expecting someone? Should I put bring another water?"
Again I was a tad flabbergasted. I mean... was there something wrong with me being there alone? Was this, like, couple's night or something? If so, they really should have put a sign in the window, something like,
"No shirt, no shoes, no DATE, no service."
I sighed. I explained once again that NO, I was not anticipating a date, I simply wanted a really expensive dessert, and I felt like getting dressed up to go get it.
Perhaps I was too forceful. This venerable gentleman flew swiftly away on winged feet.
So there I was, dressed up and feeling good... and it seemed that the world was conspiring to make me feel like crap for being alone.
And then... The gods smiled on me.
In walked my former self.
Okay, so it wasn't actually me... but seriously, this woman could have been me seven years ago. She was young, and the spark of life was still newly minted on her face. But I could also see wear there... And it hurt even my non-existent heart a little bit. She came in with a man, clearly at least ten years older than she. While they waited to be seated, he slung his arm over her shoulders in a posture of ownership that was unmistakeable for anything but the territorial move it was. In fact, I was a little surprised that he didn't just whip out his dick and piss on her. It was pathetic.
He didn't ask for a table. He demanded one. At the top of his voice.
When the hostess turned to lead them to a table, he nearly shoved her out of the way when she didn't move fast enough for him. Once at the table, he didn't wait for his companion, but grabbed a chair as though it had done something to offend him, and dragged it, kicking and screaming, from under the table before he settled it beneath him.
I tried not to stare, but my eyes continued to be drawn toward the pair. After a few minutes, I did look away, and was rewarded with a very clear view of the two reflected in the plate glass of the window I sat by.
I settled down, somewhat uncomfortably, to watch the show.
I'm telling you... From the moment I saw this guy... I recognized him. Well, not HIM specifically, but if the girl was me, then the guy was definitely...
Let's just say, his manner was familiar.
When their server arrived, (this one was an attractive female) he hit on her.
Trust me, I can't make this shit up.
Every time she came to the table, he called her "Sweetheart." Interestingly, he never seemed to use any such endearment when talking to his tablemate. In fact, all through dinner, he didn't speak her name even once. Apparently, she was of such insignificance that she didn't even merit the acknowledgment of a name, let alone any term of affection.
All through their meal, she attempted to make conversation, and she had some charming and amusing things to say. In fact, she even made me laugh a couple of times, but of course, being a seasoned eavesdropper, I quickly turned my giggles into polite coughs, and covered my mouth with my napkin.
Every attempt she made was met with either derision or condescension. When she made fun of the salt and pepper shakers, he made a snarky comment about how it was great to be married to someone who was "so easily amused." When she said that she loved her entree, he snorted and spoke through a mouthful of veal, saying, "Are you kidding? This food is shit." What a fucking charmer he was.
I think he sprayed more food on her than anything else, given how disgustingly he ate.
But saddest of all, at least to me, was that the woman--well, girl, really--seemed so genuinely happy to be out having dinner with this pathetic troll.
Thank goodness I have a social filter... Or I might have walked over and dumped my Diet Coke over his head... and then spat a few lemon seeds in his face for good measure.
However, I did restrain myself.
Well, I lingered over my dinner and my Tiramisu, and calmed my ire by telling myself that this was exactly like watching Jerry Springer, or a car wreck... It's horrible, but you just can't look away.
Eventually I worked my way through a delicious chicken marsala and an equally tempting dish of the beloved dessert. All was right in my tiny little world.
When I got up to leave, it was at almost the same time as the Troll and the Happy Clueless Princess. On my way out the door, I was only a step or so behind them.
Just as they were about to walk out the door, the Happy Clueless Princess said that she needed to use the ladies room, and brushed past me. I slowed so that I wouldn't accidentally step on her. I paused, and then I attempted to exit. Unfortunately the doorway was half blocked by the Troll.
Did I mention that he was a muscle-head? Oh yea. Ladies, watch out! If he was only half as hot as he considered himself to be, he would have been awarded his own television show, probably on the topic of how far one can kick a puppy while wearing steel-toed boots. He made me feel sick inside, as though there was a nest of rabid rats living in my stomach and fighting each other to see who could be first to eat their way out of my intestines. (Try to sleep with that image in your head boys and girls).
As I brushed past him, he glanced down at me. Actually, that's not quite accurate. He actually leered down the front of my dress, which was easy enough given that he was easily a foot taller than me. I was a little afraid that I would have to wipe some of his DNA off my neck, as he seemed in danger of drooling on me.
He cocked a smoldering eyebrow at me and actually said, "Hey baby--lookin' good."
Uhh.. He HAD to be brain-damaged. I mean, really. Ick.
Oh, but that's not the worst. Not by a long shot.
As I looked away and rushed past him, completely unresponsive to his suave line, he "accidentally" lurched a bit closer, and for an instant that will now haunt my nightmares on a regular basis, his hand was actually placed squarely on my black velvet clad ass.
Oh yeah. He did it.
Unbefuckinglievable.
All I could think was, "Oh no you DIDN'T!"
I was shocked and appalled.
Now, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I greatly enjoy the companionship of the opposite sex, and I am no prude. But whilst I would have absolutely no problem having my posterior patted in certain situations... This was NOT one of them.
And under absolutely NO circumstances would he have been my companion of choice.
In fact, if the rest of the human population died in the coming zombie apocalypse, and his were the very last XY chromosomes on the face of this planet, I'd gather my father's Binelli shotgun lovingly to my chest and cheerfully paint the wall with the contents of my skull in a festive and Pollock-esque manner.
For once in my life, I actually responded without over-thinking. Since he felt within his rights to touch my person without permission, I figured that he deserved whatever he got, and I re-paid him by touching him in return.
Of course, by "touching" I mean that I stepped directly on his foot... Four inch heel and all. Sadly, he was wearing (of course) thick boots, so I doubt I did any lasting damage.
He let out a yelp and backed up, muttering, "Friggin' humorless whore."
Which just goes to show... Some people have no sense of humor at all.
"Oops, my bad." I mumbled, and serenely sauntered away, with a swing in my hips and a song in my heart.
As I did, I reflected on a saying that a very close friend of mine often makes whenever I am depressed about the lack of a current love interest of my own...(Thanks DopeHat).
"Verge... It's better to walk alone than to walk in bad company."
That woman is as wise as Yoda, and as kick-ass as, well... Kick Ass.
Lastly,
I looked down at my amazingly kick ass shoes, listened to the jaunty click they made with each step, and I smiled.
It's good to be Queen.
And someday... there will be a King.
I have spoken.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Pirates, and Arcades, and Skee-ball--Oh Wow
When I finally flopped to the dank sand of the beach, I was completely drained. There was a huge part of me that just wanted to lay there and fall asleep.
I thought, 'If I lay here long enough... The tide will come in and just carry me away.'
It wasn't such a bad thought.
And that was scary as hell.
I mean... It's me! Think of all those lonely little geeks who would miss having me around to spaz out with! And what about the fellow saltminers who share my deeply rooted psychoses? They would be totally bereft! (Then again, they might just forget me completely... I'm so strange that most people pretty much don't even think I'm a real person, just a delusion).
"Suck it up you friggin' sally, get up and put your damn skirt on."
I actually muttered this out loud as a way of psyching myself up... And, as usual, it seemed to work fairly well.
Unfortunately the first time I tried to stand... I got nothin'. I tumbled back down to the sand like a slinky down a staircase, almost landing on a small brown dog that was walking along the beach with his family. His shrill bark, along with the extremely apprehensive stares of the couple trailing along behind him actually succeeded in making me laugh.
'Oh god, those people think I'm drunk!'
At this I laughed even louder. Thus forever and completely driving these particular bystanders away from Hampton Beach. (I've been told that I have "an evil cackle," which makes me a little sad sometimes, since I love to laugh... But then I figure, fuck it!) Of course, come to think of it... All I had eaten in the past day was a few stale biscuits and some rum, so being drunk was not entirely beyond belief.
I did feel a little woozy.
When I had recovered from my hysterical fit of laughter I struggled to my feet. One boot was gone, looking fabulous on the sea floor no doubt. Damn, I really liked that boot. Oh well, as a Buddhist I'm always looking for ways to learn how to let go of things, so I guess a boot was a good enough place to start.
I took off the other one, and my multi-tool fell out. I was ridiculously grateful. I clasped that stupid thing like a five year old with a security blanket for a moment, and then shoved it unto my waistband at the small of my back. (Note to self: Find out what happened to my blankie; and then possibly stop talking to myself... at least out loud... and in public).
Anyway, reaching deeply down into my small, dark soul, I called upon reserves that I wasn't even truly aware that I had; I jogged up the beach and toward bright lights.
I appeared to have landed just below the boardwalk of Hampton Beach. Even thought my sense of time was off, I knew it couldn't be that late.
There were lots of cars driving by, and still quite a few people on the beach. However, I didn't see any help from that direction. Most of those reclining on the sand were teenagers of the Lovebird variety, and they were far more interested in their mating rituals than in helping a bedraggled and waterlogged Pirate Queen.
So I simply staggered up the beach, and aimed myself in the direction of the loudest venue I could find.
I found a doozy.
Oh yeah, the happiest place on earth... Funspot.
God I love arcades. *sigh*
Anyway,
While still working my way up the beach, I had removed my shirt just for a minute in order to squeeze some of the excess sea water out. (Quit leering and/or retching, you perv). I figured, since my current undergarment was a corset, it probably contained more material than the average bikini, so I was safe from allegations of indecent exposure. Still, I continued to drip profusely. No one in the arcade seemed to mind overmuch.
And soon, any possible onlookers had something much more exciting to think about than plain old me, because at just that moment my charming friend and three of his crew came running into the arcade, waving cutlasses, and shouting, "There she is! Don't let her escape!"
Seriously? Seriously?
W. T. F.
Finally, I was able to summon an emotion other than exhaustion or angst.
Standing there... sopping wet... 5'2.5" tall...barefoot... hair hanging crazily around my head...
I was furious. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I had actually gone through with the operation to replace my tear ducts with lasers, I would have shot blue fire from my eyes.
And then I heard it, one of the most beautiful sounds ever invented in this universe or any other by a benevolent force. It was a low rumble, followed by a wooden clacking.
It was the sound of skee-balls rolling into place.
I didn't even have to think about it twice.
I swooped down on the teenage boy who was about to start tossing those balls, and I shoved him out of the way. I knelt, scooped, turned, and tossed them with all my might, one at a time, directly at my pursuers.
One of the first scummy swabs that came through the door took my first throw right in the chin and went over backwards like a bowling pin.
It was as if my aim that night was blessed by the gods. (And by "the gods" I of course refer to Matsuzaka, Beckett, et. al.)
One after another, the hefty wooden balls left my hand and flew straight to their targets.
It was beautiful, and I felt the righteous fury explode out of hand with every single throw.
I got every one of those knaves... None were left standing. Or so I thought.
I hate it when I get my hopes up, only to have them dashed to the rocks, like a clam dropped by a seagull.
It was that evil, laughing, "normal-looking" bastard.
I had the last ball in my hand when he emerged from behind a Super Mario Kart game, with a sword in one hand and a flint-lock pistol in the other.
And he was smiling. There was a gleam in his eye, and even a hint of a dimple.
Dammit. Why wouldn't he just die already?
(Plus, on a side note, how fair was it that he still looked charming and decently groomed, whilst I was a complete wreck? There is absolutely no god-damned justice in this world).
I cocked my arm back, prayed to Carlos Santana, and let the last projectile fly...
I thought, 'If I lay here long enough... The tide will come in and just carry me away.'
It wasn't such a bad thought.
And that was scary as hell.
I mean... It's me! Think of all those lonely little geeks who would miss having me around to spaz out with! And what about the fellow saltminers who share my deeply rooted psychoses? They would be totally bereft! (Then again, they might just forget me completely... I'm so strange that most people pretty much don't even think I'm a real person, just a delusion).
"Suck it up you friggin' sally, get up and put your damn skirt on."
I actually muttered this out loud as a way of psyching myself up... And, as usual, it seemed to work fairly well.
Unfortunately the first time I tried to stand... I got nothin'. I tumbled back down to the sand like a slinky down a staircase, almost landing on a small brown dog that was walking along the beach with his family. His shrill bark, along with the extremely apprehensive stares of the couple trailing along behind him actually succeeded in making me laugh.
'Oh god, those people think I'm drunk!'
At this I laughed even louder. Thus forever and completely driving these particular bystanders away from Hampton Beach. (I've been told that I have "an evil cackle," which makes me a little sad sometimes, since I love to laugh... But then I figure, fuck it!) Of course, come to think of it... All I had eaten in the past day was a few stale biscuits and some rum, so being drunk was not entirely beyond belief.
I did feel a little woozy.
When I had recovered from my hysterical fit of laughter I struggled to my feet. One boot was gone, looking fabulous on the sea floor no doubt. Damn, I really liked that boot. Oh well, as a Buddhist I'm always looking for ways to learn how to let go of things, so I guess a boot was a good enough place to start.
I took off the other one, and my multi-tool fell out. I was ridiculously grateful. I clasped that stupid thing like a five year old with a security blanket for a moment, and then shoved it unto my waistband at the small of my back. (Note to self: Find out what happened to my blankie; and then possibly stop talking to myself... at least out loud... and in public).
Anyway, reaching deeply down into my small, dark soul, I called upon reserves that I wasn't even truly aware that I had; I jogged up the beach and toward bright lights.
I appeared to have landed just below the boardwalk of Hampton Beach. Even thought my sense of time was off, I knew it couldn't be that late.
There were lots of cars driving by, and still quite a few people on the beach. However, I didn't see any help from that direction. Most of those reclining on the sand were teenagers of the Lovebird variety, and they were far more interested in their mating rituals than in helping a bedraggled and waterlogged Pirate Queen.
So I simply staggered up the beach, and aimed myself in the direction of the loudest venue I could find.
I found a doozy.
Oh yeah, the happiest place on earth... Funspot.
God I love arcades. *sigh*
Anyway,
While still working my way up the beach, I had removed my shirt just for a minute in order to squeeze some of the excess sea water out. (Quit leering and/or retching, you perv). I figured, since my current undergarment was a corset, it probably contained more material than the average bikini, so I was safe from allegations of indecent exposure. Still, I continued to drip profusely. No one in the arcade seemed to mind overmuch.
And soon, any possible onlookers had something much more exciting to think about than plain old me, because at just that moment my charming friend and three of his crew came running into the arcade, waving cutlasses, and shouting, "There she is! Don't let her escape!"
Seriously? Seriously?
W. T. F.
Finally, I was able to summon an emotion other than exhaustion or angst.
Standing there... sopping wet... 5'2.5" tall...barefoot... hair hanging crazily around my head...
I was furious. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if I had actually gone through with the operation to replace my tear ducts with lasers, I would have shot blue fire from my eyes.
And then I heard it, one of the most beautiful sounds ever invented in this universe or any other by a benevolent force. It was a low rumble, followed by a wooden clacking.
It was the sound of skee-balls rolling into place.
I didn't even have to think about it twice.
I swooped down on the teenage boy who was about to start tossing those balls, and I shoved him out of the way. I knelt, scooped, turned, and tossed them with all my might, one at a time, directly at my pursuers.
One of the first scummy swabs that came through the door took my first throw right in the chin and went over backwards like a bowling pin.
It was as if my aim that night was blessed by the gods. (And by "the gods" I of course refer to Matsuzaka, Beckett, et. al.)
One after another, the hefty wooden balls left my hand and flew straight to their targets.
It was beautiful, and I felt the righteous fury explode out of hand with every single throw.
I got every one of those knaves... None were left standing. Or so I thought.
I hate it when I get my hopes up, only to have them dashed to the rocks, like a clam dropped by a seagull.
It was that evil, laughing, "normal-looking" bastard.
I had the last ball in my hand when he emerged from behind a Super Mario Kart game, with a sword in one hand and a flint-lock pistol in the other.
And he was smiling. There was a gleam in his eye, and even a hint of a dimple.
Dammit. Why wouldn't he just die already?
(Plus, on a side note, how fair was it that he still looked charming and decently groomed, whilst I was a complete wreck? There is absolutely no god-damned justice in this world).
I cocked my arm back, prayed to Carlos Santana, and let the last projectile fly...
Friday, June 11, 2010
The PQ Escapes... Almost
So, there I was, stuck in the hold.
As quietly as possibly I suited up, wrapping the rope loosely in a chord over one shoulder after tying the grapnel hook to one end. I stuffed the multi-tool back in my boot, shoved The Catcher in the Rye into my back pocket, rolled up the Playboy into as tight a tube as I could (hey, stop your snickering, n00b), and tossed back a shot of rum by sticking my head under a spigot in the end of one of the casks.
I then took a deep breath and attempted to climb the ladder quietly. It was of stout construction, so this gave me little difficulty. The problem came when I reached the summit of my climb… How was I to open the door without calling attention to myself?
I settled down to wait for the coming darkness.
It felt like I was stuck to that ladder like a fly in amber… and the Jurassic Period was in no hurry to end.
Still, as I have found out for myself in life, if you wait long enough, eventually something good will happen (usually completely by “accident”).
Unfortunately... the "something good" generally happens after you have been buried under a mountain of shit for a few years.
But ANYWAYS...
Darkness dropped over the deck like a squirrel shot from a tree branch (which is to say, rather quickly and with a lot of squeaking). The squeaking was the result of various and sundry implements being worked on as crew members finished their assignments for the day and proceeded to the galley in order to obtain their daily ration of both vittles and pirate grog (AKA rum). Tense and with every muscle in my body clenched like a closed fist, I slowly began to raise the door open enough for the tiniest sliver of the deck to be visible. I saw a few last crew members disappearing from deck, and things seemed quiet enough. I very nearly flung the trap door open right then. (A.D.D. Strikes Again!!) But something I couldn't quite explain led me to be cautious for a few minutes longer.
I was hampered by being able to see only to one side of the trap door. For all I knew there was an enormous quartermaster standing directly behind the door, watching it move and waiting to reorganize my face into new and exciting shapes that would forever make me an outcast in polite society… Um, wait. Correction. It would make me MORE of an outcast in polite society than I had been hitherto.
Continuing very slowly, I raised the trap and ascended another step of the ladder. As of yet, there had been no cries of “Escaped Prisoner!!” or, “Look out below!!” So I was cautiously optimistic.
Naturally, at that very moment, disaster befell me.
Quite suddenly, I began to encounter resistance from the trap. Thinking that there must be something leaning on it from the other side, I pushed a bit harder… The force working against me was equal, and the trap again moved just a bit and then stopped.
I felt a single rivulet of flop sweat trickle down my spine.
The hand that clasped the rolled up magazine with all the naked ladies in it grew damp.
‘Oh great,’ I groaned internally, ‘I’m going to have a stamp of the Playboy bunny on my palm… You are one CLASS ACT, Your majesty.’
I’ll admit it… I broke.
I ended all attempts at subtlety and shoved with all my power against the force holding me down. This unexpectedly worked for a few moments, and the trap rose up and to the side. I then lleaped, as well as I could onto the deck of the ship, dragging the grapnel hook out of the hold as well. I hit the deck with a thump and a muttered curse, and I tried to roll swiftly to my feet without gouging myself on the hook’s several barbs.
As I rose, the trap slammed to the deck, and there was a low sound of laughter from a few feet away.
“Oh Holy Mother of Carlos,” I swore. I recognized that laughter... And I also recognized the faint aroma.
It was him… the very same scoundrel I’d doused earlier. All I could think was that he must’ve been set to guard me. And then it occurred to me that he must’ve been behind the trap the entire time… watching… toying with me… waiting to spring at me like some stupid Jack-in-the-Box. I shuddered inside... What kind of voyeuristic psycho was this guy?
As a wise man once said, "We be f**ked!"
I grew… Perturbed.
And by "perturbed" I mean that I fought off an enormous urge to leave a puddle on the deck of the ship. Psychos, I can handle. Murderous pirate thugs? No problemo. Serial killers? Pu-lease.
But having someone watch me, give me just a tiny ray of hope, and then spring to attack?
Well, that's just downright MEAN.
Clearly... He had to be punished. I graciously took this duty upon myself.
There was more deep laughter, I could actually feel it rumbling in my sternum like the base when you stand close to a speaker at a concert. It was disconcerting as hell.
And so was this guy...Seriously. I mean, I know you're expecting some kind of cross between Al Pacino and an enormous Pro-wrestler a la Triple H or The Rock... But that wasn't him at all. I think the scariest thing was that he looked so... Normal. To be honest, that freaked me out more than anything. He probably stood about 5'8", he had shortish brown hair and an (almost) neatly trimmed goatee. His face was somewhat angular, and he was dressed (again, almost) respectably... (For a pirate anyway).
He was... like... I don't know... Someone I might invite to join my own crew of scurvy knaves if he proved himself to be trustworthy.
And then I realized why I instinctively feared this guy...
1. He appeared normal, even, dare I say... Presentable. (Hell, if I were a normal woman instead of a raging Pirate Queen with a myriad of loyal subjects to protect and an even more vast array of enemies to fight, I might even take him bowling or something... I mean, I'm still a girl after all).
2. He clearly had a gift for intimidation and psychic terror.
3. He was getting a thrill out of besting me.
4. He thought that I was amusing.
DAMMIT! THAT BASTARD!
He was using my own SHTICK against... ME!!
I'M THE ONE PEOPLE ARE SUPPOSED TO UNDERESTIMATE!!
I had only a few good choices here... I had to either: kill him, run like hell, or talk him into joining my side in whatever the coming fight was going to be.
And then he took a swaggering step over the trapdoor and toward me. That decided the matter.
To hell with this pansy-ass whining, Verge.
I'm the freaking QUEEN!
So I charged him, lowering my head and aiming for the middle of his body. I was hoping that I’d manage to knock the wind out of him and leave him gasping on the deck.
The result was both good and bad… I heard the abrupt sound of wind leaving his lungs as my head made contact, and that was good. However, I hadn’t made my move quite quickly enough, and I’d managed to give him just a split second during which I had telegraphed my intention with very easily recognizable body language. In that instant he managed to tighten his stomach muscles just enough to avoid being totally disabled by my move.
Just hoping for a quick escape, I pushed him with both hands and let the momentum carry us both to the deck.
Now that did the trick. I hit him like an amadillo hits the grill of a semi… and I was NOT careful about where my knee happened to end up.
Sadly, he appeared to know how to take a hit. Oh well, you win some… you don’t… win some…
Still, before he could collect himself fully and attempt to slow my escape, I leaped up and ran for the ship’s railing… I intended to be over the side and away with no other crew members the wiser before he, or anyone else could stop me. I could hear him behind me, cursing and rolling to his feet.
With absolutely no thought whatsoever, I turned back, and pegged him with the Playboy just as hard as I could… It was a thick issue, and it hit him right in the face. I sure hoped he enjoyed the full-frontal of Miss June that hit him square in nose.
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
To be honest, the sound that emerged from his (now bruised, I hoped) mouth was more like a howl.
Oh shit.
I focused all my efforts on reaching the ship's rail, put my hand down on it, and threw myself over the side of the tub and into the rolling sea very far below.
As I sank into the briny depths I hoped for either a swift demise, or a kind soul to assist me in my escape. And I swam like a dolphin.
When I broke the surface just moments later, I heard the sound of yelling behind and above me, and I heard the clank and clatter of a small boat being lowered down the side of the ship.
And a splash, as someone landed in the water behind me.
The next words I heard would have chilled me to the bone if I hadn't already been as cold as a glacier in Antarctica...
The voice carried across the water with no hint of fear, surprise, or even malice.
He said,
"Don't make me come after you."
I actually considered just... sinking into the depths.
But then the moon emerged from behind a cloud... and I struck out for shore as silently as I could manage...
And I prayed for a shark to eat my pursuer.
As quietly as possibly I suited up, wrapping the rope loosely in a chord over one shoulder after tying the grapnel hook to one end. I stuffed the multi-tool back in my boot, shoved The Catcher in the Rye into my back pocket, rolled up the Playboy into as tight a tube as I could (hey, stop your snickering, n00b), and tossed back a shot of rum by sticking my head under a spigot in the end of one of the casks.
I then took a deep breath and attempted to climb the ladder quietly. It was of stout construction, so this gave me little difficulty. The problem came when I reached the summit of my climb… How was I to open the door without calling attention to myself?
I settled down to wait for the coming darkness.
It felt like I was stuck to that ladder like a fly in amber… and the Jurassic Period was in no hurry to end.
Still, as I have found out for myself in life, if you wait long enough, eventually something good will happen (usually completely by “accident”).
Unfortunately... the "something good" generally happens after you have been buried under a mountain of shit for a few years.
But ANYWAYS...
Darkness dropped over the deck like a squirrel shot from a tree branch (which is to say, rather quickly and with a lot of squeaking). The squeaking was the result of various and sundry implements being worked on as crew members finished their assignments for the day and proceeded to the galley in order to obtain their daily ration of both vittles and pirate grog (AKA rum). Tense and with every muscle in my body clenched like a closed fist, I slowly began to raise the door open enough for the tiniest sliver of the deck to be visible. I saw a few last crew members disappearing from deck, and things seemed quiet enough. I very nearly flung the trap door open right then. (A.D.D. Strikes Again!!) But something I couldn't quite explain led me to be cautious for a few minutes longer.
I was hampered by being able to see only to one side of the trap door. For all I knew there was an enormous quartermaster standing directly behind the door, watching it move and waiting to reorganize my face into new and exciting shapes that would forever make me an outcast in polite society… Um, wait. Correction. It would make me MORE of an outcast in polite society than I had been hitherto.
Continuing very slowly, I raised the trap and ascended another step of the ladder. As of yet, there had been no cries of “Escaped Prisoner!!” or, “Look out below!!” So I was cautiously optimistic.
Naturally, at that very moment, disaster befell me.
Quite suddenly, I began to encounter resistance from the trap. Thinking that there must be something leaning on it from the other side, I pushed a bit harder… The force working against me was equal, and the trap again moved just a bit and then stopped.
I felt a single rivulet of flop sweat trickle down my spine.
The hand that clasped the rolled up magazine with all the naked ladies in it grew damp.
‘Oh great,’ I groaned internally, ‘I’m going to have a stamp of the Playboy bunny on my palm… You are one CLASS ACT, Your majesty.’
I’ll admit it… I broke.
I ended all attempts at subtlety and shoved with all my power against the force holding me down. This unexpectedly worked for a few moments, and the trap rose up and to the side. I then lleaped, as well as I could onto the deck of the ship, dragging the grapnel hook out of the hold as well. I hit the deck with a thump and a muttered curse, and I tried to roll swiftly to my feet without gouging myself on the hook’s several barbs.
As I rose, the trap slammed to the deck, and there was a low sound of laughter from a few feet away.
“Oh Holy Mother of Carlos,” I swore. I recognized that laughter... And I also recognized the faint aroma.
It was him… the very same scoundrel I’d doused earlier. All I could think was that he must’ve been set to guard me. And then it occurred to me that he must’ve been behind the trap the entire time… watching… toying with me… waiting to spring at me like some stupid Jack-in-the-Box. I shuddered inside... What kind of voyeuristic psycho was this guy?
As a wise man once said, "We be f**ked!"
I grew… Perturbed.
And by "perturbed" I mean that I fought off an enormous urge to leave a puddle on the deck of the ship. Psychos, I can handle. Murderous pirate thugs? No problemo. Serial killers? Pu-lease.
But having someone watch me, give me just a tiny ray of hope, and then spring to attack?
Well, that's just downright MEAN.
Clearly... He had to be punished. I graciously took this duty upon myself.
There was more deep laughter, I could actually feel it rumbling in my sternum like the base when you stand close to a speaker at a concert. It was disconcerting as hell.
And so was this guy...Seriously. I mean, I know you're expecting some kind of cross between Al Pacino and an enormous Pro-wrestler a la Triple H or The Rock... But that wasn't him at all. I think the scariest thing was that he looked so... Normal. To be honest, that freaked me out more than anything. He probably stood about 5'8", he had shortish brown hair and an (almost) neatly trimmed goatee. His face was somewhat angular, and he was dressed (again, almost) respectably... (For a pirate anyway).
He was... like... I don't know... Someone I might invite to join my own crew of scurvy knaves if he proved himself to be trustworthy.
And then I realized why I instinctively feared this guy...
1. He appeared normal, even, dare I say... Presentable. (Hell, if I were a normal woman instead of a raging Pirate Queen with a myriad of loyal subjects to protect and an even more vast array of enemies to fight, I might even take him bowling or something... I mean, I'm still a girl after all).
2. He clearly had a gift for intimidation and psychic terror.
3. He was getting a thrill out of besting me.
4. He thought that I was amusing.
DAMMIT! THAT BASTARD!
He was using my own SHTICK against... ME!!
I'M THE ONE PEOPLE ARE SUPPOSED TO UNDERESTIMATE!!
I had only a few good choices here... I had to either: kill him, run like hell, or talk him into joining my side in whatever the coming fight was going to be.
And then he took a swaggering step over the trapdoor and toward me. That decided the matter.
To hell with this pansy-ass whining, Verge.
I'm the freaking QUEEN!
So I charged him, lowering my head and aiming for the middle of his body. I was hoping that I’d manage to knock the wind out of him and leave him gasping on the deck.
The result was both good and bad… I heard the abrupt sound of wind leaving his lungs as my head made contact, and that was good. However, I hadn’t made my move quite quickly enough, and I’d managed to give him just a split second during which I had telegraphed my intention with very easily recognizable body language. In that instant he managed to tighten his stomach muscles just enough to avoid being totally disabled by my move.
Just hoping for a quick escape, I pushed him with both hands and let the momentum carry us both to the deck.
Now that did the trick. I hit him like an amadillo hits the grill of a semi… and I was NOT careful about where my knee happened to end up.
Sadly, he appeared to know how to take a hit. Oh well, you win some… you don’t… win some…
Still, before he could collect himself fully and attempt to slow my escape, I leaped up and ran for the ship’s railing… I intended to be over the side and away with no other crew members the wiser before he, or anyone else could stop me. I could hear him behind me, cursing and rolling to his feet.
With absolutely no thought whatsoever, I turned back, and pegged him with the Playboy just as hard as I could… It was a thick issue, and it hit him right in the face. I sure hoped he enjoyed the full-frontal of Miss June that hit him square in nose.
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
To be honest, the sound that emerged from his (now bruised, I hoped) mouth was more like a howl.
Oh shit.
I focused all my efforts on reaching the ship's rail, put my hand down on it, and threw myself over the side of the tub and into the rolling sea very far below.
As I sank into the briny depths I hoped for either a swift demise, or a kind soul to assist me in my escape. And I swam like a dolphin.
When I broke the surface just moments later, I heard the sound of yelling behind and above me, and I heard the clank and clatter of a small boat being lowered down the side of the ship.
And a splash, as someone landed in the water behind me.
The next words I heard would have chilled me to the bone if I hadn't already been as cold as a glacier in Antarctica...
The voice carried across the water with no hint of fear, surprise, or even malice.
He said,
"Don't make me come after you."
I actually considered just... sinking into the depths.
But then the moon emerged from behind a cloud... and I struck out for shore as silently as I could manage...
And I prayed for a shark to eat my pursuer.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
So...About Being Captured...Yeaaah
Well, I believe that I began telling you about a sparkling experience that I had when I was recently captured by some of my own kind. Naturally, being the evil wench that I am... I totally left you hanging.
I'd say I'm sorry, but it would be a total lie.
So anyway, there I was, bound in tight cording and lying on the floor of the ship's hold.
Some scurvy scoundrel had just attempted to water me like a horse at a trough and I showed my gratitude by spraying him in the face with a mouthful of the rancid stuff.
And he laughed.
Strangely, I anticipated something other than humor as a response, but what the hell did I know? I mean, seriously, my frigging head was still pounding from a blow to the head.
Anyway, when he finished his laughter with a good-natured snort, he knelt down again and said, "Happy? Shall we try this again, or do I leave you in the dark for a few more hours to think it over?"
His insistence on being friendly totally pissed me off.
I growled.
Though I still couldn't make out any specific features, I could see the outline of his head, and he shook it slowly to show his disappointment. The light coming from outside caught the curve of a hoop earring, and it momentarily blinded me.
I blinked, and then said in a slightly raspy voice, "Umm... Cliche much?"
He put his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet, saying "You'll come to your senses eventually Queenie... Or if not... There are some big rats down here..." And then proceeded to climb the ladder out like a monkey, thunking the trap door closed.
I listened closely. No sound of chains. No click of a key turning in a lock.
Best. News. Ever.
For a few moments, I simply lay still in an attempt to scan my body for any other signs of abuse, but other than the enormous pain in my throbbing head, I didn't feel particularly misused. Though of course, I was tied like a mummy. It was humiliating... and whoever had tied the knots hadn't been some pathetic landlubber, he or she had known exactly what they were doing.
Fiddle-dee-dee Batman.
They were pretty good... But as you of all people well know...
I'm better.
It was "the work of a moment" to extricate myself from bondage (Thank Carlos I always have that multi-tool stowed away in my boot for just such emergencies).
Soon I was rummaging through the supplies in the hold, and this is what I found:
-Lots of rope
-A grapnel hook
-3 stale biscuts
-Lots of barrels of rum
-A copy of The Catcher in the Rye
-A box of pirated (ha ha) DVDs
-A waterlogged June 1998 Playboy magazine
Well... it wasn't exactly an arsenal... But I had recovered my faith in myself, and I knew that I would make good my escape ASAP.
And although I didn't know exactly what time it was, I could tell that the light coming from the seal around the trapdoor was definitely weaker... all it would take was some guts and a little bit of good luck.
With a prayer that karma would be on my side in the coming battle, I geared up and prepared myself.
Let's see how it turns out, shall we?
I'd say I'm sorry, but it would be a total lie.
So anyway, there I was, bound in tight cording and lying on the floor of the ship's hold.
Some scurvy scoundrel had just attempted to water me like a horse at a trough and I showed my gratitude by spraying him in the face with a mouthful of the rancid stuff.
And he laughed.
Strangely, I anticipated something other than humor as a response, but what the hell did I know? I mean, seriously, my frigging head was still pounding from a blow to the head.
Anyway, when he finished his laughter with a good-natured snort, he knelt down again and said, "Happy? Shall we try this again, or do I leave you in the dark for a few more hours to think it over?"
His insistence on being friendly totally pissed me off.
I growled.
Though I still couldn't make out any specific features, I could see the outline of his head, and he shook it slowly to show his disappointment. The light coming from outside caught the curve of a hoop earring, and it momentarily blinded me.
I blinked, and then said in a slightly raspy voice, "Umm... Cliche much?"
He put his hands on his knees and pushed to his feet, saying "You'll come to your senses eventually Queenie... Or if not... There are some big rats down here..." And then proceeded to climb the ladder out like a monkey, thunking the trap door closed.
I listened closely. No sound of chains. No click of a key turning in a lock.
Best. News. Ever.
For a few moments, I simply lay still in an attempt to scan my body for any other signs of abuse, but other than the enormous pain in my throbbing head, I didn't feel particularly misused. Though of course, I was tied like a mummy. It was humiliating... and whoever had tied the knots hadn't been some pathetic landlubber, he or she had known exactly what they were doing.
Fiddle-dee-dee Batman.
They were pretty good... But as you of all people well know...
I'm better.
It was "the work of a moment" to extricate myself from bondage (Thank Carlos I always have that multi-tool stowed away in my boot for just such emergencies).
Soon I was rummaging through the supplies in the hold, and this is what I found:
-Lots of rope
-A grapnel hook
-3 stale biscuts
-Lots of barrels of rum
-A copy of The Catcher in the Rye
-A box of pirated (ha ha) DVDs
-A waterlogged June 1998 Playboy magazine
Well... it wasn't exactly an arsenal... But I had recovered my faith in myself, and I knew that I would make good my escape ASAP.
And although I didn't know exactly what time it was, I could tell that the light coming from the seal around the trapdoor was definitely weaker... all it would take was some guts and a little bit of good luck.
With a prayer that karma would be on my side in the coming battle, I geared up and prepared myself.
Let's see how it turns out, shall we?
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
A Pirate Queen Missive to "The Quiet Ones"
It has been recently brought to my attention, that when I was myself but a wee kidlet, I was oppressed.
I don't mean by Tha Man, or by The System, or anything else... Nope. I was oppressed by good, old-fashioned love, with the best of intentions. Don't worry, this is not an anti-family diatribe. I love my family. I would not trade them under any circumstances.
However, I was most definitely oppressed.
Now on to the good stuff.
Here's what... I recently saw an old teacher of mine. She recognized me immediately, and we had a short conversation. When I mentioned that I was a bit surprised that she remembered me, she said,
"Oh, I think most teachers remember the quiet ones, especially when the other kids in class were absolute horrors on a daily basis."
Well... I think this pretty much sums it up.
Unfortunately, us "Quiet Ones" rarely get the recognition we deserve. The glory, and sadly, most of the attention seems to be dedicated to either the Superstars, or the Psychos.
That is so totally unfair. Seriously.
And frankly, it pisses me off.
To that end, I would like to dedicate this small missive to "the Quiet Ones."
Dear Students:
You, ladies and gentlemen, are the backbone of every teacher's life. You are the ones who get us through the days when we are positive that no one is listening, that everyone wants us to die horrible screaming deaths, and that all the kids we work with are determined to make us look foolish and show us up as clueless half-wits who shouldn't even be allowed to collect a check.
You know who you are. You sit in the back of the room. Usually, you have no desire to be there. Still, when I ask you for your homework, or I tell you to get started, you quietly follow directions, and try to give me what I ask for.
In every class, in every year, there are a few of you. You know who you are. You're the one who just wants to get the job done and get the hell out of school. You are the one who is dying NOT to be noticed by the teacher, let alone called on. You are the one who dodges insults in the hall and dreads every single syllable that is forced past your stammering lips. You smile, or don't, and just try to get by.
I want you to know this.
I remember you.
When you were in my classroom, I saw that you liked to read, and I loaded you down with every book I could find. I looked forward to having the chance to talk about those books with you when you came in early or were the last person out of the classroom. I admired you for all the talent that I could see and you could not. I got pissed off on your behalf when other kids either acted like you weren't there, or gave you even a minuscule hard time. I came up with lessons and projects that I was pretty sure that you would like, and I organized my classroom so that you didn't have to have attention called to you unless you wanted it. I have tried to find things to joke about with you, and you alone, so that you would know that someone knew you were there, and someone who was part of the system cared about you. Seeing you when you were happy or we had a good chat, even if it was quick, totally made my day; and when you were sad, depressed, or angry, I worried about you on my drive home.
I have tried to make myself look like an absolute n00b as often as possible, in order to give you a reason to smile, and to keep coming back to my class. I hung around after school in order to participate, organize, or just watch your activities. I thought you were so freaking cool... and I wished everyone else could see it too.
And I knew, one day, no matter how far away... They WOULD see it.
Greatness already had a foothold in your soul.
And I remember your victories.
I saw you grow and change, from someone who wouldn't say anything, to someone with something important and special to say. I saw you gradually shed fear like a butterfly sheds its cocoon.
I am very, very proud of you.
I hope you go on to live your dream, and I hope that you will look back on me fondly as someone who made school just a little less awful. I hope you felt that I was someone you could trust, or at least not hate.
I hope I wasn't one of the people who ever hurt or disappointed you.
If I was, please, please take pity on me and try to forgive me. I know that I really am a clueless half-wit at times, but I will keep doing my best. For you, and in your honor.
I think you are so freaking awesome and amazing that there really are no words.
But the most important thing for you to know is... I admire your courage. You are one tough human being. It was, and is, so hard to be you. But you are a true survivor. When you were in school, everyone else had control over what you could say and do... But you made it.
You.
I just hope that you know how I feel.
I would give you a kidney if you asked. Hell, I'd give you both.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Sincerely,
The Pirate Queen
I don't mean by Tha Man, or by The System, or anything else... Nope. I was oppressed by good, old-fashioned love, with the best of intentions. Don't worry, this is not an anti-family diatribe. I love my family. I would not trade them under any circumstances.
However, I was most definitely oppressed.
Now on to the good stuff.
Here's what... I recently saw an old teacher of mine. She recognized me immediately, and we had a short conversation. When I mentioned that I was a bit surprised that she remembered me, she said,
"Oh, I think most teachers remember the quiet ones, especially when the other kids in class were absolute horrors on a daily basis."
Well... I think this pretty much sums it up.
Unfortunately, us "Quiet Ones" rarely get the recognition we deserve. The glory, and sadly, most of the attention seems to be dedicated to either the Superstars, or the Psychos.
That is so totally unfair. Seriously.
And frankly, it pisses me off.
To that end, I would like to dedicate this small missive to "the Quiet Ones."
Dear Students:
You, ladies and gentlemen, are the backbone of every teacher's life. You are the ones who get us through the days when we are positive that no one is listening, that everyone wants us to die horrible screaming deaths, and that all the kids we work with are determined to make us look foolish and show us up as clueless half-wits who shouldn't even be allowed to collect a check.
You know who you are. You sit in the back of the room. Usually, you have no desire to be there. Still, when I ask you for your homework, or I tell you to get started, you quietly follow directions, and try to give me what I ask for.
In every class, in every year, there are a few of you. You know who you are. You're the one who just wants to get the job done and get the hell out of school. You are the one who is dying NOT to be noticed by the teacher, let alone called on. You are the one who dodges insults in the hall and dreads every single syllable that is forced past your stammering lips. You smile, or don't, and just try to get by.
I want you to know this.
I remember you.
When you were in my classroom, I saw that you liked to read, and I loaded you down with every book I could find. I looked forward to having the chance to talk about those books with you when you came in early or were the last person out of the classroom. I admired you for all the talent that I could see and you could not. I got pissed off on your behalf when other kids either acted like you weren't there, or gave you even a minuscule hard time. I came up with lessons and projects that I was pretty sure that you would like, and I organized my classroom so that you didn't have to have attention called to you unless you wanted it. I have tried to find things to joke about with you, and you alone, so that you would know that someone knew you were there, and someone who was part of the system cared about you. Seeing you when you were happy or we had a good chat, even if it was quick, totally made my day; and when you were sad, depressed, or angry, I worried about you on my drive home.
I have tried to make myself look like an absolute n00b as often as possible, in order to give you a reason to smile, and to keep coming back to my class. I hung around after school in order to participate, organize, or just watch your activities. I thought you were so freaking cool... and I wished everyone else could see it too.
And I knew, one day, no matter how far away... They WOULD see it.
Greatness already had a foothold in your soul.
And I remember your victories.
I saw you grow and change, from someone who wouldn't say anything, to someone with something important and special to say. I saw you gradually shed fear like a butterfly sheds its cocoon.
I am very, very proud of you.
I hope you go on to live your dream, and I hope that you will look back on me fondly as someone who made school just a little less awful. I hope you felt that I was someone you could trust, or at least not hate.
I hope I wasn't one of the people who ever hurt or disappointed you.
If I was, please, please take pity on me and try to forgive me. I know that I really am a clueless half-wit at times, but I will keep doing my best. For you, and in your honor.
I think you are so freaking awesome and amazing that there really are no words.
But the most important thing for you to know is... I admire your courage. You are one tough human being. It was, and is, so hard to be you. But you are a true survivor. When you were in school, everyone else had control over what you could say and do... But you made it.
You.
I just hope that you know how I feel.
I would give you a kidney if you asked. Hell, I'd give you both.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Sincerely,
The Pirate Queen
Monday, June 7, 2010
The Pirate Queen Learns Humility
People are always telling me... "Wow, you have some great stories, you should write a book."
Well, easy for them to say; most of them don't have 3 jobs.
But still, here's a story that I don't usually tell. There are a couple of reasons for this:
1. It's deeply important to me.
2. I'm kind of a jerk in it.
3. It means more to me than I can possibly say.
Yeah, I know. I mean, sure, I'm all about kicking ass and taking names, but generally my violent crimes, whether physical, emotional, or verbal, are focused upon the deserving... In this case,
Not so much.
Anyway, if you haven't already turned your brain off... Here it goes.
Once upon a time there was a young Saltminer. She was only in her second year of teaching, and she had even more to learn then than she does now.
She was working in a small outpost in a hot building, toiling daily with some of the worst dregs of the dysfunctional system we here call "education." She was what was called a "Behavioral Program Director." This means that any kid who was a problem, any kid who pissed off a teacher or just hated school was sent to her. She did not have a clue how to help half of them.
She was 22 years old.
She was still quite idealistic and hard-working, but perhaps she should have been just a bit more humble... after all, she was at least 5 years away from being the ass-busting Pirate Queen she would one day become.
Then again, perhaps she never would have become that very person without this particular experience.
One day, into her quiet and lonely classroom tromped a very angry young inmate. Although only 15 years old, he was nearly 6 feet tall, looked like Vin Diesel (haircut and all), and had numerous cuts and abrasions all over his visible form. Most notably, each of his knuckles was the size of a very large marble. The look on his face didn't just scream anger... It also bespoke a world-weariness I hadn't seen on some 40 year olds.
I welcomed him effusively into the program, and told him all about what he would be required to do, as well as the myriad ways that I could potentially help him to fulfill his educational potential.
At which point, I simply stopped talking. During this entire recitation, he had remained stoically silent.
Our eyes met.
And the staring commenced.
For the next 37 minutes, neither of us said a thing.
Not one single word.
It was eerie.
When the bell rang, he pushed back his chair, and walked out of the room to the tune of me cheerfully stating, "See you tomorrow, Aidan!"
He stopped for a second, and seemed to shake his head. Shocked that I apparently hadn't been fazed by his complete failure to communicate with me.
After he left I went to my desk, took a slightly shaky sip of cold coffee, and laughed an equally shaky laugh.
I was positive I would never see him again.
I was wrong... and thank goodness for that, otherwise this story would be an even bigger dud than it appears to be.
The next day, Aidan once again appeared in my room. He stood in the doorway, seemingly afraid to cross the threshold until I once again welcomed him with a thundering, "Hi there!"
He stepped through, sat down, and again said nothing.
Sensing that this could go on forever, I grabbed a folder which contained some of his assignments, and said, "Hey, let's go next door."
I don't know where this inspiration came from, but it proved to be one of my best choices ever. Once we were in the room next door (a small cluttered office instead of a large brightly lit classroom) he actually started talking to me... of his own volition. I learned that he was a skater and cyclist, that he generally got beaten to shit by his feats of daring, and that he had three brothers he was responsible for. This last fact is particularly ironic, since he was the youngest of the four. I have met the others... and even at 15 he surpassed all of them in both drive and intellect. I gave him a slip to sign so that he could be in my "Anger Management" class. (Oh, and don't think that I don't appreciate the supreme ridiculousness of ME teaching a class like that).
He then informed me that it probably wouldn't get signed unless he himself did the signing. When I asked why, he very frankly told me that his father was illiterate, and he had no idea where his mother was or who she might be shacking up with.
I gave him a pen and said, "Meet me next door when the slip has been signed."
30 seconds later he was in my room, the slip was stowed in the appropriate folder, we talked a bit more about extreme sports, the bell rang, and he was gone.
Thus began a year long journey for me and Aidan. Though we did have several rough patches, he would always show up in my room, and in pure self defense, we bonded. He told me once with complete honesty and lack of any form of sucking up that I was the only teacher that he had ever trusted.
By the end of that year, he had been kicked out of almost every class he was enrolled in. Of course, in their infinite wisdom, the school had him transferred to me. Oh yes friends and neighbors, I was now basically the sole responsible party in charge of this angry young man's education. (Me, the shop teacher, and the PE teacher... Those were the only two classes he was still actually attending).
One 20-something year, celebrated and venerable veteran of the Saltmine (who to this day is still lauded as being the "best" teacher who ever worked at the Saltmine) told me in these exact words that he would no longer be teaching this young man:
"He's a hoodlum. I won't have him in my classroom. He's your problem now. Good-fucking-luck."
All I could think was, 'What a self important ass-face.'
For the most part, Aidan was fine with this situation. He told me several times, very clearly, that school was not important to him in any way, and that I was one of the only people there that he didn't consider to be a complete asshole.
And so it went.
I was able to work with him, and ultimately he passed social studies, English, and science. He also got a half a credit for Spanish. (Yes, I was teaching him that as well... Just imagine).
But the greatest struggle by far... was math.
Oh yeah. Me. Teaching math.
But, regardless... he and I began making slow progress.
Some time around March, I actually got him to take home some math work to complete. I was confident not only that he could do it, but that he would do it.
Naturally... Pride goeth before the fall, as the poet once said.
The next day, he came into school, back pack in hand. I greeted him at the door, just as happy as a stupid little lark, and asked how he had fared with his homework.
He stared straight through me and calmly said,
"I didn't do it."
There was a long moment of silence in which I could practically feel the world revolving under my feet.
And then came the disappointment.
It was closely followed by a white hot rage so intense that I could feel my whole body shaking. I mentally punched myself in the face. What the hell had I been thinking? What the hell had I been wasting my time for?
There was a moment at which I nearly chose to simply put my head down on my desk and sob.
Worthless.
I should have been a tire sales person. Fuck teaching.
Instead, I said, "Let's go out in the hall." (That was probably the one and only good decision I made for the next 10 minute span, as there were several other students in my room at the time).
I stalked out the door, and stood in an alcove next to the ancient saltmine elevator. I waited there for him to follow, which he did... very, very slowly.
Once he was standing within a few feet of me, I let go of my fury.
Generally, on the few occasions when I am truly pissed off and say so, I almost always completely forget what I say. This is, in fact, one reason why I control my temper so very tightly. Part of me lives in fear of truly wounding anyone with my words. However, on this occasion I remember with crystalline clarity the words I spoke. I said,
"You didn't do it. Umm... I realize that all of this is probably just a joke to you, but we both worked really hard, and you have learned a lot. You told me that you would finish that work, and like a complete moron, I trusted you. Tell me, Aidan... Should I even be bothering? Am I just wasting my time? Because if I am, please say so now."
Eternally long pause.
At this point I was nearly speechless with fury. But I finally ended with the following gem of ineptitude: "Can you at least explain why you didn't just finish? I know that you could have. Why didn't you just do it at home like I asked? Why?"
At this point, I had finally simmered down enough to actually look at Aidan. Up until then I had been furiously staring at the elevator doors, the floor, the wall... anything but him. I was so pissed, I couldn't even look at him. I very nearly hated him... but I hated myself more for actually believing that I was helping him.
But when I finally did look, this is what I saw. Here was this enormous kid who looked older than I did, shaved head and all. His shoulders were slumped; he was staring at the floor, and his fists were, for once, unclenched, and just hanging by his sides as though they weren't even attached to his body. He looked exactly the way I felt.
Completely and utterly defeated.
Finally, as I stared at him he raised his head. His eyes met mine for the barest instant, and he whispered something in a hoarse voice that I couldn't understand. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
"What?" I said in a somewhat louder voice than usual, in an attempt to re-summon my anger. That one quick glance, as short as it had been, had hit me like a punch in the kidney.
There was a shorter pause, and in a slightly louder voice he said,
"Because you're not there when I go home."
This time I really was stunned speechless. Plus, I was afraid I would actually start crying... Which is something I never do in front of anyone. Ever.
I looked him in the eye again, said, "Grab your jacket. We're going for a walk."
For the rest of the period we did nothing except circle the outside of the school building. After an initial 10 minutes of silence, he finally began talking.
I didn't say much.
In fact I said nothing. I only nodded a few times.
What I learned was that when he arrived home, he started doing the homework. Not long afterward, his father returned from "work" (AKA drinking with his friends). When he saw Aidan at the table working, he began to laugh, and said, "What the fuck are YOU doing?"
When Aidan explained that he was doing math homework, his father responded with this brilliant quip, "What the fuck are you wasting your time on that for? You're just as stupid as a rock! It don't matter what you do, you'll always be a loser."
And of course, he proceeded to kick the chair Aidan was sitting in, nearly knocking it to the floor.
I had absolutely no idea how to respond to this information.
None.
Nothing they teach you in "teacher school" can ever prepare you for that.
Instead, when the bell rang we went back to my classroom, he took out his math homework, finished it, and asked me if I would take it to the teacher for him.
I did.
We never spoke of the incident again, I never asked him to take his work home again, and he continued to come to my room 4 out of seven periods every day.
He passed math. With a D-.
On the last day of school that year, I told him that I was prouder of him that I could ever be of anyone if I lived to be 1,000 years old. He shrugged in a very embarrassed way and walked out of my room, only saying, "See you next year."
Later that day, as the bell rang for the end of school, I happened to see Aidan with one of his friends in the hallway. When I passed him, we high-fived wordlessly, and I kept walking the other way. My aide, who was walking just behind me in the hall informed me of the following interchange between Aidan and his friend "Chris."
Chris: "Who the hell was that? Is she a teacher here?"
Aidan: "She's the only real teacher in this school."
When we got back to my room, the aide shared this overheard bit of conversation with me.
I immediately left my room and went to the 2nd floor girls bathroom.
I calmly went inside, closed myself in a stall, and cried.
Well, easy for them to say; most of them don't have 3 jobs.
But still, here's a story that I don't usually tell. There are a couple of reasons for this:
1. It's deeply important to me.
2. I'm kind of a jerk in it.
3. It means more to me than I can possibly say.
Yeah, I know. I mean, sure, I'm all about kicking ass and taking names, but generally my violent crimes, whether physical, emotional, or verbal, are focused upon the deserving... In this case,
Not so much.
Anyway, if you haven't already turned your brain off... Here it goes.
Once upon a time there was a young Saltminer. She was only in her second year of teaching, and she had even more to learn then than she does now.
She was working in a small outpost in a hot building, toiling daily with some of the worst dregs of the dysfunctional system we here call "education." She was what was called a "Behavioral Program Director." This means that any kid who was a problem, any kid who pissed off a teacher or just hated school was sent to her. She did not have a clue how to help half of them.
She was 22 years old.
She was still quite idealistic and hard-working, but perhaps she should have been just a bit more humble... after all, she was at least 5 years away from being the ass-busting Pirate Queen she would one day become.
Then again, perhaps she never would have become that very person without this particular experience.
One day, into her quiet and lonely classroom tromped a very angry young inmate. Although only 15 years old, he was nearly 6 feet tall, looked like Vin Diesel (haircut and all), and had numerous cuts and abrasions all over his visible form. Most notably, each of his knuckles was the size of a very large marble. The look on his face didn't just scream anger... It also bespoke a world-weariness I hadn't seen on some 40 year olds.
I welcomed him effusively into the program, and told him all about what he would be required to do, as well as the myriad ways that I could potentially help him to fulfill his educational potential.
At which point, I simply stopped talking. During this entire recitation, he had remained stoically silent.
Our eyes met.
And the staring commenced.
For the next 37 minutes, neither of us said a thing.
Not one single word.
It was eerie.
When the bell rang, he pushed back his chair, and walked out of the room to the tune of me cheerfully stating, "See you tomorrow, Aidan!"
He stopped for a second, and seemed to shake his head. Shocked that I apparently hadn't been fazed by his complete failure to communicate with me.
After he left I went to my desk, took a slightly shaky sip of cold coffee, and laughed an equally shaky laugh.
I was positive I would never see him again.
I was wrong... and thank goodness for that, otherwise this story would be an even bigger dud than it appears to be.
The next day, Aidan once again appeared in my room. He stood in the doorway, seemingly afraid to cross the threshold until I once again welcomed him with a thundering, "Hi there!"
He stepped through, sat down, and again said nothing.
Sensing that this could go on forever, I grabbed a folder which contained some of his assignments, and said, "Hey, let's go next door."
I don't know where this inspiration came from, but it proved to be one of my best choices ever. Once we were in the room next door (a small cluttered office instead of a large brightly lit classroom) he actually started talking to me... of his own volition. I learned that he was a skater and cyclist, that he generally got beaten to shit by his feats of daring, and that he had three brothers he was responsible for. This last fact is particularly ironic, since he was the youngest of the four. I have met the others... and even at 15 he surpassed all of them in both drive and intellect. I gave him a slip to sign so that he could be in my "Anger Management" class. (Oh, and don't think that I don't appreciate the supreme ridiculousness of ME teaching a class like that).
He then informed me that it probably wouldn't get signed unless he himself did the signing. When I asked why, he very frankly told me that his father was illiterate, and he had no idea where his mother was or who she might be shacking up with.
I gave him a pen and said, "Meet me next door when the slip has been signed."
30 seconds later he was in my room, the slip was stowed in the appropriate folder, we talked a bit more about extreme sports, the bell rang, and he was gone.
Thus began a year long journey for me and Aidan. Though we did have several rough patches, he would always show up in my room, and in pure self defense, we bonded. He told me once with complete honesty and lack of any form of sucking up that I was the only teacher that he had ever trusted.
By the end of that year, he had been kicked out of almost every class he was enrolled in. Of course, in their infinite wisdom, the school had him transferred to me. Oh yes friends and neighbors, I was now basically the sole responsible party in charge of this angry young man's education. (Me, the shop teacher, and the PE teacher... Those were the only two classes he was still actually attending).
One 20-something year, celebrated and venerable veteran of the Saltmine (who to this day is still lauded as being the "best" teacher who ever worked at the Saltmine) told me in these exact words that he would no longer be teaching this young man:
"He's a hoodlum. I won't have him in my classroom. He's your problem now. Good-fucking-luck."
All I could think was, 'What a self important ass-face.'
For the most part, Aidan was fine with this situation. He told me several times, very clearly, that school was not important to him in any way, and that I was one of the only people there that he didn't consider to be a complete asshole.
And so it went.
I was able to work with him, and ultimately he passed social studies, English, and science. He also got a half a credit for Spanish. (Yes, I was teaching him that as well... Just imagine).
But the greatest struggle by far... was math.
Oh yeah. Me. Teaching math.
But, regardless... he and I began making slow progress.
Some time around March, I actually got him to take home some math work to complete. I was confident not only that he could do it, but that he would do it.
Naturally... Pride goeth before the fall, as the poet once said.
The next day, he came into school, back pack in hand. I greeted him at the door, just as happy as a stupid little lark, and asked how he had fared with his homework.
He stared straight through me and calmly said,
"I didn't do it."
There was a long moment of silence in which I could practically feel the world revolving under my feet.
And then came the disappointment.
It was closely followed by a white hot rage so intense that I could feel my whole body shaking. I mentally punched myself in the face. What the hell had I been thinking? What the hell had I been wasting my time for?
There was a moment at which I nearly chose to simply put my head down on my desk and sob.
Worthless.
I should have been a tire sales person. Fuck teaching.
Instead, I said, "Let's go out in the hall." (That was probably the one and only good decision I made for the next 10 minute span, as there were several other students in my room at the time).
I stalked out the door, and stood in an alcove next to the ancient saltmine elevator. I waited there for him to follow, which he did... very, very slowly.
Once he was standing within a few feet of me, I let go of my fury.
Generally, on the few occasions when I am truly pissed off and say so, I almost always completely forget what I say. This is, in fact, one reason why I control my temper so very tightly. Part of me lives in fear of truly wounding anyone with my words. However, on this occasion I remember with crystalline clarity the words I spoke. I said,
"You didn't do it. Umm... I realize that all of this is probably just a joke to you, but we both worked really hard, and you have learned a lot. You told me that you would finish that work, and like a complete moron, I trusted you. Tell me, Aidan... Should I even be bothering? Am I just wasting my time? Because if I am, please say so now."
Eternally long pause.
At this point I was nearly speechless with fury. But I finally ended with the following gem of ineptitude: "Can you at least explain why you didn't just finish? I know that you could have. Why didn't you just do it at home like I asked? Why?"
At this point, I had finally simmered down enough to actually look at Aidan. Up until then I had been furiously staring at the elevator doors, the floor, the wall... anything but him. I was so pissed, I couldn't even look at him. I very nearly hated him... but I hated myself more for actually believing that I was helping him.
But when I finally did look, this is what I saw. Here was this enormous kid who looked older than I did, shaved head and all. His shoulders were slumped; he was staring at the floor, and his fists were, for once, unclenched, and just hanging by his sides as though they weren't even attached to his body. He looked exactly the way I felt.
Completely and utterly defeated.
Finally, as I stared at him he raised his head. His eyes met mine for the barest instant, and he whispered something in a hoarse voice that I couldn't understand. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
"What?" I said in a somewhat louder voice than usual, in an attempt to re-summon my anger. That one quick glance, as short as it had been, had hit me like a punch in the kidney.
There was a shorter pause, and in a slightly louder voice he said,
"Because you're not there when I go home."
This time I really was stunned speechless. Plus, I was afraid I would actually start crying... Which is something I never do in front of anyone. Ever.
I looked him in the eye again, said, "Grab your jacket. We're going for a walk."
For the rest of the period we did nothing except circle the outside of the school building. After an initial 10 minutes of silence, he finally began talking.
I didn't say much.
In fact I said nothing. I only nodded a few times.
What I learned was that when he arrived home, he started doing the homework. Not long afterward, his father returned from "work" (AKA drinking with his friends). When he saw Aidan at the table working, he began to laugh, and said, "What the fuck are YOU doing?"
When Aidan explained that he was doing math homework, his father responded with this brilliant quip, "What the fuck are you wasting your time on that for? You're just as stupid as a rock! It don't matter what you do, you'll always be a loser."
And of course, he proceeded to kick the chair Aidan was sitting in, nearly knocking it to the floor.
I had absolutely no idea how to respond to this information.
None.
Nothing they teach you in "teacher school" can ever prepare you for that.
Instead, when the bell rang we went back to my classroom, he took out his math homework, finished it, and asked me if I would take it to the teacher for him.
I did.
We never spoke of the incident again, I never asked him to take his work home again, and he continued to come to my room 4 out of seven periods every day.
He passed math. With a D-.
On the last day of school that year, I told him that I was prouder of him that I could ever be of anyone if I lived to be 1,000 years old. He shrugged in a very embarrassed way and walked out of my room, only saying, "See you next year."
Later that day, as the bell rang for the end of school, I happened to see Aidan with one of his friends in the hallway. When I passed him, we high-fived wordlessly, and I kept walking the other way. My aide, who was walking just behind me in the hall informed me of the following interchange between Aidan and his friend "Chris."
Chris: "Who the hell was that? Is she a teacher here?"
Aidan: "She's the only real teacher in this school."
When we got back to my room, the aide shared this overheard bit of conversation with me.
I immediately left my room and went to the 2nd floor girls bathroom.
I calmly went inside, closed myself in a stall, and cried.
I Sense a Disturbance in the Force...
So there I was, just quietly minding my own business, when out of the blue I was ambushed by several scurvy knaves.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Imagine, ME, taken prisoner by my own kind...
It all started innocently enough (as most good tales do). I was simply walking along the beach, wind in my hair and a song in my heart. Quite unexpectedly I heard from behind me the sound of several footfalls. I was just turning when the blow fell, taking me square on the back of the head, and then a sound of laughter.
When I awoke some time later, I had been unceremoniously (or so I assume) dumped in the hold of some smelly tub.
Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration... The hold was actually fairly nice. There were casks and boxes stacked in orderly rows, and in the middle was your very own Pirate Queen, trussed up from stem to stern like the proverbial Christmas Pizza... Uh, simile failure, but still... you get the idea, right?
I could hear little except the drumming of my heart. The ship swayed around me, and the back of my head ached with a deep down anguish, like a bruised heart. Before I could even register the first waves of nausea as the real pain sunk in, I heard the clunk of the trap door above me rattle, and a beam of cruelest sunlight land on my upturned face. I could see little though my discomfort except a man sized shadow descending down the ladder into the hold.
I tried for anger... I tried for fury... but all I could summon on such short notice was a vague feeling of disgruntlement and a simmering irritation.
With a thump I could feel in my entire body, but most especially in my amigdala, the scoundrel's boots landed on the floor beside my head with a resounding crash. (Then again, perhaps it simply felt like one).
Moments later the dark form was completely blocking the light as it hovered above me, and though my agony I felt a hand go around to the back of my head, lifting me somewhat as a cup was lowered to my lips.
Thirsty as I was, very little of the precious liquid ever made it to my dusty throat, and what little succeeded merely made me more nauseated.
Polite and sweet as ever, I responded to this treatment in true pirate fashion, by slugging up a mouthful and then spitting it in the general direction of my "nurse" who by the way smelled of rum, sweat, and salt air.
How did this ministering angel respond?
He laughed at me.
Seriously? Seriously?
Why does it seem as though so many of my adventures begin in just this way?
Coincidence?
I think not.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Imagine, ME, taken prisoner by my own kind...
It all started innocently enough (as most good tales do). I was simply walking along the beach, wind in my hair and a song in my heart. Quite unexpectedly I heard from behind me the sound of several footfalls. I was just turning when the blow fell, taking me square on the back of the head, and then a sound of laughter.
When I awoke some time later, I had been unceremoniously (or so I assume) dumped in the hold of some smelly tub.
Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration... The hold was actually fairly nice. There were casks and boxes stacked in orderly rows, and in the middle was your very own Pirate Queen, trussed up from stem to stern like the proverbial Christmas Pizza... Uh, simile failure, but still... you get the idea, right?
I could hear little except the drumming of my heart. The ship swayed around me, and the back of my head ached with a deep down anguish, like a bruised heart. Before I could even register the first waves of nausea as the real pain sunk in, I heard the clunk of the trap door above me rattle, and a beam of cruelest sunlight land on my upturned face. I could see little though my discomfort except a man sized shadow descending down the ladder into the hold.
I tried for anger... I tried for fury... but all I could summon on such short notice was a vague feeling of disgruntlement and a simmering irritation.
With a thump I could feel in my entire body, but most especially in my amigdala, the scoundrel's boots landed on the floor beside my head with a resounding crash. (Then again, perhaps it simply felt like one).
Moments later the dark form was completely blocking the light as it hovered above me, and though my agony I felt a hand go around to the back of my head, lifting me somewhat as a cup was lowered to my lips.
Thirsty as I was, very little of the precious liquid ever made it to my dusty throat, and what little succeeded merely made me more nauseated.
Polite and sweet as ever, I responded to this treatment in true pirate fashion, by slugging up a mouthful and then spitting it in the general direction of my "nurse" who by the way smelled of rum, sweat, and salt air.
How did this ministering angel respond?
He laughed at me.
Seriously? Seriously?
Why does it seem as though so many of my adventures begin in just this way?
Coincidence?
I think not.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The Greatest Job Ever!
So yeah, there I was, stuck in Hell.
What do I mean by hell? Well of course I'm referring to the 10 items or less line at Shaw's.
Anyway, there were like, 16 little old ladies in front of me, paying for their purchases with coupons and checks. There was no where for me to go.
I was completely screwed--trapped--essentially paying for most of my past life mistakes on a Saturday afternoon in June.
And naturally, the little old lady in front of me chose the moment when I was in the deepest depths of despair, pressing on an eyebrow twitch, to turn around and start talking to me.
Surprisingly, despite all my attempts to overcome it, I have a streak of natural politeness that just won't go away; so, short of stapling a "Please Don't Talk to Me" sign on my forehead, I have no way of avoiding the seemingly limitless numbers of people who want to talk to me. I mean, I know I'm nothing special to look at, so how do I end up having all these people want to talk to me? Do I look interesting? Or perhaps it's my very ordinary-ness... I have no clue.
Naturally, after a close examination of the items I was hoisting in my arms, she started with the basics.
"My my, those are a lot of school supplies. Are you taking a class?"
"Oh no, they're for my job."
"Really? What do you do?"
"I'm a teacher."
"Oh my goodness! What do you teach?"
"High and Middle School English."
At this point she stuttered a bit... The idea of me molding impressionable minds seems to have this effect on quite a few people actually. Go figure.
"Well dear, I would not have guessed that you were old enough to be a teacher."
Uh... at this point, I stuttered a bit myself. Seriously? Seriously? I mean, I like to think that I don't look SUPER old or anything... But the day is long past when anyone would have mistaken me for a high schooler... Hell, when I was IN high school most people thought I looked like a college student... No idea why.
She then hit me with the inevitable follow up comment:
"Well, I just don't know how you can do that. God bless you, honey."
At this point, I was dismissed from her mind as if I had never been there.
Which leads to my inevitable point...
Why DO I teach?
Well, in the spirit of the 10 items or less aisle, which began this random rant... I'll give you ten reasons.
10.) Kids will say whatever they are thinking... and since I do that as well, I seem to fit right in with them.
9.) I get to essentially tell stories, laugh, and play games all day. (AND I get PAID for it! SCORE!!!)
8.) I am not materialistic, so I'm not anxious to have a house or Maui or a Ferrari. Teacher pay works for me. Plus, I do love to shop for school supplies... Sick, I know.
7.) In what other job can you take off with kids for a day at the beach, and have it be totally legit? Umm... try... none, that I can think of.
6.) I love that moment when you are explaining/discussing something with a kid, and s/he "gets it." That totally rocks.
5.) I hated every minute of high school, with a few notable exceptions... Most notably, some very good teachers who I became friends with. When I took on this job my greatest hope was that I could do for a few kids what those teachers did for me... Basically, to give them a reason not to throw themselves down a set of stairs or drown themselves in a locker room toilet.
4.) I love to tell stories... Remember the one about how Kevin Dame has a glass eye? Yeah, that one was all mine BABY!
3.) I get a total thrill out of screwing with kids. Seriously... This is really the only reason to become a teacher and stick with it. It's at number three here, but if I had to choose, it would be the one and only reason. I know that some people just won't understand what I mean here, just trust me, I'm not talking about being mean or anything, I just love to mess with teenagers, and they really get a kick out of it.
2.) As much as I generally just want everyone to shut up and stop talking to me, ironically, I rarely get tired of conversing with teenagers... They do absolutely everything in their power to ensure that I never get too impressed with myself... Especially when they say things like this to me: (NOTE: This is a conversation that actually took place in one of my middle school classes last week with a student I will call "Short Stuff/Monkey Boy")
Short Stuff: I think _____________ needs a boyfriend, don't you?
Me: I have no idea; can we please change the subject?
Short Stuff: I think you need a boyfriend too.
Me: Uh... O-kay?
Monkey Boy: Do you already have a boyfriend?
(Now realizing that this has been the point of the entire discussion, I give up and figure if I answer his question we might be able to get back to the book we are reading/discussing. Basically, I caved.)
Me: (Sigh). No, Monkey Boy, I do not have a boyfriend, and PS, that's really none of your business, is it?
(pause--crickets chirp in the background)
Monkey Boy: Have you EVER had a boyfriend?
Me: ARGH!!! Yes, yes I have!! Can we get back to work now?
Monkey Boy: Sure. But I think you definitely need to find a boyfriend.
At which point we are finally able to finish discussing Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key.
And last of all...
1.) Knowing that I am attempting, although in a very small way, to help people and hopefully make the world a better and kinder place, helps me sleep at night. I work hard, and I try my best, and sometimes it works out.
This is the best job ever.
What do I mean by hell? Well of course I'm referring to the 10 items or less line at Shaw's.
Anyway, there were like, 16 little old ladies in front of me, paying for their purchases with coupons and checks. There was no where for me to go.
I was completely screwed--trapped--essentia
And naturally, the little old lady in front of me chose the moment when I was in the deepest depths of despair, pressing on an eyebrow twitch, to turn around and start talking to me.
Surprisingly, despite all my attempts to overcome it, I have a streak of natural politeness that just won't go away; so, short of stapling a "Please Don't Talk to Me" sign on my forehead, I have no way of avoiding the seemingly limitless numbers of people who want to talk to me. I mean, I know I'm nothing special to look at, so how do I end up having all these people want to talk to me? Do I look interesting? Or perhaps it's my very ordinary-ness... I have no clue.
Naturally, after a close examination of the items I was hoisting in my arms, she started with the basics.
"My my, those are a lot of school supplies. Are you taking a class?"
"Oh no, they're for my job."
"Really? What do you do?"
"I'm a teacher."
"Oh my goodness! What do you teach?"
"High and Middle School English."
At this point she stuttered a bit... The idea of me molding impressionable minds seems to have this effect on quite a few people actually. Go figure.
"Well dear, I would not have guessed that you were old enough to be a teacher."
Uh... at this point, I stuttered a bit myself. Seriously? Seriously? I mean, I like to think that I don't look SUPER old or anything... But the day is long past when anyone would have mistaken me for a high schooler... Hell, when I was IN high school most people thought I looked like a college student... No idea why.
She then hit me with the inevitable follow up comment:
"Well, I just don't know how you can do that. God bless you, honey."
At this point, I was dismissed from her mind as if I had never been there.
Which leads to my inevitable point...
Why DO I teach?
Well, in the spirit of the 10 items or less aisle, which began this random rant... I'll give you ten reasons.
10.) Kids will say whatever they are thinking... and since I do that as well, I seem to fit right in with them.
9.) I get to essentially tell stories, laugh, and play games all day. (AND I get PAID for it! SCORE!!!)
8.) I am not materialistic, so I'm not anxious to have a house or Maui or a Ferrari. Teacher pay works for me. Plus, I do love to shop for school supplies... Sick, I know.
7.) In what other job can you take off with kids for a day at the beach, and have it be totally legit? Umm... try... none, that I can think of.
6.) I love that moment when you are explaining/discussing something with a kid, and s/he "gets it." That totally rocks.
5.) I hated every minute of high school, with a few notable exceptions... Most notably, some very good teachers who I became friends with. When I took on this job my greatest hope was that I could do for a few kids what those teachers did for me... Basically, to give them a reason not to throw themselves down a set of stairs or drown themselves in a locker room toilet.
4.) I love to tell stories... Remember the one about how Kevin Dame has a glass eye? Yeah, that one was all mine BABY!
3.) I get a total thrill out of screwing with kids. Seriously... This is really the only reason to become a teacher and stick with it. It's at number three here, but if I had to choose, it would be the one and only reason. I know that some people just won't understand what I mean here, just trust me, I'm not talking about being mean or anything, I just love to mess with teenagers, and they really get a kick out of it.
2.) As much as I generally just want everyone to shut up and stop talking to me, ironically, I rarely get tired of conversing with teenagers... They do absolutely everything in their power to ensure that I never get too impressed with myself... Especially when they say things like this to me: (NOTE: This is a conversation that actually took place in one of my middle school classes last week with a student I will call "Short Stuff/Monkey Boy")
Short Stuff: I think _____________ needs a boyfriend, don't you?
Me: I have no idea; can we please change the subject?
Short Stuff: I think you need a boyfriend too.
Me: Uh... O-kay?
Monkey Boy: Do you already have a boyfriend?
(Now realizing that this has been the point of the entire discussion, I give up and figure if I answer his question we might be able to get back to the book we are reading/discussing. Basically, I caved.)
Me: (Sigh). No, Monkey Boy, I do not have a boyfriend, and PS, that's really none of your business, is it?
(pause--crickets chirp in the background)
Monkey Boy: Have you EVER had a boyfriend?
Me: ARGH!!! Yes, yes I have!! Can we get back to work now?
Monkey Boy: Sure. But I think you definitely need to find a boyfriend.
At which point we are finally able to finish discussing Joey Pigza Swallowed the Key.
And last of all...
1.) Knowing that I am attempting, although in a very small way, to help people and hopefully make the world a better and kinder place, helps me sleep at night. I work hard, and I try my best, and sometimes it works out.
This is the best job ever.
Life is Funny and Strange
So... There I was, google-lurking... and I found something that I most definitely did NOT want to see. I found the name and picture of one of the formative people in my life.
This person was without a residence. In fact, the address given for this person was "Concord, NH, - Tent - Homeless." He looked like he had aged 15 years since the last time I saw him.
Sometimes it seriously freaks me out just how much things can change.
I mean seriously... Five years ago I never would have seen myself where I am now, and I'm enjoying my life of piracy more than ever... but this guy... whoa.
On the bad side... I feel horrible for this former swashbuckler, and I wish things had turned out better for him, regardless of the fact that he once pulled out three of my fingernails, and stabbed me in the chest with a crude dagger.
On the up side... He doesn't know where I live.
Just sayin'.
Trust me... If you knew the details of the situation, you would realize that I'm not a completely heartless bitch.
Then again, If you knew me at all... you'd have no doubt that I am, in fact, a completely heartless bitch.
This person was without a residence. In fact, the address given for this person was "Concord, NH, - Tent - Homeless." He looked like he had aged 15 years since the last time I saw him.
Sometimes it seriously freaks me out just how much things can change.
I mean seriously... Five years ago I never would have seen myself where I am now, and I'm enjoying my life of piracy more than ever... but this guy... whoa.
On the bad side... I feel horrible for this former swashbuckler, and I wish things had turned out better for him, regardless of the fact that he once pulled out three of my fingernails, and stabbed me in the chest with a crude dagger.
On the up side... He doesn't know where I live.
Just sayin'.
Trust me... If you knew the details of the situation, you would realize that I'm not a completely heartless bitch.
Then again, If you knew me at all... you'd have no doubt that I am, in fact, a completely heartless bitch.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
It's a Minty, Minty, Minty World Once Again! Or, How I Discovered That There are Still Superheroes Among Us
Alright, alright... I know I said this was a four part story, but what can I say? Plans change.
Deal. The story will be concluded soon (possibly tomorrow). For now, this will have to do...
_________________________________________
Yes. I did this to myself... It was all a result of hubris. I underestimated the devious character of Monsieur Redneck and I paid the price.
Now it was time to pick up the pieces as best I could, so that I could live to fight the forces of darkness, entropy and standardized testing another day.
So I pulled myself together and did a mental once-over... My hands were bound behind me. The ropes chafed, but they weren't cutting off the circulation to my hands. My head pounded as though I were being hit in the head with a small, golden hammer. My feet were numb, the ropes there having been tied much tighter.
Still, the biggest problem facing me, was, quite literally, facing me.
Damn I hate spiders.
Yes, I'm a Buddhist.
Yes, I go out of my way not to kill them anymore.
That doesn't change the fact that their hairy, icky, bloated bodies and their evil eyes fill me with "a nameless dread," as the saying goes.
Task number one: Escape the spider.
After that, all other tasks would seem as enjoyable as that first cold, sweet spoonful of mint chocolate heaven.
Concentrating violently, I strove to ignore the pain in my head. Yes, I accepted that it was a pain I actually deserved in recompense for my stupidity of the previous day. Still, it was hard to ignore. I pushed past it and pictured the blood flowing back into my poor feet. After what seemed like forever, I started to feel that painful tickle that means circulation has been restored (Mother of Carlos, I love the power of my mind).
As soon as this occurred, I slowly moved my legs forward until they were touching the wall, and with a considerable amount of heavy breathing, pushed myself as far away from the wall and the dreadful arachnid as I was capable of maneuvering. Granted, it wasn't a perfect plan, but the farther I was away from that beast's baleful stare, the more clearly I would be able to think.
After what seemed like an eternity in a dentist's waiting room, but was in reality probably only 10 minutes or so, I felt that I was relatively safe. Yes, the horrible thing was still on the wall, but I could see him and I figured he wasn't close enough to leap off, land on my face and bite me on the eyeball... So I began to work loose the bonds on my wrists. I wasn't having much luck when I heard approaching footsteps on the ground outside the shed.
I stilled immediately, slumping as bonelessly as I could to the floor of my hovel. I hoped that when my captor came in I could successfully pretend to be asleep.
For the first time in what feels like a hell of a long stretch, luck was with me.
The door creaked open and one of Monsieur Redneck's two sheep-faced companions entered, carrying something. The something reeked like 3 day old sushi, and Sheep Boy #1 didn't smell a whole lot better. Even though my stomach was desperate for sustenance, it did a rolling leap through a spinning black hole at the smell now filling the cabin.
Sheep-Boy#1 took a quick step in my direction, leaned forward to examine me (presumably for signs of life), and then set down the bucket he carried with a thump. There was a second thump as something smaller hit the floor, probably a spoon.
Then, for about a minute, he just stood next to me. He didn't move. He didn't say anything.
I couldn't even hear him breathe. (Which was a miracle, because I'd identified him just the previous day as a definite mouth-breather).
Then, suddenly, as though he'd finally come to a decision about something and wasn't going to waste any more time, he got down on one knee and pulled on my shoulder to roll me over on to my face. I felt him pull my arms up, almost out of their sockets, and with a quick jerk (presumably from a knife) my hands were free falling to the floor.
Getting up to his feet with a small grunt, he walked out of the hut and closed the door. I heard a metallic sound that must have been a padlock snapping shut and then his receding footsteps. I strained to hear anything else, but all I could hear was the muffled sound of birds and the drone of a twin engine plane taking off from somewhere. This last was good news, as it meant that I was probably in Deering, relatively close to home.
I slowly stretched, checking to make sure that all parts were operating to regulation specifications, and then pushed myself up from the floor and onto my knees. I checked the bindings on my ankles and discovered that they were some kind of fancy looking plastic doohickey's that could be tricky to get out of... still, I could move my arms, so there was hope on the horizon...
It was then that I finally realized...
I was not alone in my little hovel.
There was a cat.
As I watched in surprise, it sauntered over to the bucket of fish slop, sniffed, sneezed, reached up to smooth a whisker that had gone astray, looked up at me, winked one eye shut, and turned pink. Yeah, I said it.
Actually, pink isn't really a good enough word to describe this cat's day-glo color. She was so brightly pink she seemed to burn with cold, neon fire.
She was so pink, they need to make up a new word for pink.
Squeezing both eyes shut, she made a face that is as close as any cat ever comes to a smile, and said, "I brought some help. Seymour sensed something was wrong. He's bringing some friends... There's more going on here than you think. See ya, Sensei."
So saying, she made a leap for the one window in the shed, shedding her cat form as she went and becoming a bright orange butterfly. She landed once on the sill, flapped her wings, and sailed off into the October day like a lively maple leaf.
Hope had arrived... and her name was Lizzard.
Deal. The story will be concluded soon (possibly tomorrow). For now, this will have to do...
_________________________________________
Yes. I did this to myself... It was all a result of hubris. I underestimated the devious character of Monsieur Redneck and I paid the price.
Now it was time to pick up the pieces as best I could, so that I could live to fight the forces of darkness, entropy and standardized testing another day.
So I pulled myself together and did a mental once-over... My hands were bound behind me. The ropes chafed, but they weren't cutting off the circulation to my hands. My head pounded as though I were being hit in the head with a small, golden hammer. My feet were numb, the ropes there having been tied much tighter.
Still, the biggest problem facing me, was, quite literally, facing me.
Damn I hate spiders.
Yes, I'm a Buddhist.
Yes, I go out of my way not to kill them anymore.
That doesn't change the fact that their hairy, icky, bloated bodies and their evil eyes fill me with "a nameless dread," as the saying goes.
Task number one: Escape the spider.
After that, all other tasks would seem as enjoyable as that first cold, sweet spoonful of mint chocolate heaven.
Concentrating violently, I strove to ignore the pain in my head. Yes, I accepted that it was a pain I actually deserved in recompense for my stupidity of the previous day. Still, it was hard to ignore. I pushed past it and pictured the blood flowing back into my poor feet. After what seemed like forever, I started to feel that painful tickle that means circulation has been restored (Mother of Carlos, I love the power of my mind).
As soon as this occurred, I slowly moved my legs forward until they were touching the wall, and with a considerable amount of heavy breathing, pushed myself as far away from the wall and the dreadful arachnid as I was capable of maneuvering. Granted, it wasn't a perfect plan, but the farther I was away from that beast's baleful stare, the more clearly I would be able to think.
After what seemed like an eternity in a dentist's waiting room, but was in reality probably only 10 minutes or so, I felt that I was relatively safe. Yes, the horrible thing was still on the wall, but I could see him and I figured he wasn't close enough to leap off, land on my face and bite me on the eyeball... So I began to work loose the bonds on my wrists. I wasn't having much luck when I heard approaching footsteps on the ground outside the shed.
I stilled immediately, slumping as bonelessly as I could to the floor of my hovel. I hoped that when my captor came in I could successfully pretend to be asleep.
For the first time in what feels like a hell of a long stretch, luck was with me.
The door creaked open and one of Monsieur Redneck's two sheep-faced companions entered, carrying something. The something reeked like 3 day old sushi, and Sheep Boy #1 didn't smell a whole lot better. Even though my stomach was desperate for sustenance, it did a rolling leap through a spinning black hole at the smell now filling the cabin.
Sheep-Boy#1 took a quick step in my direction, leaned forward to examine me (presumably for signs of life), and then set down the bucket he carried with a thump. There was a second thump as something smaller hit the floor, probably a spoon.
Then, for about a minute, he just stood next to me. He didn't move. He didn't say anything.
I couldn't even hear him breathe. (Which was a miracle, because I'd identified him just the previous day as a definite mouth-breather).
Then, suddenly, as though he'd finally come to a decision about something and wasn't going to waste any more time, he got down on one knee and pulled on my shoulder to roll me over on to my face. I felt him pull my arms up, almost out of their sockets, and with a quick jerk (presumably from a knife) my hands were free falling to the floor.
Getting up to his feet with a small grunt, he walked out of the hut and closed the door. I heard a metallic sound that must have been a padlock snapping shut and then his receding footsteps. I strained to hear anything else, but all I could hear was the muffled sound of birds and the drone of a twin engine plane taking off from somewhere. This last was good news, as it meant that I was probably in Deering, relatively close to home.
I slowly stretched, checking to make sure that all parts were operating to regulation specifications, and then pushed myself up from the floor and onto my knees. I checked the bindings on my ankles and discovered that they were some kind of fancy looking plastic doohickey's that could be tricky to get out of... still, I could move my arms, so there was hope on the horizon...
It was then that I finally realized...
I was not alone in my little hovel.
There was a cat.
As I watched in surprise, it sauntered over to the bucket of fish slop, sniffed, sneezed, reached up to smooth a whisker that had gone astray, looked up at me, winked one eye shut, and turned pink. Yeah, I said it.
Actually, pink isn't really a good enough word to describe this cat's day-glo color. She was so brightly pink she seemed to burn with cold, neon fire.
She was so pink, they need to make up a new word for pink.
Squeezing both eyes shut, she made a face that is as close as any cat ever comes to a smile, and said, "I brought some help. Seymour sensed something was wrong. He's bringing some friends... There's more going on here than you think. See ya, Sensei."
So saying, she made a leap for the one window in the shed, shedding her cat form as she went and becoming a bright orange butterfly. She landed once on the sill, flapped her wings, and sailed off into the October day like a lively maple leaf.
Hope had arrived... and her name was Lizzard.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
And Now... The Pirate Queen Minty Quest Leads Headfirst into Danger
Okay, so here's the thing... you already know that it's been a rough couple of months... I've been adjusting to the new situation and it hasn't always been easy... Truthfully, it hasn't been easy even once.
Sadly the effect on my psyche has been to punch an SAU-sized hole into my formerly indefatiguable confidence and perkiness.
Naturally my charm, wit, beauty and modesty remain of course... but the confidence is lacking.
You are about to embark on the 3rd section of a 4 part story about how I got my cheerfully exuberant self back after learning a hard, painful lesson... and as all such stories go, the Nadir must occur before the Apotheosis. (If you don't know what those words mean, it's an indication that you never took my Myth and Symbols class...and now you never will. Oh well, sucks to be you).
My point is... just in case you are worried... I will prevail.
But it's going to get pretty dark first.
So be ready for it.
I'm just sayin'.
Now on to the story part of this thing...
Although my own curiosity and irritation with Monsieur Redneck had directed me to choose the road away from snack foods; as I followed the John Deere cap out into the parking lot of the convenience store, I found it simpler and more fulfilling to blame him.
It was all HIS fault I wasn't filling my gullet with minty-chocolate goodness.
He would pay for this outrage.
I filled my tank with 1.29 gallons of gas (Go me!), and ducked quickly into the driver's seat. Revving my engine, I scanned the lot quickly and saw my foe's truck (naturally) pulling out onto Rt-202/9.
I waited a beat for a car to pass and merged with traffic myself. Thanks to the ugly black smoke that belched from Monsieur Redneck's 4x4 beast of death, he was easy to follow. Also, he didn't really go far. After approximately 1.4 miles he pulled into the parking lot of a local redneck dive, The Gangsta Shack. I pulled in, parked at the opposite end of the lot, and waited to see what would happen next.
The answer is...
Not much.
*sigh*
He got out of his truck and pimp-rolled (NH redneck style) into the charming establishment.
Before I go further, let me just paint for you and illustration of this lovely venue.
The building itself was a marvel of architecture... The marvel being that it had remained standing as long as it had. Built in the late 70's, when the American Redneck Post-Modern Craftsman Style had been in high demand, it was entirely square in every way. Although there was a cinder block foundation, it was cracked and seemed to have grown tired of being in the same place, so it had begun to lean a bit to the left. The blocks themselves had been painted a bilious sea-green at some point in the 1980's by someone with a sense of humor.
The rest of the exterior was painted in a whimsical argyle pattern (oh yea, I said it). In places, the argyle appeared to be entirely plastered over by black trash bags, but on a second look it became apparent that the trash bags weren't simply plastered across the face of the building randomly; they were actually, a cheap and yet, not at all, disturbing substitute for windows.
I have often pondered, while passing this particular establishment, what the point was behind having window frames when one has no intention of ever filling said frames with glass, but I had never been able to answer the question to my satisfaction, since I was not at all interested in ever entering the establishment to assuage my curiosity.
The good news is, I learned the reason for trashbags instead of windows.
The bad news is, I learned that reason the hard way.
And here at last, we come to the action...
I walked through the doorway into the The Gangsta Shack about ten minutes after my prey. Scanning the room slowly I made my way to the bar and waited to be served. The barmaid, a depressed woman of about my age, was plunging dirty glasses into a tub of soapy water that smelled strongly of bleach and then quickly running the glasses under a stream of water. She managed to deal with each glass so quickly that I found watching her to be an almost Zen-like exercise; it wiped all other thought out of my mind. Thus, when she asked me, "What'll ya have?" It took me longer than usual to respond.
My brain stumbled and fell down a set of deep stairs into my stomach. By which I mean, I suddenly realized that I was in a bar, alone, tracking a red neck... and I had no money.
Not for the first time in my life, I thought, "What the hell is WRONG with me?"
It was then that a voice behind me spoke the words which will live on in infamy until the day I perish in a burst of flaming glory...
"I bet she'd like some tequila!"
Don't even pretend to be surprised... I know you were expecting this all along. Yup, it was my friend Monsieur Redneck. He had emerged from what was apparently a gentlemen's bathroom, where he had managed to find two other men who looked like they had been cloned from the same sheep. Now all three were standing just behind me, grinning. Their smiles did nothing at all to hide, or even disguise, the evil coldness in their eyes or the almost sulphurous stench of hell they carried with them.
Then again, perhaps the smell was just something they'd acquired from their sheep relations...
But that's all extraneous. The point is...
Before I entered their domain, I thought I was so smooth. I was so ready, thinking I could just slide back into my old, kick-ass, Pirate Queen persona.
I'd been so cocky.
The past three months of my life had completely disappeared momentarily, and I'd been convinced that my old confidence and fearlessness was back...
Instead, what I discovered was...
The confidence had been a momentary delusion... brought on by a sudden craving, lonliness, and a desire to have that old righteous anger back.
I wasn't tough.
I wasn't a Queen.
What was I?
Answer... very, very stupid.
I should have left the building right then, running if necessary...
But oh no, I didn't.
Two hours, 8 shots, and 6 games of pool later, I found myself flying head first out through one of the plastic covered windows and landing in the parking lot in a smelly, painful heap.
I learned a valuable lesson before passing out.
It's a bad idea to drink tequila, play pool, and bet on yourself.
It's an even worse idea, when you have absolutely NO money.
And it's a TERRIBLE idea to play pool under such circumstances with someone who has anger-management issues.
So here I am.
Tied up.
In a shed.
My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like something dead crawled into it while I was knocked out, I can't feel my feet, and there is an enormous spider on the wall 8 inches from my face.
So basically...
I'm in HELL.
What will I do next?
Well obviously,
I will prevail.
Sadly the effect on my psyche has been to punch an SAU-sized hole into my formerly indefatiguable confidence and perkiness.
Naturally my charm, wit, beauty and modesty remain of course... but the confidence is lacking.
You are about to embark on the 3rd section of a 4 part story about how I got my cheerfully exuberant self back after learning a hard, painful lesson... and as all such stories go, the Nadir must occur before the Apotheosis. (If you don't know what those words mean, it's an indication that you never took my Myth and Symbols class...and now you never will. Oh well, sucks to be you).
My point is... just in case you are worried... I will prevail.
But it's going to get pretty dark first.
So be ready for it.
I'm just sayin'.
Now on to the story part of this thing...
Although my own curiosity and irritation with Monsieur Redneck had directed me to choose the road away from snack foods; as I followed the John Deere cap out into the parking lot of the convenience store, I found it simpler and more fulfilling to blame him.
It was all HIS fault I wasn't filling my gullet with minty-chocolate goodness.
He would pay for this outrage.
I filled my tank with 1.29 gallons of gas (Go me!), and ducked quickly into the driver's seat. Revving my engine, I scanned the lot quickly and saw my foe's truck (naturally) pulling out onto Rt-202/9.
I waited a beat for a car to pass and merged with traffic myself. Thanks to the ugly black smoke that belched from Monsieur Redneck's 4x4 beast of death, he was easy to follow. Also, he didn't really go far. After approximately 1.4 miles he pulled into the parking lot of a local redneck dive, The Gangsta Shack. I pulled in, parked at the opposite end of the lot, and waited to see what would happen next.
The answer is...
Not much.
*sigh*
He got out of his truck and pimp-rolled (NH redneck style) into the charming establishment.
Before I go further, let me just paint for you and illustration of this lovely venue.
The building itself was a marvel of architecture... The marvel being that it had remained standing as long as it had. Built in the late 70's, when the American Redneck Post-Modern Craftsman Style had been in high demand, it was entirely square in every way. Although there was a cinder block foundation, it was cracked and seemed to have grown tired of being in the same place, so it had begun to lean a bit to the left. The blocks themselves had been painted a bilious sea-green at some point in the 1980's by someone with a sense of humor.
The rest of the exterior was painted in a whimsical argyle pattern (oh yea, I said it). In places, the argyle appeared to be entirely plastered over by black trash bags, but on a second look it became apparent that the trash bags weren't simply plastered across the face of the building randomly; they were actually, a cheap and yet, not at all, disturbing substitute for windows.
I have often pondered, while passing this particular establishment, what the point was behind having window frames when one has no intention of ever filling said frames with glass, but I had never been able to answer the question to my satisfaction, since I was not at all interested in ever entering the establishment to assuage my curiosity.
The good news is, I learned the reason for trashbags instead of windows.
The bad news is, I learned that reason the hard way.
And here at last, we come to the action...
I walked through the doorway into the The Gangsta Shack about ten minutes after my prey. Scanning the room slowly I made my way to the bar and waited to be served. The barmaid, a depressed woman of about my age, was plunging dirty glasses into a tub of soapy water that smelled strongly of bleach and then quickly running the glasses under a stream of water. She managed to deal with each glass so quickly that I found watching her to be an almost Zen-like exercise; it wiped all other thought out of my mind. Thus, when she asked me, "What'll ya have?" It took me longer than usual to respond.
My brain stumbled and fell down a set of deep stairs into my stomach. By which I mean, I suddenly realized that I was in a bar, alone, tracking a red neck... and I had no money.
Not for the first time in my life, I thought, "What the hell is WRONG with me?"
It was then that a voice behind me spoke the words which will live on in infamy until the day I perish in a burst of flaming glory...
"I bet she'd like some tequila!"
Don't even pretend to be surprised... I know you were expecting this all along. Yup, it was my friend Monsieur Redneck. He had emerged from what was apparently a gentlemen's bathroom, where he had managed to find two other men who looked like they had been cloned from the same sheep. Now all three were standing just behind me, grinning. Their smiles did nothing at all to hide, or even disguise, the evil coldness in their eyes or the almost sulphurous stench of hell they carried with them.
Then again, perhaps the smell was just something they'd acquired from their sheep relations...
But that's all extraneous. The point is...
Before I entered their domain, I thought I was so smooth. I was so ready, thinking I could just slide back into my old, kick-ass, Pirate Queen persona.
I'd been so cocky.
The past three months of my life had completely disappeared momentarily, and I'd been convinced that my old confidence and fearlessness was back...
Instead, what I discovered was...
The confidence had been a momentary delusion... brought on by a sudden craving, lonliness, and a desire to have that old righteous anger back.
I wasn't tough.
I wasn't a Queen.
What was I?
Answer... very, very stupid.
I should have left the building right then, running if necessary...
But oh no, I didn't.
Two hours, 8 shots, and 6 games of pool later, I found myself flying head first out through one of the plastic covered windows and landing in the parking lot in a smelly, painful heap.
I learned a valuable lesson before passing out.
It's a bad idea to drink tequila, play pool, and bet on yourself.
It's an even worse idea, when you have absolutely NO money.
And it's a TERRIBLE idea to play pool under such circumstances with someone who has anger-management issues.
So here I am.
Tied up.
In a shed.
My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like something dead crawled into it while I was knocked out, I can't feel my feet, and there is an enormous spider on the wall 8 inches from my face.
So basically...
I'm in HELL.
What will I do next?
Well obviously,
I will prevail.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Got a Craving and All I Have to Show for it are These Darn Rug Burns
So there I was, innocently shopping for mint chocolate chip ice cream.
There was nothing on my mind except the embarrassment of paying for my purchase with four dollars in dimes and nickels.
Outside, it was quintessential fall day. Leaves were saying goodbye to the tree limbs where they'd lived for so long, and coating the ground like crunchy brown feathers. The wind was swirling their brightly colored corpses into irregular piles. The sun had a golden, tranquil quality that it only seems to get during the fall. If I tried really hard, I could smell pumpkin, cinnamon and wood smoke... though that may only have been my jacket, which usually hangs next to the mantelpiece...
Regardless, I was relatively calm and happy.
Well, I was... until HE came in.
You know the type. You've been out in the back woods, haven't you? If not, allow me to describe this phenomenal specimen of humanity. He was six feet of swaggering redneck. Chippewa boots, Carhartt jeans, a denim jacket, and a John Deere hat, crammed over a greasy buzz cut. The man was a walking cliche. He looked like he'd just stepped out of an LL Bean catalog from some other, less suave dimension, and he was not at all impressed by this world.
However, I don't want you to think that I judge solely by appearances.
The problem was not in the way he looked, but the way he carried himself. He had the affected slouch of a sullen teenager, though he was clearly my age or older. His feet clomped hard on the linoleum of the store, as though with every step he was showing it who was the biggest bad ass who'd ever sauntered across a floor. His upper lip seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer, and when he paid for his gas, he called the cashier "Honey," though the woman was old enough to be his grandmother.
I found that his mere existence irritated the piss out of me. He reminded me of every bully I'd ever gone to school with, every skeezy construction worker who'd ever wolf whistled at a woman minding her own business; every snarky comment I'd ever heard from his type was as fresh in my mind as though it had just been uttered. I felt my stomach knot up with anxiety. Though uneaten and barely out of the freezer section, my ice cream seemed to be melting already from the heat of my sweaty grip on the carton.
I put the innocent cardboard box with the minty treat back in the cool, refreshing freezer, walked up to the counter, and asked to get 4 dollars in gas on pump three instead of snacking.
I had a premonition you see.
That Man was bound to do something... and I wanted to see it. Perhaps if I were lucky, I'd find an excuse for kicking his ass and making him cry like a little girl.
Ahh... hope springs eternal.
Well, fact is, he DID do something.
Unfortunately, the something he did was to turn the tables on me... Hence the rug burn or rather felt-burn.
I never should have followed him into that billiard place... My current psychic condition is not what it once was, and my Herculean self-confidence has been lacking of late.
Perhaps I should have eased back into my pirate persona by doing something less dangerous, such as punching a shark in the eye or eating four-day-old Chinese food out of a dumpster.
But no... but no.
By the way, these ropes are really starting to chafe. I wish I could rely on some superheroes to save me, but most of them are MIA. Guess I'll have to do this myself...
More updates to come.
There was nothing on my mind except the embarrassment of paying for my purchase with four dollars in dimes and nickels.
Outside, it was quintessential fall day. Leaves were saying goodbye to the tree limbs where they'd lived for so long, and coating the ground like crunchy brown feathers. The wind was swirling their brightly colored corpses into irregular piles. The sun had a golden, tranquil quality that it only seems to get during the fall. If I tried really hard, I could smell pumpkin, cinnamon and wood smoke... though that may only have been my jacket, which usually hangs next to the mantelpiece...
Regardless, I was relatively calm and happy.
Well, I was... until HE came in.
You know the type. You've been out in the back woods, haven't you? If not, allow me to describe this phenomenal specimen of humanity. He was six feet of swaggering redneck. Chippewa boots, Carhartt jeans, a denim jacket, and a John Deere hat, crammed over a greasy buzz cut. The man was a walking cliche. He looked like he'd just stepped out of an LL Bean catalog from some other, less suave dimension, and he was not at all impressed by this world.
However, I don't want you to think that I judge solely by appearances.
The problem was not in the way he looked, but the way he carried himself. He had the affected slouch of a sullen teenager, though he was clearly my age or older. His feet clomped hard on the linoleum of the store, as though with every step he was showing it who was the biggest bad ass who'd ever sauntered across a floor. His upper lip seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer, and when he paid for his gas, he called the cashier "Honey," though the woman was old enough to be his grandmother.
I found that his mere existence irritated the piss out of me. He reminded me of every bully I'd ever gone to school with, every skeezy construction worker who'd ever wolf whistled at a woman minding her own business; every snarky comment I'd ever heard from his type was as fresh in my mind as though it had just been uttered. I felt my stomach knot up with anxiety. Though uneaten and barely out of the freezer section, my ice cream seemed to be melting already from the heat of my sweaty grip on the carton.
I put the innocent cardboard box with the minty treat back in the cool, refreshing freezer, walked up to the counter, and asked to get 4 dollars in gas on pump three instead of snacking.
I had a premonition you see.
That Man was bound to do something... and I wanted to see it. Perhaps if I were lucky, I'd find an excuse for kicking his ass and making him cry like a little girl.
Ahh... hope springs eternal.
Well, fact is, he DID do something.
Unfortunately, the something he did was to turn the tables on me... Hence the rug burn or rather felt-burn.
I never should have followed him into that billiard place... My current psychic condition is not what it once was, and my Herculean self-confidence has been lacking of late.
Perhaps I should have eased back into my pirate persona by doing something less dangerous, such as punching a shark in the eye or eating four-day-old Chinese food out of a dumpster.
But no... but no.
By the way, these ropes are really starting to chafe. I wish I could rely on some superheroes to save me, but most of them are MIA. Guess I'll have to do this myself...
More updates to come.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
The Mint Chocolate Chip Debacle
I'm hot and sticky and I smell like a peppermint.
Everything was fine until I had that sudden craving... You know how it happens. Admit it. You've been there too haven't you?
You suddenly think of something you need, something that will make everything right in the world. It could be anything, but in that one moment, you just have to have that thing.
For me, it was mint chocolate chip ice cream.
So I made the trek to Smallborotonville and obtained the thing I sought.
I never thought it would end up like this... Hogtied in a shed in the back woods.
I just wanted some ice cream dammit...
Uh-oh, someone's coming...
I'll be back, hopefully.
Everything was fine until I had that sudden craving... You know how it happens. Admit it. You've been there too haven't you?
You suddenly think of something you need, something that will make everything right in the world. It could be anything, but in that one moment, you just have to have that thing.
For me, it was mint chocolate chip ice cream.
So I made the trek to Smallborotonville and obtained the thing I sought.
I never thought it would end up like this... Hogtied in a shed in the back woods.
I just wanted some ice cream dammit...
Uh-oh, someone's coming...
I'll be back, hopefully.
Beware of 2am...or, Gotta Love Those Flying Monkeys
It's 2:38am and I just realized that I've yet to tell you about the flying monkey I met the other day... Now the time has come.
Of course, my grandfather always says,
"Nothing good ever happens after 2am."
This was one of his favorite sayings to me as a child, along with, "It's always a mistake to educate women," and, "All good girls should be home and in bed by 10pm."
Ahh...what a progressive that man is.
Still, you've got to love him for being true to himself.
I just like to prove him wrong sometimes.
So here's what...
When I left off previously, I was hanging by my brightly colored fingernails from a ledge on the roof of Borders in Concord. Suffice to say, I survived.
This shouldn't be a shock to any of you, since I'm nothing if not a survivor.
The part that might surprise you is the flying monkey.
Yeah, I said it.
There was a monkey.
It flew.
No, I'm not tripping. The fact of the matter is, I have never consumed any illegal drugs by either choice or by a random act of chance. No judgment of anyone who for his or her own reasons chooses to partake, it's just... Illegal (and even most legal) drugs are not for me. My take on it is, if I'm going to do something stupid... I want to remember it. I always want to be in control of my own actions. I don't want my pain dulled...life IS pain, and I don't plan to miss out on it. Plus, I don't ever want to wake up and think...'Oh God, WTF did I do?' I'm not even a big drinker... in my entire 33 years I've only been seriously drunk 2 times...and one of them doesn't count, since it was anesthetic in nature after hearing that one of my most favorite people in the whole world had died a sudden and violent death.
Anyway, take it for what it's worth... Besides...
This is what I'm like awake, aware and stone cold sober... Can you imagine what I'd be like on illegal chemical/natural/stimulants/depressants?
Yeah, enough said.
So anyway, there I was, hanging by the tiniest thread...
I considered giving up.
In fact, in those few moments I thought long and hard about just... letting go. It would have been so easy... So... very, very easy...
But then I thought, 'Hell no! Why make it easy on the bad guys? I am here to answer the call of all those in distress, all people with spare time on their hands looking for some mindless entertainment! And what will all those uneaten cheesecakes do without me??'
I did not let go.
Nanoseconds later, I was glad that I'd chosen to hang on. If I hadn't, I would have missed out on the chance to fly by monkey.
Naturally, as I clung to the ledge my breathing was rapid, my feet scrabbled against the pebbled side of the building, my arms ached, my fingers were locked in claw position, and my eyes throbbed from the roof dust... I may even have sneezed on the dirt crusting my sinus cavities. As a result, I failed to hear anyone approach.
However, even I couldn't help but notice when the back of my shirt pulled taught, pinching my throat. There was a sharp tug. My fingers began to give way. Though I struggled with all that I had left, the acid build up in my muscles had become more than I could stand.
I finally let go.
But I didn't fall... I simply hung there in mid air, inches from the roof and a few feet away from a possibly painful, and certainly icky, death.
I raised my face to the sky above, certain I would see a fireman, or some sort of rescue professional.
Instead, I saw the brown eyes, hairy face and enormous teeth of a monkey--with gray wings... Huge gray wings.
It was grinning at me.
I blinked, certain that in my last moments on earth I had completely lost it...
Of course, there are some who would say I never had it to begin with, but what do they know?
This hairy, cheerfully smiling savior patted me on the head and then lifted me high into the air. Clutching the back of my shirt in his feet, the monkey carried me to safety and deposited me, dirty but none the worse for it, gently on the ground outside of Lowe's. While I was still bent over, catching my breath and becoming re-acquainted with the ground, he took off without a word, or even a grunt.
When I looked up into the sky, there were no clouds...and no monkey. Still, I hadn't flown over the roof of Borders and into a neighboring parking lot by myself.
I may be a rip-roaring pirate queen... but I do not have wings.
You could have knocked me over with a toothbrush... and I'm no light-weight.
Being a Zen Buddhist, I'm no great believer in angels or demons...
But I do believe in monkeys.
And flying ones are super cool.
I'm just sayin'.
Hey... thanks Monkey.
Of course, my grandfather always says,
"Nothing good ever happens after 2am."
This was one of his favorite sayings to me as a child, along with, "It's always a mistake to educate women," and, "All good girls should be home and in bed by 10pm."
Ahh...what a progressive that man is.
Still, you've got to love him for being true to himself.
I just like to prove him wrong sometimes.
So here's what...
When I left off previously, I was hanging by my brightly colored fingernails from a ledge on the roof of Borders in Concord. Suffice to say, I survived.
This shouldn't be a shock to any of you, since I'm nothing if not a survivor.
The part that might surprise you is the flying monkey.
Yeah, I said it.
There was a monkey.
It flew.
No, I'm not tripping. The fact of the matter is, I have never consumed any illegal drugs by either choice or by a random act of chance. No judgment of anyone who for his or her own reasons chooses to partake, it's just... Illegal (and even most legal) drugs are not for me. My take on it is, if I'm going to do something stupid... I want to remember it. I always want to be in control of my own actions. I don't want my pain dulled...life IS pain, and I don't plan to miss out on it. Plus, I don't ever want to wake up and think...'Oh God, WTF did I do?' I'm not even a big drinker... in my entire 33 years I've only been seriously drunk 2 times...and one of them doesn't count, since it was anesthetic in nature after hearing that one of my most favorite people in the whole world had died a sudden and violent death.
Anyway, take it for what it's worth... Besides...
This is what I'm like awake, aware and stone cold sober... Can you imagine what I'd be like on illegal chemical/natural/stimulants/depressants?
Yeah, enough said.
So anyway, there I was, hanging by the tiniest thread...
I considered giving up.
In fact, in those few moments I thought long and hard about just... letting go. It would have been so easy... So... very, very easy...
But then I thought, 'Hell no! Why make it easy on the bad guys? I am here to answer the call of all those in distress, all people with spare time on their hands looking for some mindless entertainment! And what will all those uneaten cheesecakes do without me??'
I did not let go.
Nanoseconds later, I was glad that I'd chosen to hang on. If I hadn't, I would have missed out on the chance to fly by monkey.
Naturally, as I clung to the ledge my breathing was rapid, my feet scrabbled against the pebbled side of the building, my arms ached, my fingers were locked in claw position, and my eyes throbbed from the roof dust... I may even have sneezed on the dirt crusting my sinus cavities. As a result, I failed to hear anyone approach.
However, even I couldn't help but notice when the back of my shirt pulled taught, pinching my throat. There was a sharp tug. My fingers began to give way. Though I struggled with all that I had left, the acid build up in my muscles had become more than I could stand.
I finally let go.
But I didn't fall... I simply hung there in mid air, inches from the roof and a few feet away from a possibly painful, and certainly icky, death.
I raised my face to the sky above, certain I would see a fireman, or some sort of rescue professional.
Instead, I saw the brown eyes, hairy face and enormous teeth of a monkey--with gray wings... Huge gray wings.
It was grinning at me.
I blinked, certain that in my last moments on earth I had completely lost it...
Of course, there are some who would say I never had it to begin with, but what do they know?
This hairy, cheerfully smiling savior patted me on the head and then lifted me high into the air. Clutching the back of my shirt in his feet, the monkey carried me to safety and deposited me, dirty but none the worse for it, gently on the ground outside of Lowe's. While I was still bent over, catching my breath and becoming re-acquainted with the ground, he took off without a word, or even a grunt.
When I looked up into the sky, there were no clouds...and no monkey. Still, I hadn't flown over the roof of Borders and into a neighboring parking lot by myself.
I may be a rip-roaring pirate queen... but I do not have wings.
You could have knocked me over with a toothbrush... and I'm no light-weight.
Being a Zen Buddhist, I'm no great believer in angels or demons...
But I do believe in monkeys.
And flying ones are super cool.
I'm just sayin'.
Hey... thanks Monkey.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Reality is Overrated
So I was asked to write a short bio of myself for a job that I recently obtained...
I laughed.
I asked if it was okay for me to write about how I got a scar on my left butt cheek from running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.
The person who requested the bio gave me a quelling look. She seemed to find my response lacking in seriousness.
Suitably chagrined (in appearance at least, if not in spirit) I said, "Okay, I'll write something appropriate."
I wrote an accurate, if slightly boring, biography of myself in 4 sentences.
It was so dull I almost fell asleep while completing sentence number two.
What is with people's obsession with "reality?"
No one seems to understand that I'm all about imagination... Why this insistence on "keeping it real?"
Here's what I really want to say about my own life...
Aikens is a twenty-eight year old Pirate Queen with a history of debauchery and pillaging that ranges as far afield as Montana. She carries a knife in her boot and a metal ruler in her car. She has been known to climb buildings and torture red necks for fun and profit. Aikens steals from the rich and gives their stuff to the needy (she frequently includes herself in the "needy" section). She once leaped from a moving train while traveling cross-country with MCShank on a mission for mental health (her own) and reads Kurt Vonnegut to maintain her dubious hold on sanity. This Pirate Queen's motto is, "do whatever you want, as long as you can live with the consequences."
What's wrong with that bio? It may not be strictly "true" but anyone reading it will certainly learn a hell of a lot more about me than would someone reading a dry recitation of my actual life and accomplishments...
Reality sucks. FIGHT ENTROPY!!!
I laughed.
I asked if it was okay for me to write about how I got a scar on my left butt cheek from running with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.
The person who requested the bio gave me a quelling look. She seemed to find my response lacking in seriousness.
Suitably chagrined (in appearance at least, if not in spirit) I said, "Okay, I'll write something appropriate."
I wrote an accurate, if slightly boring, biography of myself in 4 sentences.
It was so dull I almost fell asleep while completing sentence number two.
What is with people's obsession with "reality?"
No one seems to understand that I'm all about imagination... Why this insistence on "keeping it real?"
Here's what I really want to say about my own life...
Aikens is a twenty-eight year old Pirate Queen with a history of debauchery and pillaging that ranges as far afield as Montana. She carries a knife in her boot and a metal ruler in her car. She has been known to climb buildings and torture red necks for fun and profit. Aikens steals from the rich and gives their stuff to the needy (she frequently includes herself in the "needy" section). She once leaped from a moving train while traveling cross-country with MCShank on a mission for mental health (her own) and reads Kurt Vonnegut to maintain her dubious hold on sanity. This Pirate Queen's motto is, "do whatever you want, as long as you can live with the consequences."
What's wrong with that bio? It may not be strictly "true" but anyone reading it will certainly learn a hell of a lot more about me than would someone reading a dry recitation of my actual life and accomplishments...
Reality sucks. FIGHT ENTROPY!!!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
How to Become a Pirate
Well, I got a question this evening from a party interested in matriculating at Aikens' Subterranean University. This lovely young woman asked me,
"How do I become a pirate?"
Such a simple question... but oh-so-loaded.
I told her that it was simple enough... one merely chooses the pirate lifestyle and never looks back.
Oh, and there is a secret knock too.
But you don't learn about that until after initiation.
The initiation consists of a series of tests.
Keep in mind, the Pirate Lifestyle is not for the faint of heart. Don't commit to it unless you are fond of pain and suffering... most especially the pain and suffering of others (but also for yourself to a certain extent).
I mean, sure, once you're a Queen, like me, it's all cabin boys and treasure... But building a following? That takes cojones of steel my friends.
And then of course, there is the Pirate Pledge of Allegiance, an oath which all aspiring scurvy knaves must take before they can be admitted to the Society of Pillagers.
It's not to be taken lightly.
There's a whole process...
But just remember, becoming a pirate is a lot like anything else...
The first step is admitting that you have a problem.
Hi! My name is Virginia and I'm sick of life as it is! So I've decided to be a pirate! ARGH!! (Audience response: "Hi Virginia!")
See how simple, yet complex it is?
Any other questions? I'd be happy to clarify.
"How do I become a pirate?"
Such a simple question... but oh-so-loaded.
I told her that it was simple enough... one merely chooses the pirate lifestyle and never looks back.
Oh, and there is a secret knock too.
But you don't learn about that until after initiation.
The initiation consists of a series of tests.
Keep in mind, the Pirate Lifestyle is not for the faint of heart. Don't commit to it unless you are fond of pain and suffering... most especially the pain and suffering of others (but also for yourself to a certain extent).
I mean, sure, once you're a Queen, like me, it's all cabin boys and treasure... But building a following? That takes cojones of steel my friends.
And then of course, there is the Pirate Pledge of Allegiance, an oath which all aspiring scurvy knaves must take before they can be admitted to the Society of Pillagers.
It's not to be taken lightly.
There's a whole process...
But just remember, becoming a pirate is a lot like anything else...
The first step is admitting that you have a problem.
Hi! My name is Virginia and I'm sick of life as it is! So I've decided to be a pirate! ARGH!! (Audience response: "Hi Virginia!")
See how simple, yet complex it is?
Any other questions? I'd be happy to clarify.
Too Short and Not Nearly Enough Cheesecake
I have come to the realization that in my 33 short years (well, short given the entire span of human history that is) I have not eaten nearly enough cheesecake.
It goes something like this:
Given: To me, cheesecake equals love, happiness, fun, family, friends, etc. In other words, it is the edible equivalent of all the good things in life... A symbol, if you will, of all the best.
Given: Life is far too short. Over the past few months I've really come to appreciate this fact. (For the second time in my life).
Conclusion: Life should contain more cheesecake. Who cares about the fat and calories? I could get smashed to smithereens by a semi while driving to Merrimack today and end up in God's waiting room before you know it.
Bottom line here?
Less stress... MORE CHEESECAKE.
It goes something like this:
Given: To me, cheesecake equals love, happiness, fun, family, friends, etc. In other words, it is the edible equivalent of all the good things in life... A symbol, if you will, of all the best.
Given: Life is far too short. Over the past few months I've really come to appreciate this fact. (For the second time in my life).
Conclusion: Life should contain more cheesecake. Who cares about the fat and calories? I could get smashed to smithereens by a semi while driving to Merrimack today and end up in God's waiting room before you know it.
Bottom line here?
Less stress... MORE CHEESECAKE.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Fighting the Good Fight
Well, tonight, as I hang from a ledge by my fuchsia pink fingernails, I find that I have a few moments of time on my hands (ha ha) to pause and contemplate how difficult it can often be to fight the good fight...
You see, it all began innocently enough...
There I was, at Borders in Concord, looking through the astrology section. I have never really given much credence to astrology but I have flirted with the idea of predestination to some extent.
Recently destiny appears to be rearing it's ugly head... you see, much as I attempt to deny and rage against fate, my career as a Saltminer of some sort, somewhere seems to be following me around like a bad smell...
Anyway, back to the story at hand.
There I was, perusing the in-stock offerings on destiny, when I heard a commotion from the back of the store.
Moments later, two men came rushing past me, shouting that someone was on the roof and threatening to jump.
This intrigued me. You see, though I have been depressed and disheartened, the real idea of just ending it all has never seemed like a viable option to me. Frankly, I consider suicide to be horribly selfish. But that's just me.
Anyway, curious as ever, I sauntered on my spiky red shoes to the back of the store. There was a large crowd of employees just standing there, wondering out loud what to do, other than to call the Concord PD. It only took about 24 seconds before I found myself growing irritated by the crowd's hesitation to act... So I spoke up,
"Hey, I can talk to him. Where is he?"
I must say, it's just like I've always thought...the majority of people are more than happy to let someone else take charge in a crisis... even someone like me, who clearly has no idea what they heck they are doing.
So I went up to the roof and there he was... it was Jericho, my old comrade from South Boston.
He was standing by the edge of the roof, hunched over slightly, peering down at the ground. When he heard me approach he turned. He appeared completely unsurprised by my appearance, which bowled me over because I was shocked as hell to see him.
As per usual, I opened the negotiations with some of my incredibly witty banter, saying,
"Hey."
He, seeming less than impressed, turned back to his search for a painful landing spot. He allowed me to come within about three feet of him before saying,
"Don't even bother PQ. It's over. Besides, I've heard all about your troubles from Seymour, you haven't got any more to live for than I do, so don't even try to tell me 'it's all gonna be alright' or any bull to that effect."
When I first arrived on the roof to see him, I'd been shocked, then sad...but now...
I was pissed.
I fought down the urge to just kick him in the ass with my red shoe by biting the inside of my mouth and taking a long, slow breath. Hoping that somehow inspiration would suddenly come to my rescue in the event that some higher power failed to speak through me, I opened my mouth and started to speak... what came out was a shock even to me... I said,
"I find your whining purile and self serving. If you're really ready to kill yourself and not just making a pathetic cry for attention, then you better do it now before the police get here and put themselves at risk trying to save your disease ridden hide. Honestly, you make me sick with your whining and complaining. Exactly what the hell are you waiting for?"
For a moment his spine straightened and he turned to look at me, considering me seriously for perhaps the first time of our entire acquaintence.
Now it was his turn to look shocked, and then furious.
Thankfully, at this point he was so pissed, he took a step toward me and away from the edge of the roof. Unfortunately, at this point, a siren sounded, startling me and Jericho both.
That would have been fine, if the roof hadn't chosen just that very moment to shift under our feet.
Oddly enough, the roof of Borders in Concord has been leaking for some time... actually that was the reason why Jericho had been allowed to get to the roof, someone thought he was a contractor... It must have been the steel-toed boots...
Anyway, the roof began to, well, slide. Small pebbles began rolling off the roof, as the metal listed to one side. The movement threw both of us flat down to our stomachs. Within seconds my nose was full of dirt and my eyes stung.
'Well, this is just freaking great,' I thought, as I felt myself sliding ever nearer to a painful death.
In another instant my feet were no longer touching anything solid, next went my legs, my torso, and eventually everything with the exception of my brightly polished fingernails. Somehow, I'd managed to find some sort of purchase on the edge of the slipping, sliding section of roof (Mother of Carlos I love aliteration).
This, as I stated at the beginning of this story, gave me just the time I needed to ponder fighting the good fight...
I suddenly realized, that I've somehow been fighting all my life... usually for other people.
This time I was fighting for me.
I don't know how I did it... how I'm doing it...
But I'm holding on with all my might...
Damn.
I hope rescue arrives pretty damn quick.
You see, it all began innocently enough...
There I was, at Borders in Concord, looking through the astrology section. I have never really given much credence to astrology but I have flirted with the idea of predestination to some extent.
Recently destiny appears to be rearing it's ugly head... you see, much as I attempt to deny and rage against fate, my career as a Saltminer of some sort, somewhere seems to be following me around like a bad smell...
Anyway, back to the story at hand.
There I was, perusing the in-stock offerings on destiny, when I heard a commotion from the back of the store.
Moments later, two men came rushing past me, shouting that someone was on the roof and threatening to jump.
This intrigued me. You see, though I have been depressed and disheartened, the real idea of just ending it all has never seemed like a viable option to me. Frankly, I consider suicide to be horribly selfish. But that's just me.
Anyway, curious as ever, I sauntered on my spiky red shoes to the back of the store. There was a large crowd of employees just standing there, wondering out loud what to do, other than to call the Concord PD. It only took about 24 seconds before I found myself growing irritated by the crowd's hesitation to act... So I spoke up,
"Hey, I can talk to him. Where is he?"
I must say, it's just like I've always thought...the majority of people are more than happy to let someone else take charge in a crisis... even someone like me, who clearly has no idea what they heck they are doing.
So I went up to the roof and there he was... it was Jericho, my old comrade from South Boston.
He was standing by the edge of the roof, hunched over slightly, peering down at the ground. When he heard me approach he turned. He appeared completely unsurprised by my appearance, which bowled me over because I was shocked as hell to see him.
As per usual, I opened the negotiations with some of my incredibly witty banter, saying,
"Hey."
He, seeming less than impressed, turned back to his search for a painful landing spot. He allowed me to come within about three feet of him before saying,
"Don't even bother PQ. It's over. Besides, I've heard all about your troubles from Seymour, you haven't got any more to live for than I do, so don't even try to tell me 'it's all gonna be alright' or any bull to that effect."
When I first arrived on the roof to see him, I'd been shocked, then sad...but now...
I was pissed.
I fought down the urge to just kick him in the ass with my red shoe by biting the inside of my mouth and taking a long, slow breath. Hoping that somehow inspiration would suddenly come to my rescue in the event that some higher power failed to speak through me, I opened my mouth and started to speak... what came out was a shock even to me... I said,
"I find your whining purile and self serving. If you're really ready to kill yourself and not just making a pathetic cry for attention, then you better do it now before the police get here and put themselves at risk trying to save your disease ridden hide. Honestly, you make me sick with your whining and complaining. Exactly what the hell are you waiting for?"
For a moment his spine straightened and he turned to look at me, considering me seriously for perhaps the first time of our entire acquaintence.
Now it was his turn to look shocked, and then furious.
Thankfully, at this point he was so pissed, he took a step toward me and away from the edge of the roof. Unfortunately, at this point, a siren sounded, startling me and Jericho both.
That would have been fine, if the roof hadn't chosen just that very moment to shift under our feet.
Oddly enough, the roof of Borders in Concord has been leaking for some time... actually that was the reason why Jericho had been allowed to get to the roof, someone thought he was a contractor... It must have been the steel-toed boots...
Anyway, the roof began to, well, slide. Small pebbles began rolling off the roof, as the metal listed to one side. The movement threw both of us flat down to our stomachs. Within seconds my nose was full of dirt and my eyes stung.
'Well, this is just freaking great,' I thought, as I felt myself sliding ever nearer to a painful death.
In another instant my feet were no longer touching anything solid, next went my legs, my torso, and eventually everything with the exception of my brightly polished fingernails. Somehow, I'd managed to find some sort of purchase on the edge of the slipping, sliding section of roof (Mother of Carlos I love aliteration).
This, as I stated at the beginning of this story, gave me just the time I needed to ponder fighting the good fight...
I suddenly realized, that I've somehow been fighting all my life... usually for other people.
This time I was fighting for me.
I don't know how I did it... how I'm doing it...
But I'm holding on with all my might...
Damn.
I hope rescue arrives pretty damn quick.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Greg Chase and the Smallness of Life, the Universe and Everything
I have always firmly held the opinion that the world is essentially a tiny, tiny place.
Tonight confirms that belief.
You see... another one of my opinions is, that if I stand still long enough in one public place, I will eventually see at least one person that I need to see for my own sanity.
Ever heard of psychic magnetism?
The idea has been around for a long time but was most recently written about in a book by one of my favorite fiction writers... The theory goes like this... if you focus on a person, maybe not even anyone specific, and then you just kind of wander without thinking too much, eventually you will inevitably find the person you are subconsciously seeking.
It's true. It happens to me all the time.
If I'm feeling depressed and unloved (as I was earlier this evening, prior to meeting MCShank for Earl Grey) I will go to some public place, clear my mind, and wander as aimlessly as possible.
Eventually I will run in to just the person I need to see.
Tonight, that person was Greg Chase.
Have I ever mentioned that I love Greg Chase?
So there I was, in the parking lot at Borders, getting ready to get in my car and slog back home, when from across the acres of blacktop, a guy on a bike shouts my name at the top of his lungs. He pedals madly across the intervening distance, and just before he runs headlong into my car, he LEAPS off his bike and throws his arms around me for the best hug this side of the Merrimack River.
We ended up talking for almost an hour while freezing our butts off outside the closed bookstore.
You know me... I generally tell outrageous stories here with just a grain of truth, but the reality of this one was so surreal, I just don't think it needs dressing up.
Greg Chase is the very same man who once told me the inevitable truth of the Tilton paradox. He said,
"Aikens... Tilton is like Las Vegas... Whatever happens in Tilton, stays in Tilton. The only problem is, unlike Vegas, no one ever LEAVES Tilton."
Oh, how right you are my friend.
I love Greg Chase.
I'm just sayin'.
Tonight confirms that belief.
You see... another one of my opinions is, that if I stand still long enough in one public place, I will eventually see at least one person that I need to see for my own sanity.
Ever heard of psychic magnetism?
The idea has been around for a long time but was most recently written about in a book by one of my favorite fiction writers... The theory goes like this... if you focus on a person, maybe not even anyone specific, and then you just kind of wander without thinking too much, eventually you will inevitably find the person you are subconsciously seeking.
It's true. It happens to me all the time.
If I'm feeling depressed and unloved (as I was earlier this evening, prior to meeting MCShank for Earl Grey) I will go to some public place, clear my mind, and wander as aimlessly as possible.
Eventually I will run in to just the person I need to see.
Tonight, that person was Greg Chase.
Have I ever mentioned that I love Greg Chase?
So there I was, in the parking lot at Borders, getting ready to get in my car and slog back home, when from across the acres of blacktop, a guy on a bike shouts my name at the top of his lungs. He pedals madly across the intervening distance, and just before he runs headlong into my car, he LEAPS off his bike and throws his arms around me for the best hug this side of the Merrimack River.
We ended up talking for almost an hour while freezing our butts off outside the closed bookstore.
You know me... I generally tell outrageous stories here with just a grain of truth, but the reality of this one was so surreal, I just don't think it needs dressing up.
Greg Chase is the very same man who once told me the inevitable truth of the Tilton paradox. He said,
"Aikens... Tilton is like Las Vegas... Whatever happens in Tilton, stays in Tilton. The only problem is, unlike Vegas, no one ever LEAVES Tilton."
Oh, how right you are my friend.
I love Greg Chase.
I'm just sayin'.
New Course Offerings at Aikens' Subterranean University
Well, it appears that there are indeed people who long for the good life of the pirate and here at ASU we strive to please... and also to take your money.
Is that spare change rattling around in your pockets? We can hear a doubloon drop from 500 paces...
We are PIRATES after all.
So, in the interest of staying current and offering a selection of courses that will appeal to one and all and after consulting with specialists in their fields, the staff here at ASU have developed some courses which will please the multitudes and continue to prepare our matriculating students for life out there in the big, bad world. They are as follows:
The Pirate to English Dictionary, or Swearing 311
This advanced language course will prepare you for whatever quirks of fortune life may send your way. Are you sick of the old standbys? (Fiddle-dee-dee, dang, crap...they've all been done to death). Here at ASU, we're all about creativity and no self respecting pirate can be expected to lack the necessary accoutrement of a good swear. After successful completion, you need never be speechless again.
Rage, Friend or Foe? 278
Ignore those pathetic whiners who say that rage is hazardous to your health. The truth is, rage is just good clean fun. Learn the benefits of a rage-filled lifestyle. In this course you will learn to transcend the boundaries of good taste, "cleanliness" of speech and good form. Take your inner pit bull and run those weak-willed pacifists into the ground!
Swearing 604
This graduate level course will continue to expand on the pirate-to-English dictionary. By the time you finish, your vocabulary will have grown to encompass not just the swears of 12 different languages but will also include all the newest Pirate idioms. There is no final exam; the course will culminate in a competition in which all students will go up against that linguistic genius, The Pirate Queen, in a battle royal for supremacy in swearing. The PQ currently holds the record for most swears without a breath... do you have what it takes to stand against her?
First Mates, Cabin Boys and Native Lackeys 708
For all those who have grown tired of serving themselves, this advanced course will instruct you in the finer points of getting others to do your dirty work. Whether you aspire to own a small island nation or become president of the United States, this valuable course offering will prepare you to subjugate anyone who looks like they might have the tiniest smidgen of leadership ability or intelligence, placing them forever under your thumb and at your mercy.
"I Curse Your Sudden but Inevitable Betrayal!" or, Famous Last Words---802
AS any successful (and many highly UN-successful) pirates know, mutiny is pretty much inevitable. This graduate level course will teach you how to "go out in style." After all... they can take you livelihood, your eye patch and your peg-leg but NEVER allow them to take your dignity. Guest speakers will include famous people who went down in a blaze of glory and will be channeled by The Pirate Queen herself. Tuition will include the cost of enough rum to enable the PQ to "reach out to the forces of the beyond." (Warning: This one could be expensive).
"Don't'cha Hate it When that Happens?" or, Sailing Basics 100-- After a disastrous class of '08 shipwreck on the shoals of Emerald Lake last spring, ASU has discovered the need for a remedial sailing course for all the scurvy swabs admitted to our institution... In a world populated by weak-willed nancys who've never been without electricity, it's time to toughen you up and teach you what it's really like to be a pirate. Tuition is free. The course will culminate in a 1 month sailing voyage along the eastern seaboard in January '09. Includes all the weevil-infested hard-tack and salt pork you can shake a peg-leg at. This course will fill quickly, so act now and register soon.
__________________________________________________
As you can see... Here at ASU, it's all about what YOU need.
Unlike other higher learning institutions, the staff at Aikens' Subterranean University keeps its ear to the ground and listens for the hoof beats of progress... or rather, the lack thereof.
Don't hesitate!
Haven't you always wanted to be a pirate? Well now, you can be.
And remember, here at ASU...
We never spare the rum.
Yo-ho, y0-ho MATEY!
Is that spare change rattling around in your pockets? We can hear a doubloon drop from 500 paces...
We are PIRATES after all.
So, in the interest of staying current and offering a selection of courses that will appeal to one and all and after consulting with specialists in their fields, the staff here at ASU have developed some courses which will please the multitudes and continue to prepare our matriculating students for life out there in the big, bad world. They are as follows:
The Pirate to English Dictionary, or Swearing 311
This advanced language course will prepare you for whatever quirks of fortune life may send your way. Are you sick of the old standbys? (Fiddle-dee-dee, dang, crap...they've all been done to death). Here at ASU, we're all about creativity and no self respecting pirate can be expected to lack the necessary accoutrement of a good swear. After successful completion, you need never be speechless again.
Rage, Friend or Foe? 278
Ignore those pathetic whiners who say that rage is hazardous to your health. The truth is, rage is just good clean fun. Learn the benefits of a rage-filled lifestyle. In this course you will learn to transcend the boundaries of good taste, "cleanliness" of speech and good form. Take your inner pit bull and run those weak-willed pacifists into the ground!
Swearing 604
This graduate level course will continue to expand on the pirate-to-English dictionary. By the time you finish, your vocabulary will have grown to encompass not just the swears of 12 different languages but will also include all the newest Pirate idioms. There is no final exam; the course will culminate in a competition in which all students will go up against that linguistic genius, The Pirate Queen, in a battle royal for supremacy in swearing. The PQ currently holds the record for most swears without a breath... do you have what it takes to stand against her?
First Mates, Cabin Boys and Native Lackeys 708
For all those who have grown tired of serving themselves, this advanced course will instruct you in the finer points of getting others to do your dirty work. Whether you aspire to own a small island nation or become president of the United States, this valuable course offering will prepare you to subjugate anyone who looks like they might have the tiniest smidgen of leadership ability or intelligence, placing them forever under your thumb and at your mercy.
"I Curse Your Sudden but Inevitable Betrayal!" or, Famous Last Words---802
AS any successful (and many highly UN-successful) pirates know, mutiny is pretty much inevitable. This graduate level course will teach you how to "go out in style." After all... they can take you livelihood, your eye patch and your peg-leg but NEVER allow them to take your dignity. Guest speakers will include famous people who went down in a blaze of glory and will be channeled by The Pirate Queen herself. Tuition will include the cost of enough rum to enable the PQ to "reach out to the forces of the beyond." (Warning: This one could be expensive).
"Don't'cha Hate it When that Happens?" or, Sailing Basics 100-- After a disastrous class of '08 shipwreck on the shoals of Emerald Lake last spring, ASU has discovered the need for a remedial sailing course for all the scurvy swabs admitted to our institution... In a world populated by weak-willed nancys who've never been without electricity, it's time to toughen you up and teach you what it's really like to be a pirate. Tuition is free. The course will culminate in a 1 month sailing voyage along the eastern seaboard in January '09. Includes all the weevil-infested hard-tack and salt pork you can shake a peg-leg at. This course will fill quickly, so act now and register soon.
__________________________________________________
As you can see... Here at ASU, it's all about what YOU need.
Unlike other higher learning institutions, the staff at Aikens' Subterranean University keeps its ear to the ground and listens for the hoof beats of progress... or rather, the lack thereof.
Don't hesitate!
Haven't you always wanted to be a pirate? Well now, you can be.
And remember, here at ASU...
We never spare the rum.
Yo-ho, y0-ho MATEY!
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Yup... you guessed it...some random person I'm putting up a picture of...no relation to me at all
Okay fine. It's me.
