Okay, so the truth is, I did not become a ninja battling pirate queen grammarian superhero without some assistance.
Believe it or not, I have a family.
In fact, I have an enormous family... There is actually a "Warren Family Reunion" today, and there will be over 200 people in attendance. It's crazy. It's in Maine, in a town called Buckfield. Trust me, there is no way I could have made that up on my own.
On my father's side alone I have:
7 uncles
2 aunts
25+ cousins (When I got to 25 I lost count in my head and gave up)
And that's not counting my cousin's children (There are over 12 of them now) or my grandparents and my great-aunts and uncles (Still over 10 of them at last count).
It's truly insane to me. (Which is probably why I live in NH, aka, a safe distance away).
That's not to say that I don't love them all... of course I do... But--25 freaking cousins? You have GOT to be kidding. And of course, lucky, lucky, lucky me... I was the oldest girl, surpassed only by my cousin Brent who managed to pop out of the womb a whole 3 days before I did, that rat bastard. Just kidding, we were total BFFs until he moved to Brockton. (Seriously, who does that)?
Of course, the most important ones to me are Varneta and Cheryl, since I spent my formative years running around in the woods with them, reading "Herself the Elf" and "The Black Cauldron" to them, riding bikes with no breaks while one of them sat on the back, and in general fighting, ignoring, laughing, mentally torturing, and playing dress up with them.
The others? I think most of them thought we were the crazy ones.
Huh. They were probably right about that.
But we made it look good.
Well, hell... At least I know that if I suddenly find myself in a gutter somewhere I can always haul my ass up to Maine, and chances are good that SOMEONE there will have to take me in, regardless of how weird or hopeless they find me to be.
Ahh... Family.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
So I Went for a Drive, and Made a New Enemy Without Even Trying Very Hard
As I begin this tale, it is 5:05am Sunday morning.
All day yesterday I was Jonesing to go for a drive, but I wanted to go at an ungodly hour, so I set my cell phone to go off at 2am, and I attempted to sleep for a few hours...
It didn't take.
By 1:30 I decided the time was right for a moonless drive, so I got dressed, burned a special CD to commemorate the occasion, pounded a Red Bull, opened the sunroof, rolled the windows down, put on the music at MAX VOL and sped out of my driveway.
The night was "lovely, dark and deep." The roads seemed to actually sing to me as I sped in no particular direction. I hadn't a specific destination in mind, so when I got to Concord I thought... Okay, cool.
I drove through the city streets, seeking whom I might devour, and ended by cruising up Loudon Road. I stopped in at Club Seven for a quick soda, and that was when it happened.
Obviously, I had made no secret of my intention to go for a mini road trip, so when my phone rang it wasn't totally unexpected. What was strange was the "Number Unavailable" notification.
Still, I picked up and gave the usual greeting. From there the conversation went something like this:
Me: Hello? ... Hello? ...Uh...
Unknown Caller: static--then what sounded like a hiccup.
Me: Hello? Hello? Who is this?
(I'm known for my skill as a conversationalist with good reason as you can already tell).
Unknown Caller: Long silence, punctuated by, well, nothing.
Me: Well, okay, I guess I'll tell you about me then! It's 2:47am and I'm driving around Concord. (Light laugh) Anyone there? Hellooo?
Now this is where it gets weird. I'm just giving you a heads up.
Unknown Caller: (Almost in a whisper) I need help... Please... Oh god, they're coming...
Click. the silence at the end of the empty line was so thick you'd have to dish it out with a ladle and eat it with a fork.
At this point, I was dubious. Could someone possibly have the steel cojones it would take to mess with me?
Somehow, I didn't think so.
So, I resorted to my usual mode of travel when I have no place in particular to go, and no time constraints.
Psychic magnetism.
Oh yeah, I said it.
I never used to believe in anything like this, but it's worked for me so well in the past that I've learned to trust it as a valuable method of finding someone.
It goes something like this:
1. Clear your mind of all distractions.
2. Then, if you are looking for a particular person, try to envision him or her in your mind. SEE them there. Notice what they are wearing, and pay attention to facial expressions.
3. Next, simply drive, walk, rollerblade...
4. DO NOT try to use logic or think about where the person should be. Just simply go.
You would be surprised how often you will find the person you are seeking.
This also works well if you don't try to find a particular person. Eventually, just the right someone will cross your path. Seriously, it's weird I know... But oddly, serendipitous.
Anyway, back to the story part of this story.
I started my engine, turned the music down somewhat, and began to drive. I went back down Loudon Rd, took a left when I got to Main Street and then right on Pleasant St.
That's when I got the second call.
Me: Hello?
Silence
Me: Anybody there? Who are you?
Long pause
Unknown Caller: I keep running, but they just keep finding me. Please---
Me: Who is this? Where are you?
Unknown Caller: (In a whisper so low I could barely make it out) I'm on School Street, I'm on a porch. Please---Will you help me? They're coming.
Okay, now at this point, I feel that I need to interrupt this already someone disruptive story in order to explain something about myself. You see, whilst I was indeed a very odd little girl who grew up (physically at least, not so much mentally) into an even more odd woman, I don't generally pick strange people up at 3am.
In fact, I pretty much never pick anyone up that I don't know. Hell, I don't even pick up people I do know. I mean, when I'm driving, I'm in the f'ing ZONE. You could drive behind me for a couple of miles, flashing your lights and honking your horn and I would be none the wiser. Plus...
I've seen "The Hitcher" and I have no desire to end up skinned and worn by some psycho with mommy issues.
However, this was a special case.
I do not believe in coincidence, and the fact that I felt strangely compelled to follow my instincts meant something to me. So I took a deep breath, and said to the unknown person at the other end of the line,
"I'll be on school street in a minute. I'm driving a Corolla with pink fuzzy dice, and I'll be blaring the song "Driven" by Rush. Look and listen for me."
Unknown Caller: (the faintest whisper of a sigh) Okay.
At this point I was almost to School Street, so I raised the volume back up, and rolled all my windows down completely. I slowed to a cruising speed of about 10mph and kept my eyes open.
Just as I was about to pass a large yellow and green house, a dark figure darted out from under the overhang of its shadowy porch and made swiftly for the passenger side of my car. I unlocked the door and slowed down to crawl.
The person, clearly male, opened the door, jumped in, and yelled over the music, "Quick! We have to get out of here! Please!" I couldn't see much of him except his eyes, and they were desperate. He was dressed head to toe in what looked like dark blue pajamas and a, get this, MASK... Like, Lone Ranger style.
There were a dozen questions I wanted to ask, but they got tangled up in my throat like the shoelaces of a 5 year old just learning to make a double knot.
And then my back window exploded, shooting safety glass everywhere.
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and drove up the hill as though... well, as though I were being shot at.
You know, it's funny... guns always seem so loud in the movies, but the sound I'd heard before my window exploded only seemed like a large fire-cracker. Of course that might have just been because my music was still blasting... Whatever.
The point is, I got us the hell out of there. I zoomed through a couple four way stops without slowing, then zigged and zagged around side streets until my heart stopped trying to bust out of my ribcage and into the night air.
We traveled in silence the entire time.
I finally stopped the car, hit the radio off button, put my car in park, and said,
"Who the hell ARE you?"
My passenger was silent as the grave.
No, actually, MORE silent than a grave.
He was in fact, gone.
In the seat beside me was... nothing except the detritus that has been building over the past week. Items found amongst the wreckage were: a 2010 yearbook from my school, my wallet, a credit card receipt from Starbucks, and my hat.
The hat was the thing.
You see, the brim was bent the wrong way... as though it had been sat on.
I held it in my shaking hands and just looked at it.
And then, as I smoothed the brim back into shape, I heard a crinkling sound, and a small blue piece of paper dropped out onto my lap. It read:
"Thank you, Pirate Queen. I am in your debt, and if I can ever stop running, I will find an repay your kindness to the best of my meager ability. For now I must go, as you are already in more danger than you can imagine, and I do not wish to have your blood on my hands as well.
Your reluctant debtor,
Shiro Linh"
I put down the note after reading it several times, started the car up, and drove aimlessly for a while. When it started to get light, I saw that I was heading down Rt 77, and I had no idea how I had gotten there.
Nearly an hour ago, I arrived home. It took me a few minutes to get up stairs to my bedroom, as my whole body was sore and achy from all of my muscles being clenched up for so long and the precipitous drop in adrenaline levels.
My back window is gone, I've apparently got yet ANOTHER band of ninjas with a grudge against me on my tail, and I still have some bits of glass in my hair.
Not to mention that the brim of my hat will take weeks to get back into the shape to which I am accustomed.
On the bright side... There's a ninja, or former ninja, out there somewhere who owes me a favor.
Which does leave me wondering... Who is Shiro Linh?
Better yet...
How in the sky blue pink hell did he get my phone number?
It's such a trip being me.
All day yesterday I was Jonesing to go for a drive, but I wanted to go at an ungodly hour, so I set my cell phone to go off at 2am, and I attempted to sleep for a few hours...
It didn't take.
By 1:30 I decided the time was right for a moonless drive, so I got dressed, burned a special CD to commemorate the occasion, pounded a Red Bull, opened the sunroof, rolled the windows down, put on the music at MAX VOL and sped out of my driveway.
The night was "lovely, dark and deep." The roads seemed to actually sing to me as I sped in no particular direction. I hadn't a specific destination in mind, so when I got to Concord I thought... Okay, cool.
I drove through the city streets, seeking whom I might devour, and ended by cruising up Loudon Road. I stopped in at Club Seven for a quick soda, and that was when it happened.
Obviously, I had made no secret of my intention to go for a mini road trip, so when my phone rang it wasn't totally unexpected. What was strange was the "Number Unavailable" notification.
Still, I picked up and gave the usual greeting. From there the conversation went something like this:
Me: Hello? ... Hello? ...Uh...
Unknown Caller: static--then what sounded like a hiccup.
Me: Hello? Hello? Who is this?
(I'm known for my skill as a conversationalist with good reason as you can already tell).
Unknown Caller: Long silence, punctuated by, well, nothing.
Me: Well, okay, I guess I'll tell you about me then! It's 2:47am and I'm driving around Concord. (Light laugh) Anyone there? Hellooo?
Now this is where it gets weird. I'm just giving you a heads up.
Unknown Caller: (Almost in a whisper) I need help... Please... Oh god, they're coming...
Click. the silence at the end of the empty line was so thick you'd have to dish it out with a ladle and eat it with a fork.
At this point, I was dubious. Could someone possibly have the steel cojones it would take to mess with me?
Somehow, I didn't think so.
So, I resorted to my usual mode of travel when I have no place in particular to go, and no time constraints.
Psychic magnetism.
Oh yeah, I said it.
I never used to believe in anything like this, but it's worked for me so well in the past that I've learned to trust it as a valuable method of finding someone.
It goes something like this:
1. Clear your mind of all distractions.
2. Then, if you are looking for a particular person, try to envision him or her in your mind. SEE them there. Notice what they are wearing, and pay attention to facial expressions.
3. Next, simply drive, walk, rollerblade...
4. DO NOT try to use logic or think about where the person should be. Just simply go.
You would be surprised how often you will find the person you are seeking.
This also works well if you don't try to find a particular person. Eventually, just the right someone will cross your path. Seriously, it's weird I know... But oddly, serendipitous.
Anyway, back to the story part of this story.
I started my engine, turned the music down somewhat, and began to drive. I went back down Loudon Rd, took a left when I got to Main Street and then right on Pleasant St.
That's when I got the second call.
Me: Hello?
Silence
Me: Anybody there? Who are you?
Long pause
Unknown Caller: I keep running, but they just keep finding me. Please---
Me: Who is this? Where are you?
Unknown Caller: (In a whisper so low I could barely make it out) I'm on School Street, I'm on a porch. Please---Will you help me? They're coming.
Okay, now at this point, I feel that I need to interrupt this already someone disruptive story in order to explain something about myself. You see, whilst I was indeed a very odd little girl who grew up (physically at least, not so much mentally) into an even more odd woman, I don't generally pick strange people up at 3am.
In fact, I pretty much never pick anyone up that I don't know. Hell, I don't even pick up people I do know. I mean, when I'm driving, I'm in the f'ing ZONE. You could drive behind me for a couple of miles, flashing your lights and honking your horn and I would be none the wiser. Plus...
I've seen "The Hitcher" and I have no desire to end up skinned and worn by some psycho with mommy issues.
However, this was a special case.
I do not believe in coincidence, and the fact that I felt strangely compelled to follow my instincts meant something to me. So I took a deep breath, and said to the unknown person at the other end of the line,
"I'll be on school street in a minute. I'm driving a Corolla with pink fuzzy dice, and I'll be blaring the song "Driven" by Rush. Look and listen for me."
Unknown Caller: (the faintest whisper of a sigh) Okay.
At this point I was almost to School Street, so I raised the volume back up, and rolled all my windows down completely. I slowed to a cruising speed of about 10mph and kept my eyes open.
Just as I was about to pass a large yellow and green house, a dark figure darted out from under the overhang of its shadowy porch and made swiftly for the passenger side of my car. I unlocked the door and slowed down to crawl.
The person, clearly male, opened the door, jumped in, and yelled over the music, "Quick! We have to get out of here! Please!" I couldn't see much of him except his eyes, and they were desperate. He was dressed head to toe in what looked like dark blue pajamas and a, get this, MASK... Like, Lone Ranger style.
There were a dozen questions I wanted to ask, but they got tangled up in my throat like the shoelaces of a 5 year old just learning to make a double knot.
And then my back window exploded, shooting safety glass everywhere.
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and drove up the hill as though... well, as though I were being shot at.
You know, it's funny... guns always seem so loud in the movies, but the sound I'd heard before my window exploded only seemed like a large fire-cracker. Of course that might have just been because my music was still blasting... Whatever.
The point is, I got us the hell out of there. I zoomed through a couple four way stops without slowing, then zigged and zagged around side streets until my heart stopped trying to bust out of my ribcage and into the night air.
We traveled in silence the entire time.
I finally stopped the car, hit the radio off button, put my car in park, and said,
"Who the hell ARE you?"
My passenger was silent as the grave.
No, actually, MORE silent than a grave.
He was in fact, gone.
In the seat beside me was... nothing except the detritus that has been building over the past week. Items found amongst the wreckage were: a 2010 yearbook from my school, my wallet, a credit card receipt from Starbucks, and my hat.
The hat was the thing.
You see, the brim was bent the wrong way... as though it had been sat on.
I held it in my shaking hands and just looked at it.
And then, as I smoothed the brim back into shape, I heard a crinkling sound, and a small blue piece of paper dropped out onto my lap. It read:
"Thank you, Pirate Queen. I am in your debt, and if I can ever stop running, I will find an repay your kindness to the best of my meager ability. For now I must go, as you are already in more danger than you can imagine, and I do not wish to have your blood on my hands as well.
Your reluctant debtor,
Shiro Linh"
I put down the note after reading it several times, started the car up, and drove aimlessly for a while. When it started to get light, I saw that I was heading down Rt 77, and I had no idea how I had gotten there.
Nearly an hour ago, I arrived home. It took me a few minutes to get up stairs to my bedroom, as my whole body was sore and achy from all of my muscles being clenched up for so long and the precipitous drop in adrenaline levels.
My back window is gone, I've apparently got yet ANOTHER band of ninjas with a grudge against me on my tail, and I still have some bits of glass in my hair.
Not to mention that the brim of my hat will take weeks to get back into the shape to which I am accustomed.
On the bright side... There's a ninja, or former ninja, out there somewhere who owes me a favor.
Which does leave me wondering... Who is Shiro Linh?
Better yet...
How in the sky blue pink hell did he get my phone number?
It's such a trip being me.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
3am On a Tuesday
... When last I discussed my latest grand adventure with you I happened to be staggering back to my cabin for a few hours of well earned rest in my small but cozy Captain's bunk.
Sadly, my rest was to be short indeed.
*sigh*
No rest for the queen, as per usual.
I was just dropping my lightly clad form into bed, when I heard a commotion from the other end of the ship.
For a few seconds I considered simply lying to myself, and saying that it must just be some of the boys having fun with one another, but two things stopped me.
1. One of our Articles of Piracy addresses the issue of fighting on board ship... It is strictly forbidden on pain of marooning.
2. The sound was coming from the main mast, where I had instructed my men to tie and set guards to keep Mr. Congeniality from escaping until I could question him.
So, swearing quietly, I dropped a loose velvet shirt over my head, grabbed my sword in one hand, and threw open the door, taking off down the passage, and emerging onto deck.
The sight that greeted me was displeasing... in the extreme.
The prisoner was standing with his back to me, holding a pistol that he had doubtless secreted somewhere on his person. He was waving it about and holding off my men with threats of shooting wildly amongst them. In his other hand was a knife, stolen from one of my men in the fray that had doubtless ensued when the crew had discovered him extricating himself from bondage.
Well, granted I was wearing almost nothing, but the advantage for me was that I was behind him, and since I was barefoot I made almost no sound on the deck. Also, being dressed only in black, I was nothing but a quiet shadow lurking behind him. So far most of the men hadn't seen me, and the ones who had were studiously pretending that they hadn't.
Mr. Congeniality, sure that he had the upper hand was moving rapidly to the side of the ship and preparing himself for a leap into the ocean. Patiently awaiting my opportunity, I stalked him like a cat, and when he put the hand holding the knife to the ship's railing, I raised my sword, spun it in my hand, and clubbed him with hilt. He staggered back from the rail, trying to right himself, and looked up at me from his stooped position. His eyes went wide for a moment, and he said,
"Whoa... I had a dream like this once..." And then his eyes crossed, and he sank to the floor, witless.
Clearly, I needed to work on my technique. Either that, or I was going soft. I had intended to hit hard enough to drop him to the deck instantly, but at the last moment I'd pulled back on the blow.
My father would have been so disappointed. Hadn't he always instructed me to "follow through with your swing, Virginia"?
I heaved a last sigh, and said,
"What the hell happened here?" I scowled my blackest look at the shame-faced and mostly inebriated crew members who could manage to meet my gaze. They looked away and muttered imprecations at one another. They looked like nothing so much as a group of shame-faced 8th graders muttering about how they had forgotten to do their homework.
I shouted to the Quartermaster, and in quick words that jabbed like uppercuts, I instructed him to have the prisoner stripped. I would NOT have him pulling even more weapons out of unlikely hiding places to use against the crew or myself. I then told them to secure him with irons this time, and then bring the key to me for safe keeping.
A few of the men sniggered, and one or two actually looked embarrassed.
Seriously? I was disgusted by their cluelessness and prim attitude.
"I assure you gentlemen, I won't go into a case of the vapors and demand my smelling salts. If I can stand to look at him, then what the hell is your problem?"
Not one of them met my gaze. The Quartermaster began barking my orders, and the crew leaped to obey, not wanting to incur my wrath.
I let out a snort, and then stalked back to my cabin, to resume my graceful slumber.
Well, okay, so I'm lying. I'm probably the LEAST graceful and peaceful sleeper on the seven seas. I talk to myself, I move about, I some times wake myself up humming, and yes, I drool.
But still, you get the idea.
It was going to be an interesting day of questioning the prisoner, and I would need my wits about me.
As I sailed over the horizon into the land of dreams, a thought struck me... Mr. Congeniality had been closely guarded by several of my crew... There was no way he could have freed himself without assistance...
Was there a ninja in our midst?
Even in my sleep, a shudder rippled through me... An interesting day indeed.
Sadly, my rest was to be short indeed.
*sigh*
No rest for the queen, as per usual.
I was just dropping my lightly clad form into bed, when I heard a commotion from the other end of the ship.
For a few seconds I considered simply lying to myself, and saying that it must just be some of the boys having fun with one another, but two things stopped me.
1. One of our Articles of Piracy addresses the issue of fighting on board ship... It is strictly forbidden on pain of marooning.
2. The sound was coming from the main mast, where I had instructed my men to tie and set guards to keep Mr. Congeniality from escaping until I could question him.
So, swearing quietly, I dropped a loose velvet shirt over my head, grabbed my sword in one hand, and threw open the door, taking off down the passage, and emerging onto deck.
The sight that greeted me was displeasing... in the extreme.
The prisoner was standing with his back to me, holding a pistol that he had doubtless secreted somewhere on his person. He was waving it about and holding off my men with threats of shooting wildly amongst them. In his other hand was a knife, stolen from one of my men in the fray that had doubtless ensued when the crew had discovered him extricating himself from bondage.
Well, granted I was wearing almost nothing, but the advantage for me was that I was behind him, and since I was barefoot I made almost no sound on the deck. Also, being dressed only in black, I was nothing but a quiet shadow lurking behind him. So far most of the men hadn't seen me, and the ones who had were studiously pretending that they hadn't.
Mr. Congeniality, sure that he had the upper hand was moving rapidly to the side of the ship and preparing himself for a leap into the ocean. Patiently awaiting my opportunity, I stalked him like a cat, and when he put the hand holding the knife to the ship's railing, I raised my sword, spun it in my hand, and clubbed him with hilt. He staggered back from the rail, trying to right himself, and looked up at me from his stooped position. His eyes went wide for a moment, and he said,
"Whoa... I had a dream like this once..." And then his eyes crossed, and he sank to the floor, witless.
Clearly, I needed to work on my technique. Either that, or I was going soft. I had intended to hit hard enough to drop him to the deck instantly, but at the last moment I'd pulled back on the blow.
My father would have been so disappointed. Hadn't he always instructed me to "follow through with your swing, Virginia"?
I heaved a last sigh, and said,
"What the hell happened here?" I scowled my blackest look at the shame-faced and mostly inebriated crew members who could manage to meet my gaze. They looked away and muttered imprecations at one another. They looked like nothing so much as a group of shame-faced 8th graders muttering about how they had forgotten to do their homework.
I shouted to the Quartermaster, and in quick words that jabbed like uppercuts, I instructed him to have the prisoner stripped. I would NOT have him pulling even more weapons out of unlikely hiding places to use against the crew or myself. I then told them to secure him with irons this time, and then bring the key to me for safe keeping.
A few of the men sniggered, and one or two actually looked embarrassed.
Seriously? I was disgusted by their cluelessness and prim attitude.
"I assure you gentlemen, I won't go into a case of the vapors and demand my smelling salts. If I can stand to look at him, then what the hell is your problem?"
Not one of them met my gaze. The Quartermaster began barking my orders, and the crew leaped to obey, not wanting to incur my wrath.
I let out a snort, and then stalked back to my cabin, to resume my graceful slumber.
Well, okay, so I'm lying. I'm probably the LEAST graceful and peaceful sleeper on the seven seas. I talk to myself, I move about, I some times wake myself up humming, and yes, I drool.
But still, you get the idea.
It was going to be an interesting day of questioning the prisoner, and I would need my wits about me.
As I sailed over the horizon into the land of dreams, a thought struck me... Mr. Congeniality had been closely guarded by several of my crew... There was no way he could have freed himself without assistance...
Was there a ninja in our midst?
Even in my sleep, a shudder rippled through me... An interesting day indeed.
Friday, June 18, 2010
I Have Evil Thoughts, Or, Why It's So Hard to Be Good in This Big, Bad World
I tell you what... It's hard to be a ninja-battling, grammarian super hero sometimes. Especially when I have evil thoughts that clearly belong to someone like The Joker as opposed to the pure and innocent thoughts of say... Supergirl.
So here's what happened...
After school I met my friend Papergrrrl for a drink at Club Seven. It was chill, and all was well with the world. We talked of various things... ships, and shoes, and sealing wax, and whether pigs have wings... etc. (10 points to you if you get the reference there).
Well, I wasn't really hungry, having just recently feasted with the superheroes at Xavier's mansion, but Papergrrrl was feeling the need for some red meat, so we went to a local chain watering hole.
About 10 minutes after we got seated, coming from the kitchen I heard the sounds of rhythmic clapping and singing, and I cringed inside.
It was the employees, leaving their fortress of solitude in order to sing a "Happy Happy Birthday" song to some unsuspecting customer. The whole time they did their shtick, I had an overwhelming urge to slide down in my booth seat, and disappear from view under the tablecloth... completely reversing my transition to adulthood.
You see, until I was about 5 years old, I refused to sit anywhere except UNDER the table when my parents took me out with them to a restaurant. Honest. They would order, and when it arrived, I would stick my hand out from under the table, and my mother would pass me the food. It wasn't until my sister was born that I actually began to sit AT the table, and that was mostly because she did fun things that I could watch, like fill some stranger's pocketbook with ketchup-covered, half-eaten french fries. Seriously, totally true story.
But, I digress.
The fact is... I absolutely DETEST it when that whole, song thing happens in any restaurant where I happen to be dining. For some reason that I can't really understand, I feel embarrassment vicariously.
Now, I realize the irony here, since I frequently embarrass both myself and others... But that's totally by MY choice, not someone else's.
Now here's where it gets evil...
When the "blessed event" was over. I sat there for a minute... Thinking.
Apparently, my evil thoughts were evident in my smile, because Papergrrrl said, "What the hell are you thinking about? You look like a super villain concocting an evil plan.
Well, here's my thought...
How hilarious would it be, if I went to a restaurant where they do that sort of on the spot embarrassing song, picked a random person out of the crowd, called the waitress over to my table and said,
"Do you see that guy over there? Yeah, him. Well, I'm his "friend," and I happen to know that it's his birthday today. If I buy him a dessert and a drink, would you bring them to him and sing that song?"
Then, when they did it, more likely than not, the server would tell the guy who sent the cake, and I could totally give a little wave and a wink, and then walk out--a woman of mystery and devious wiles.
Damn, I've always wished I had wiles.
Sadly, all I've got is mousy brown hair and an ugly nose that makes me look like Princess Fiona (ogre version)
Still...
Just the thought made me totally laugh out loud and gave me a little thrill.
Can you imagine?
*sigh*
But of course, I can never allow myself to do such a thing... Just imagine if the poor guy was on a date? Or, even worse... with his wife. Oh Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick... I'd probably end up on the six o'clock news as a shooting victim.
I wonder if that death would be spectacular enough to get me a seat at the cool kid's table in hell?
I tell you... I do not regret for a moment choosing to defend the innocent and down-trodden, or taking the high road...(I really try to do these things, in my bumbling and imperfect way).
But there are times when I really really wish...
I could be BAD.
Oh well, perhaps in my next life I can come back as an arch villain...
I'm already practicing my evil laughter.
So here's what happened...
After school I met my friend Papergrrrl for a drink at Club Seven. It was chill, and all was well with the world. We talked of various things... ships, and shoes, and sealing wax, and whether pigs have wings... etc. (10 points to you if you get the reference there).
Well, I wasn't really hungry, having just recently feasted with the superheroes at Xavier's mansion, but Papergrrrl was feeling the need for some red meat, so we went to a local chain watering hole.
About 10 minutes after we got seated, coming from the kitchen I heard the sounds of rhythmic clapping and singing, and I cringed inside.
It was the employees, leaving their fortress of solitude in order to sing a "Happy Happy Birthday" song to some unsuspecting customer. The whole time they did their shtick, I had an overwhelming urge to slide down in my booth seat, and disappear from view under the tablecloth... completely reversing my transition to adulthood.
You see, until I was about 5 years old, I refused to sit anywhere except UNDER the table when my parents took me out with them to a restaurant. Honest. They would order, and when it arrived, I would stick my hand out from under the table, and my mother would pass me the food. It wasn't until my sister was born that I actually began to sit AT the table, and that was mostly because she did fun things that I could watch, like fill some stranger's pocketbook with ketchup-covered, half-eaten french fries. Seriously, totally true story.
But, I digress.
The fact is... I absolutely DETEST it when that whole, song thing happens in any restaurant where I happen to be dining. For some reason that I can't really understand, I feel embarrassment vicariously.
Now, I realize the irony here, since I frequently embarrass both myself and others... But that's totally by MY choice, not someone else's.
Now here's where it gets evil...
When the "blessed event" was over. I sat there for a minute... Thinking.
Apparently, my evil thoughts were evident in my smile, because Papergrrrl said, "What the hell are you thinking about? You look like a super villain concocting an evil plan.
Well, here's my thought...
How hilarious would it be, if I went to a restaurant where they do that sort of on the spot embarrassing song, picked a random person out of the crowd, called the waitress over to my table and said,
"Do you see that guy over there? Yeah, him. Well, I'm his "friend," and I happen to know that it's his birthday today. If I buy him a dessert and a drink, would you bring them to him and sing that song?"
Then, when they did it, more likely than not, the server would tell the guy who sent the cake, and I could totally give a little wave and a wink, and then walk out--a woman of mystery and devious wiles.
Damn, I've always wished I had wiles.
Sadly, all I've got is mousy brown hair and an ugly nose that makes me look like Princess Fiona (ogre version)
Still...
Just the thought made me totally laugh out loud and gave me a little thrill.
Can you imagine?
*sigh*
But of course, I can never allow myself to do such a thing... Just imagine if the poor guy was on a date? Or, even worse... with his wife. Oh Jumping Jesus on a Pogo Stick... I'd probably end up on the six o'clock news as a shooting victim.
I wonder if that death would be spectacular enough to get me a seat at the cool kid's table in hell?
I tell you... I do not regret for a moment choosing to defend the innocent and down-trodden, or taking the high road...(I really try to do these things, in my bumbling and imperfect way).
But there are times when I really really wish...
I could be BAD.
Oh well, perhaps in my next life I can come back as an arch villain...
I'm already practicing my evil laughter.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Enough Already With All This Happiness
I was just looking over my recent posts, and I find it to be totally ridiculous that I'm so damn perky all of a sudden.
Happiness and joy is so... NOT me.
So, to that end, I'd like to tell a little story that shows just how twisted and unjust life is.
I do hope you enjoy it so that we can get back to our regularly scheduled bitching, moaning, and complaining.
Here's the deal:
People are always telling me things that I don't want to hear.
It's almost like people look at me and they don't see a person, they see a fucking confessional.
In the Hess station the other day I was purchasing a Red Bull, and I made the rookie mistake of saying a cheery, "Good morning!" to the woman giving me my change.
What the HELL was I thinking.
She made sure to tell me exactly how her day, year, and life was going.
10 minutes later I knew that her daughter was pregnant for the third time, and that she has no idea which of the men she is sleeping with is the father. I had also been informed that this cashier was dating a skin-head who had recently been in an accident on his Harley, but since he was drunk at the time, and he nearly killed the old lady whose car he totaled, not only would the insurance be a problem, but that he had been jailed. She also (in a rather creepy and cheerful manner) informed me that she has some sort of skin condition that is becoming problematic.
Does anyone else have this problem? Or is it just me?
Keep in mind... I had never seen this woman before.
Why in the deep purple hazy hell would she ever think... Hey, this woman I've never met must be just dying to hear about all my problems.
What. Tha. Fuck.
OH, and did I tell you about the time when I worked delivering newspapers? Okay, so maybe there were a bunch of times, but the one that really takes the cake is when a woman I was working with, who I had NEVER SEEN BEFORE, told me and another woman the following charming story:
Crazy Bitch #1: "I'm trying to get my boyfriend back."
Me: Oh? (Thinly disguised disinterest)
Crazy Bitch #2: "Why did you break up?"
Me: (Eye roll. Internal thought, 'Who cares?')
Crazy Bitch #1: "Well, he's 13 years younger than me, but he's (and yes, she really did use this phrase) the captain of my heart!"
Crazy Bitch #2: "How are you going to get him back?"
Crazy Bitch #1: "Well, when he gets out of jail, I'm going to buy him an XBox360."
Crazy Bitch #2: "That's a good idea. I bought my boyfriend one and he really likes it."
Me: (Mentally punching myself in the face for even being with these two morons)
Crazy Bitch #2 continues: "How long is he in for?"
Crazy Bitch #1: "Three years"
Then she turns to me and says...
"Don't worry, Virginia, he didn't kill anyone. He was just accused of raping his sister."
Me: "Uh, okay... Well... uh, I'm going to get a coffee... Okay, bye.
Seriously. I cannot possibly make this crap up.
The worst part of the whole thing?
I saw the look that shot between these two women after they finished talking to me, and the look, roughly translated to English from Moron, made the following statement:
"Isn't it sad that she doesn't know how to communicate? She's not very friendly."
I was not at all sure how to feel about the fact that these two women apparently thought that they were doing me a favor by talking to me.
Seriously? Is this what passes for a conversation? How is it that I don't understand?
I guess I always just assume that most people don't want to hear every gory detail of my personal life. I mean of course I talk to my close friends about stuff that is important, but I would never dream of spilling my deep dark secrets to someone just because that person happened to hand me a 20 dollar bill and ask for 15 dollars on pump six.
Am I the crazy one? Seriously?
And you know what else really sends me over the friggin deep end into screaming insanity?
All of these women were dating.
Again I say,
W. T. FFFFF.
Now, I grant you... I have said before and I'll say it again, I have ABSOLUTELY NO DESIRE to associate with the caliber of male that that these "ladies" find attractive... But still.
Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. This is ridiculous.
I have to believe that this is not the norm, because if I ever do start to believe that...
I will voluntarily smear chum all over my naked body, and leap, cheerfully singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" into the tank at the Boston Aquarium and sink to the bottom as bubbles flow festively from my mouth and nose.
When the shark attacks me, I will hug that big angry sucker and encourage him to end my misery with as big a bite of my entrails as he can possibly take.
---
And now back to this totally un-natural happiness and good cheer of mine.
Thank you, and good night.
Happiness and joy is so... NOT me.
So, to that end, I'd like to tell a little story that shows just how twisted and unjust life is.
I do hope you enjoy it so that we can get back to our regularly scheduled bitching, moaning, and complaining.
Here's the deal:
People are always telling me things that I don't want to hear.
It's almost like people look at me and they don't see a person, they see a fucking confessional.
In the Hess station the other day I was purchasing a Red Bull, and I made the rookie mistake of saying a cheery, "Good morning!" to the woman giving me my change.
What the HELL was I thinking.
She made sure to tell me exactly how her day, year, and life was going.
10 minutes later I knew that her daughter was pregnant for the third time, and that she has no idea which of the men she is sleeping with is the father. I had also been informed that this cashier was dating a skin-head who had recently been in an accident on his Harley, but since he was drunk at the time, and he nearly killed the old lady whose car he totaled, not only would the insurance be a problem, but that he had been jailed. She also (in a rather creepy and cheerful manner) informed me that she has some sort of skin condition that is becoming problematic.
Does anyone else have this problem? Or is it just me?
Keep in mind... I had never seen this woman before.
Why in the deep purple hazy hell would she ever think... Hey, this woman I've never met must be just dying to hear about all my problems.
What. Tha. Fuck.
OH, and did I tell you about the time when I worked delivering newspapers? Okay, so maybe there were a bunch of times, but the one that really takes the cake is when a woman I was working with, who I had NEVER SEEN BEFORE, told me and another woman the following charming story:
Crazy Bitch #1: "I'm trying to get my boyfriend back."
Me: Oh? (Thinly disguised disinterest)
Crazy Bitch #2: "Why did you break up?"
Me: (Eye roll. Internal thought, 'Who cares?')
Crazy Bitch #1: "Well, he's 13 years younger than me, but he's (and yes, she really did use this phrase) the captain of my heart!"
Crazy Bitch #2: "How are you going to get him back?"
Crazy Bitch #1: "Well, when he gets out of jail, I'm going to buy him an XBox360."
Crazy Bitch #2: "That's a good idea. I bought my boyfriend one and he really likes it."
Me: (Mentally punching myself in the face for even being with these two morons)
Crazy Bitch #2 continues: "How long is he in for?"
Crazy Bitch #1: "Three years"
Then she turns to me and says...
"Don't worry, Virginia, he didn't kill anyone. He was just accused of raping his sister."
Me: "Uh, okay... Well... uh, I'm going to get a coffee... Okay, bye.
Seriously. I cannot possibly make this crap up.
The worst part of the whole thing?
I saw the look that shot between these two women after they finished talking to me, and the look, roughly translated to English from Moron, made the following statement:
"Isn't it sad that she doesn't know how to communicate? She's not very friendly."
I was not at all sure how to feel about the fact that these two women apparently thought that they were doing me a favor by talking to me.
Seriously? Is this what passes for a conversation? How is it that I don't understand?
I guess I always just assume that most people don't want to hear every gory detail of my personal life. I mean of course I talk to my close friends about stuff that is important, but I would never dream of spilling my deep dark secrets to someone just because that person happened to hand me a 20 dollar bill and ask for 15 dollars on pump six.
Am I the crazy one? Seriously?
And you know what else really sends me over the friggin deep end into screaming insanity?
All of these women were dating.
Again I say,
W. T. FFFFF.
Now, I grant you... I have said before and I'll say it again, I have ABSOLUTELY NO DESIRE to associate with the caliber of male that that these "ladies" find attractive... But still.
Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. This is ridiculous.
I have to believe that this is not the norm, because if I ever do start to believe that...
I will voluntarily smear chum all over my naked body, and leap, cheerfully singing "Oh What a Beautiful Morning" into the tank at the Boston Aquarium and sink to the bottom as bubbles flow festively from my mouth and nose.
When the shark attacks me, I will hug that big angry sucker and encourage him to end my misery with as big a bite of my entrails as he can possibly take.
---
And now back to this totally un-natural happiness and good cheer of mine.
Thank you, and good night.
Social Skills for N00bs
Note: This is something that I wrote back in September when I was still working at the most dreaded of places... the Insane Mountain School for Criminal Youngsters. Thankfully, I no longer have colleagues who are of only slightly higher caliber than the clientele we serviced at that fine establishment of lower learning.
I have since jumped ship for greener pastures, but I thought that you might enjoy this particular rant... And it still makes me laugh out loud.
You know what they say... "It's funny because it's true."
______________________________
Okay, so here's the deal... I have well and truly lost it. Whatever "it" is, it's friggin' GONE; gone like the snows of yester-year.
The other day, I finally got sick and tired of being treated like a complete NOOB and went on a rant.
RANT. All caps. As in, strident yelling. As in, multiple uses of the word F@$K.
Oh yeah. I did it.
Virginia has HAD it.
"IT" is goin' DOWN.
And I would just like to say... When VIRGINIA is the model of politeness and social skills in the group...
You've got friggin' problems.
So, anyway, here are the Goals and Objectives for the class I am currently writing a syllabus for. I want to share them with you, in hopes that even before I begin the noble work of teaching this class, you will begin to have an understanding of how the world operates... Or rather, how it should operate.
I'm just sayin'.
Course Title: Social Skills and Professional Behavior in the Workplace 101
Instructor: Queen Regina Magistra Lepidoptera, PhD.
Course Goals and Objectives: By the time you have completed the semester of instruction you will understand the following concepts and be able to apply them in your daily life. Course work will consist of skits in which appropriate social behavior will be modeled. Your final exam will take place during the last week of the course; at this point you will be randomly observed for a period of not less than 5 hours at your work place, during which you will be graded based on your ability to maintain politeness when dealing with co-workers, clients, and the general public.
1. When someone smiles at you and says a greeting, it is not considered couth to ignore them completely. You should, at minimum, respond with a nod or a repetition of the same greeting. It is not required that you smile while doing so, but it is recommended.
2. Even when communicating over email or a radio, it is still considered appropriate to say "thank you" and "please."
3. It is rude and unprofessional to speak to your co-workers like retarded 5-year-olds, whether from a distance (radio, email, whathaveyou) or in person.
4. When someone does something nice for you, it is best to smile politely, or at least say, "thank you." Ignoring politeness will not make it go away. Or rather, it will eventually go away, but you won't be happy when it does.
5. Do not berate your co-workers in the presence of your clientele. It makes YOU look like a jerk, not the person you are berating.
6. Just so you know... It is NOT all about YOU. Please get over yourself.
7. Helpful Tip: People who feel liked, or at least respected are much more likely to "get your back" when you need it later on. This is definitely something to consider, if you are at all concerned about self-preservation and/or karma.
8. Cardinal Rule of Social Skills: All other rules boil down to this simple request... Please, stop being a complete asshole. Thank you.
Tuition: Free, or a slice of cheesecake.
Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.
I have since jumped ship for greener pastures, but I thought that you might enjoy this particular rant... And it still makes me laugh out loud.
You know what they say... "It's funny because it's true."
______________________________
Okay, so here's the deal... I have well and truly lost it. Whatever "it" is, it's friggin' GONE; gone like the snows of yester-year.
The other day, I finally got sick and tired of being treated like a complete NOOB and went on a rant.
RANT. All caps. As in, strident yelling. As in, multiple uses of the word F@$K.
Oh yeah. I did it.
Virginia has HAD it.
"IT" is goin' DOWN.
And I would just like to say... When VIRGINIA is the model of politeness and social skills in the group...
You've got friggin' problems.
So, anyway, here are the Goals and Objectives for the class I am currently writing a syllabus for. I want to share them with you, in hopes that even before I begin the noble work of teaching this class, you will begin to have an understanding of how the world operates... Or rather, how it should operate.
I'm just sayin'.
Course Title: Social Skills and Professional Behavior in the Workplace 101
Instructor: Queen Regina Magistra Lepidoptera, PhD.
Course Goals and Objectives: By the time you have completed the semester of instruction you will understand the following concepts and be able to apply them in your daily life. Course work will consist of skits in which appropriate social behavior will be modeled. Your final exam will take place during the last week of the course; at this point you will be randomly observed for a period of not less than 5 hours at your work place, during which you will be graded based on your ability to maintain politeness when dealing with co-workers, clients, and the general public.
1. When someone smiles at you and says a greeting, it is not considered couth to ignore them completely. You should, at minimum, respond with a nod or a repetition of the same greeting. It is not required that you smile while doing so, but it is recommended.
2. Even when communicating over email or a radio, it is still considered appropriate to say "thank you" and "please."
3. It is rude and unprofessional to speak to your co-workers like retarded 5-year-olds, whether from a distance (radio, email, whathaveyou) or in person.
4. When someone does something nice for you, it is best to smile politely, or at least say, "thank you." Ignoring politeness will not make it go away. Or rather, it will eventually go away, but you won't be happy when it does.
5. Do not berate your co-workers in the presence of your clientele. It makes YOU look like a jerk, not the person you are berating.
6. Just so you know... It is NOT all about YOU. Please get over yourself.
7. Helpful Tip: People who feel liked, or at least respected are much more likely to "get your back" when you need it later on. This is definitely something to consider, if you are at all concerned about self-preservation and/or karma.
8. Cardinal Rule of Social Skills: All other rules boil down to this simple request... Please, stop being a complete asshole. Thank you.
Tuition: Free, or a slice of cheesecake.
Thank you, and have a pleasant evening.
On Letting Go...
Okay, so let's just agree for the next few minutes that perception is reality, just for the sake of argument.
I had a sort of epiphany today.
It was the day after the last day of school. No kids. Everyone kind of walking around, mumbling about getting various reports in, etc.
Generally on a day like today I feel nothing so much as an overwhelming sense of ending and loss... I realize that the year is over, and nothing will be the same ever again.
Today was different.
While I did get brain cramps from sitting in front of a computer screen and filling out end of the year reports and inputting grades, I found myself to be... well... happy.
Not happy that the year was over, but simply happy that I finished what I needed to do. Happy that I could look forward to next year with no particular expectations about what I was going to be teaching, who I might have in my classes, or what curriculum I needed to start working on.
You see, I realized that no matter what happens, all that stuff just ends up taking care of itself. I do whatever it is I need to do, help out in whatever way I can, and generally roll with it.
In life, I'm pretty flexible. (With the notable exception of my hacky sack playing, which sucks phenomenally).
For a long time I've had an overwhelming sense of dread and fear about what was going to happen next (with good reason).
Now, I'm just enjoying it.
What 'it' do I mean?
Well, I mean life of course, silly rabbit.
I am enjoying it, and I refuse to dwell on "should I..." thoughts.
I do what I do, and sometimes it works out.
Some days, I kick ninja ass, and on others I find myself tied up in the trunk of a stranger's car with a dead raccoon, a Japanese guy named Chuck, and a case of kielbasa.
So why fight it?
As Dr. Crazy would say, "It is what it is."
Just sayin'.
I had a sort of epiphany today.
It was the day after the last day of school. No kids. Everyone kind of walking around, mumbling about getting various reports in, etc.
Generally on a day like today I feel nothing so much as an overwhelming sense of ending and loss... I realize that the year is over, and nothing will be the same ever again.
Today was different.
While I did get brain cramps from sitting in front of a computer screen and filling out end of the year reports and inputting grades, I found myself to be... well... happy.
Not happy that the year was over, but simply happy that I finished what I needed to do. Happy that I could look forward to next year with no particular expectations about what I was going to be teaching, who I might have in my classes, or what curriculum I needed to start working on.
You see, I realized that no matter what happens, all that stuff just ends up taking care of itself. I do whatever it is I need to do, help out in whatever way I can, and generally roll with it.
In life, I'm pretty flexible. (With the notable exception of my hacky sack playing, which sucks phenomenally).
For a long time I've had an overwhelming sense of dread and fear about what was going to happen next (with good reason).
Now, I'm just enjoying it.
What 'it' do I mean?
Well, I mean life of course, silly rabbit.
I am enjoying it, and I refuse to dwell on "should I..." thoughts.
I do what I do, and sometimes it works out.
Some days, I kick ninja ass, and on others I find myself tied up in the trunk of a stranger's car with a dead raccoon, a Japanese guy named Chuck, and a case of kielbasa.
So why fight it?
As Dr. Crazy would say, "It is what it is."
Just sayin'.
Don't Tell Me that Skee-ball is Not a Sport
...the Skee-ball swooped through the air at the speed of awesome, and clocked Mr. Congeniality right on the head.
I always knew that someday the throwing arm I had developed delivering newspapers would pay off.
He dropped to the floor with a resounding crash, and his pistol fired wildly, slaying a Mrs. Pac-Man machine as it went off. The machine died with a furious whine of protest, and then shot a load of quarters into the night air.
For a moment the entire arcade was furiously silent and still, except for the rest of the machines, which continued to light up, buzz, and send out their cheerful racket into the atmosphere.
And then from somewhere behind me, a child stage-whispered to his mom,
"Mommy, doesn't that lady know that she's supposed to throw those balls into the holes to win tickets?"
The entire place erupted into shouts of laughter.
Another kid came running up to me. He tugged on my arm and said, "That was the best show I've ever seen! Better than the movie even! They mostly just hit people with swords in that one! Want some of my tickets?"
I thanked him graciously, and said that would not be necessary, I had been paid by the people at Funspot already for performing.
He then asked for my autograph.
I signed his t-shirt.
Then I borrowed his cell phone to make a local call.(Oh, and by the way, will someone please explain to me what a 10 year old needs his own cell phone for?) Anyway,
About 15 minutes later, a Hummer and a Tacoma pulled up and double parked in front of the arcade.
I had never been so glad to see my crew mates.
They were a lot of salty knaves who were very offended on my behalf, and after slipping me a cold and refreshing can of Red Bull, they looked about, surveying the damage. My first mate went off at my request to locate a manager and pay for any damages. (What can I say? The last thing I wanted was to get banned from Funspot of all places).
They picked up the trash and tossed it out onto the sidewalk. Naturally, by "trash" I mean the scandalous villains who had chased me.
All except one.
When the Cooper, Henry "Hank" Tisdale, and the Boatswain, "Brisket" Cosgrove grabbed my previous captor and were about to toss him with the others, I stopped them.
Oh no... a short nap on a sidewalk was far too good for him.
It was time for a bit of payback. However, not wanting to fall into the same trap as he, I informed the crew that this knave should be lashed to the mast and guarded carefully.
After we had left Funspot, we returned to The Unvanquished, and the Quartermaster, Lee "Mr. Pol" Pol finalized the watch list.
And then we settled down for an evening of carousing.
Tired and beaten as I was, this went on far longer than I had planned, but when I at last left the crew to their singing and saluting one another with rum, I staggered off to my bunk victorious.
I would look for some answers from Mr. Congeniality in the morning... I wondered if he'd be laughing the next time we spoke.
Somehow...
I thought not.
I always knew that someday the throwing arm I had developed delivering newspapers would pay off.
He dropped to the floor with a resounding crash, and his pistol fired wildly, slaying a Mrs. Pac-Man machine as it went off. The machine died with a furious whine of protest, and then shot a load of quarters into the night air.
For a moment the entire arcade was furiously silent and still, except for the rest of the machines, which continued to light up, buzz, and send out their cheerful racket into the atmosphere.
And then from somewhere behind me, a child stage-whispered to his mom,
"Mommy, doesn't that lady know that she's supposed to throw those balls into the holes to win tickets?"
The entire place erupted into shouts of laughter.
Another kid came running up to me. He tugged on my arm and said, "That was the best show I've ever seen! Better than the movie even! They mostly just hit people with swords in that one! Want some of my tickets?"
I thanked him graciously, and said that would not be necessary, I had been paid by the people at Funspot already for performing.
He then asked for my autograph.
I signed his t-shirt.
Then I borrowed his cell phone to make a local call.(Oh, and by the way, will someone please explain to me what a 10 year old needs his own cell phone for?) Anyway,
About 15 minutes later, a Hummer and a Tacoma pulled up and double parked in front of the arcade.
I had never been so glad to see my crew mates.
They were a lot of salty knaves who were very offended on my behalf, and after slipping me a cold and refreshing can of Red Bull, they looked about, surveying the damage. My first mate went off at my request to locate a manager and pay for any damages. (What can I say? The last thing I wanted was to get banned from Funspot of all places).
They picked up the trash and tossed it out onto the sidewalk. Naturally, by "trash" I mean the scandalous villains who had chased me.
All except one.
When the Cooper, Henry "Hank" Tisdale, and the Boatswain, "Brisket" Cosgrove grabbed my previous captor and were about to toss him with the others, I stopped them.
Oh no... a short nap on a sidewalk was far too good for him.
It was time for a bit of payback. However, not wanting to fall into the same trap as he, I informed the crew that this knave should be lashed to the mast and guarded carefully.
After we had left Funspot, we returned to The Unvanquished, and the Quartermaster, Lee "Mr. Pol" Pol finalized the watch list.
And then we settled down for an evening of carousing.
Tired and beaten as I was, this went on far longer than I had planned, but when I at last left the crew to their singing and saluting one another with rum, I staggered off to my bunk victorious.
I would look for some answers from Mr. Congeniality in the morning... I wondered if he'd be laughing the next time we spoke.
Somehow...
I thought not.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Do You Know the Pirate Queen?
As you may or may not know, I taught Journalism for several years... This makes complete sense, since I am easily the nosiest person I know.
In the spirit of Journalism, I wrote up a story that looks at my adventures from an entirely different angle... I hope you'll like it, but if you don't... Well, that's okay too. I'll still love you.
__________________________
Investigative Report, Submitted by Staff Reporter Harold Moffett to Editor-in-Chief, Erika Swenson of the Sunday Union Monitor, Concord, New Hampshire, 03301, USA
Title: Do You Know the Pirate Queen?
When Sheriff’s deputy, John Norwich (28) of Weare, NH, arrived at the house of one Benjamin Anders Cosgrove (26), he expected to find that Cosgrove’s hysterical neighbor had simply over-reacted. The Concord Sherriff’s office had received a 911 call from a Miss Angela James (56) of Fisk Road. She insisted that she was sure that her neighbor, Cosgrove must be dead, as it had been nearly two months since she had seen movement from his house.
To the deputy’s surprise, instead, he found a note, a last will and testament, and a riddle that leaves him with questions that he may never be able to answer to his satisfaction.
The home on 112 Fisk Road was purchased by Cosgrove in early 2003. Its appearance suggests that Cosgrove took genuine care of both his possessions and the house itself, but it does in fact appear to have been abandoned for some time. The lawn has not been mowed since the beginning of spring, and weeds are growing up in the driveway and between the paving stones of the front walkway. The door, while closed, was not locked. The kitchen table was set for one, and there were the mummified remains of a chicken dinner moldering away on it.
The television was still on, and Cosgrove’s laptop was off, but in sleep mode.
“It all looked as though the guy had just, I don’t know—gone out for a minute and planned to come right back… And then, just… didn’t. It still gives me a cold chill,” said a source close to the investigation. This statement was made after the source emerged from the house, which has been officially ruled not to be a crime scene.
“There doesn’t appear to have been any foul play,” said Sheriff Andrew Eastman, “and there is no proof that anything at all has happened to Mr. Cosgrove. He may simply have gone on vacation without telling anyone.”
According to his neighbor, Ms. James, Ben was a very personable man who lived alone and who had no close relatives. “He always seemed rather shy to me. But whenever I needed help with yard work, he would come over and help me. He was such a nice young man.”
Benjamin worked from a home office as an online writing tutor for a large company based in Florida, and had no pets, friends, or discernable hobbies other than watching television on his flat screen(mostly sci-fi), and playing Mafia Wars and Farmville on Facebook.
To say that his disappearance is strange is simply stating the obvious, but even the authorities have not been able to come up with a plausible explanation of where Cosgrove went.
According to another source, when Deputy Norwich entered the house, he could hear the television, and though the house should have smelled of mildew and rancid food, he smelled nothing except a cool breeze, marked by a tang of salt in the air.
“He swore to me that for a second he felt like he had stepped out of Concord, and onto the Boardwalk of Hampton Beach.”
It should be noted that Concord is approximately 55 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean.
Deputy Norwich declined to comment on the matter, stating that the investigation had been officially closed.
It is a fact that the deputy never reported this mysterious breeze in his write up of the incident at the house, merely telling friends and family.
Still, all questions regarding the competence of our sheriff’s office aside, the riddle remains.
The real question is… Who is this mysterious Pirate Queen?
And what really happened to Benjamin Anders Cosgrove?
We may never know.
*The Text of Benjamin Anders Cosgrove’s final communication is included below, with no omissions, revisions, or additions of any kind. You must draw your own conclusions from its contents.
Harold Moffett
Staff Reporter
The Daily Union Leader –
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
June 14, 2010
From “Brisket” Cosgrove, to Whom it May Concern:
By the time anyone reads this letter, I will be long gone, having sailed off into the sunset to face whatever comes next. Please don’t worry about me; I look forward to this adventure in a way that I have never looked forward to anything else in my life. You see, my story begins (and ultimately ends) like this:
Once upon a time, a little over two weeks ago now, my car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and I was left stranded by the side of the road with 26 dollars in my pocket, no cell service, and a bad case of Poison Oak. One of my Nikes was only hanging on by sheer willpower. I was dressed in gym shorts and a ripped Bruins t-shirt, and I smelled like bug spray, old sweat, and dead leaves.
As you can probably gather from the above, it was not the conclusion of my best day ever.
After walking along the side of a state road in serious need of repair for a few hours, I at last reached a watering hole.
Seriously, it was a literal watering hole, or to be more specific, it was a well. Located in the exact center of a large quadrangle, it was bordered on each side by an old building. On the northern side was an ancient town hall; to the south was a small protestant church. To the east and west were houses that had reached such an extreme state of disrepair that they were barely identifiable as dwellings any longer. Each seemed to be leering at me, like the skulls of mummies, only instead of missing eyes, teeth and noses, they had lost their shingles, windows and doors. Just outside the square was a large green sign, welcoming me to “Scenic and historic Smallborotonville!” However, the condition of the sign made its very presence both disturbing and menacing.
At some point in the distant past, the sign had doubtless been equally as scenic as the town, but now the paint was cracked, chipped, and faded, and the wood from which it was made had been so chewed up by both insects and the weather, that I doubt if it would have continued to stand without the enormous pines growing up around it sheltering it from the breeze. In fact, those same sheltering trees crowded so closely around the sign that it was almost invisible from the road leading to the square.
Suffice to say, I didn’t feel that I had been particularly welcomed to the town. This forbidding place was more like a hidden castle in an enchanted forest, or a dead city in the heart of a jungle.
My hands actually started to sweat a little. Honestly, I wasn’t all that used to adventure. Actually, that’s a lie… I had never been on an adventure in my life, unless you counted getting lost in my back yard once when I was ten. Then, I cried like a baby. And now, here I was, stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no prospects, and apparently, no hope of assistance from any other human beings; I felt an unwilling lump rise in my throat, and I pushed it down as hard as I could.
How was this possible? I couldn’t be more than 10 or 20 miles from I-93 for crying out loud!
Bottom line? I had absolutely no idea where I was, how I had gotten there, or how the hell I would ever get home again. Somewhere along my staggering journey down the side of the road, I had actually begun to wonder if I might die before I saw anything but softwood forests, swamps, enchantingly picturesque abandoned farmhouses, and crumbling stone walls.
Even the center of town appeared to be deserted. In fact, it appeared as though no one had lived in this town since Abraham Lincoln was in middle-school.
Dejected, I approached the well, and pumped the handle several times. Luckily, this at least seemed operational. I suppose you might think that it was foolish of me to simply assume that the water was safe to drink. I mean, who knows what carcasses might have ended up down there in a spring flood or something, but by that time, I didn’t care if there was strychnine and a dead ‘possum in that well. It was wet and cool, and I intended to consume it and bathe my hot face and hands in it.
The water was as refreshing as possible under the circumstances, and I sat down in the grass of the town common in order to contemplate my immediate future.
This depressed me so much, that by the time I noticed approaching footsteps, I had simply given up and lain down on the grass like a deflated balloon. I even began to wonder if I wasn’t in a coma in a hospital somewhere… Did this place even exist? Did I exist?
And then I had the scariest thought ever… Perhaps I had died and gone to… New England?
Better than hell I supposed, though not by much.
And then a shadow landed on me. I looked up in shock, with a gasp of indrawn breath, and an intense full-body shudder. I rolled nimbly to my feet and said, “Oh my god! I thought I was never going to set eyes on another human being as long as I lived!”
Once I stood, I got my first really close look at a local.
To be honest, she wasn’t all that impressive, but I had no burning desire to complain, given that she was the first potential assistance I had seen in what felt like forever.
She was short and sturdily built, with brown hair and merry blue eyes ringed with nearly black pigment toward the outer edge of the irises. Her face was plain, but cheerful, with two small dimples and dark brows and lashes.
On a second perusal she began to really come into focus for me. She was statuesque, and wore black boots with spiky heels, which had sunk just a bit into the turf of the quadrangle. She wore black pants, and a black shirt made of some velvety material that flowed loosely. Her hair rioted in total excess about her round face. She seemed harmless… but also, oddly intimidating. There was something about the aura of confidence that she gave off that freaked me out a little.
She wore no adornments that I could see, save a delicate chain of white gold that held a single diamond, and a tiny charm of silver that was etched with a tiny heart. When she offered me her hand to shake, her shirt opened just a bit at the collar, and I could see the extreme edge of some tattoo on her chest above her right breast. As her body turned I saw that she carried on her hip, a scabbard, currently empty, and a holster in which she kept, not a pistol, but rather a … Multi-tool.
This was already the single strangest encounter I had ever had with anyone, not that I’d had many encounters, as a life-long geek and introvert, I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, and quite frankly, women as a species mystified me more than theoretical math.
I was shaking hands with an actual pirate, who must have some affiliation with Home Depot (considering the multi-tool anyway). Or, rather, I was shaking hands with a strange little woman who was dressed somewhat like a pirate.
This whole day had gone from weird to completely surreal with one handshake.
As we shook, she introduced herself. “Hi there, stranger. I’m called Virginia by those who know my family, Your Majesty by those who my reputation, and Verge by a select few. You look a bit—“
She was too polite to continue, and trailed off, leaving me holding the conversational reigns. It took me a second, but I climbed into the driver’s seat and took my turn at word craft.
I explained both who I was, and how I had arrived in Smallborotonville. Her eyes widened, and she listened to my tale with no hint of skepticism or disbelief whatsoever. When I finished, she looked down at her feet, took a deep breath, and said,
“You better come with me. I’ll help you get back home safely.”
And so she eventually did… Though the story is a long one, full of adventure, fantasy, and both people and creatures that even you would find difficult, if not impossible to believe.
In one day I saw and did things that I had previously thought impossible.
I battled a band of ninjas while a ship’s deck pitched beneath me; I ran through a dark Saltmine as though my life depended on it (which it did); I fought back a beast that took on a human shape made entirely of the muck from the bottom of a small pond.
Somehow, without even knowing it, I had fallen down some sort of rabbit hole in reality as a result of faulty wiring in my car.
It was the most amazing experience of my life, and at the end of the day, I wiped the blood off my cutlass, bowed low before the Queen, and thanked her for saving me from a fate worse than death…
Boredom.
Unfortunately, after returning me to my car approximately 12 hours later, Verge left me there alone, disappearing back into the woods with only a slight jingle of silver buckles. When I got in, my car started with absolutely no hint of its previous condition. Somewhat dazed, I drove back to my silent and empty house just outside of Concord. Fisk road had never seemed so safe and predictable as it did that night.
But I did not forget my adventure, or the charming and (to those who don’t know her well) mostly inconspicuous Pirate Queen with whom I had shared that adventure.
About 3 days later, when I could no longer stop thinking about it, I headed back in the direction of Smallborotonville, in order to see if I could replicate my amazing adventure again. I received a painful blow, as though disappointment were actually a physical weight on my shoulders.
The road I had been stranded on was gone. The entire turn-off had vanished as though it had never existed. Route 149 met met Route 77 innocently enough, but at the crossroads were only three possible choices… The fourth was simply not there.
I pulled over to the side of the road. The tightness in my chest was distinctly un-manly, or so my esteemed father would probably have said… but the thought that perhaps I had just dreamed up the queen’s existence was horribly depressing and I just didn’t care. I punched the steering wheel with both fists and swore obscenities I had never used before in my life. Other than that, there was no sound or movement anywhere around me. I sat in my still and by now hot car for over twenty minutes.
When I had finally collected myself, I restarted my car and began a u-turn that would return me to face my old life, turning my back on my one chance at adventure.
And then I saw it.
There was a brief flash of movement in the trees, and for the barest hint of an instant I saw what looked like a genuine pirate ship, moving silently and totally improbably through the woods, as though sailing through an ocean of leaves and branches.
On the deck of that sloop, there stood the Queen. As the ship rushed past and before it vanished back into the depths of the forest, she tossed something onto the ground beside my car.
When I had recovered myself, I opened the door to see what she had left behind… It was a clear glass bottle, of a kind that hasn’t been made in years, and contained within was a rolled up piece of paper.
I had to use a pen in order to remove the cork, and draw the paper clumsily out through the top. When I read the contents, I smiled, and I doubt that I have done much of anything else since, except perhaps to re-read the letter, and prepare for the journey to come.
This is what the note said:
To My Dear Friend,
Though we have only known each other a short time, I find that I am anxious to have you join with me to fight the forces of evil, which include but are not limited to: standardized testing, ninjas, and other assorted villains.
I think that you would be a valuable ally and friend.
If you would join my crew and I on our quest, simply return to this place during the next full moon. I make this offer knowing full well that you may reject it and me with it.
I will await you there, my friend.
If you do have second thoughts, do not be sad, instead simply remember me fondly, as your affectionate friend and servant,
The Pirate Queen, Virginia of the Salt Mines, Upon the hour of Twilight
I don’t remember the drive home, but I do know that all I thought about was going on line to find out the date of the next full moon. When I discovered that it was still two weeks away, I sobered a bit.
But since that day, I have thought about little else.
Tonight is the full moon, and the Unvanquished will be waiting, with the Queen and her crew on board.
Good bye to whoever may read these lines. I fondly hope that you are able to one day join the Queen on her adventures as well… They might just change your life.
That’s what they did for me.
Signed,
Benjamin “Brisket” Anders Cosgrove
Upon the dawn of Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Attachment: Last Will and Testament
__________________________
Writer’s Final Note:
Inasmuch as Benjamin really had very little to leave, his possessions themselves are of little note. However, he did dedicate that all his goods as were found to have merit should be left entirely to fund the higher education of worthy and needy students, and thanks to the value of the house he owned, several potential students may find themselves very fortunate indeed, once seven years have passed and he may legally be declared to be deceased.
–Harold Moffett, Staff Reporter, The Daily Union Monitor
Article Submitted on June 14, 2010
__________________________
Editor’s Response: Harold, most of the information in this piece can hardly be credited or cited, much less believed. I am, on a personal note, disappointed that with all of your training you would even attempt to pass off such drivel as “news” to the citizens who read our paper.
Consider yourself on warning, and stick to the Korner Cupboard and captioning photos taken for real articles, since you are clearly incapable of writing an investigative article effectively.
–Editor-in-Chief, Erika Swenson, The Daily Union Monitor
Article Summarily Rejected, June 14, 2010
In the spirit of Journalism, I wrote up a story that looks at my adventures from an entirely different angle... I hope you'll like it, but if you don't... Well, that's okay too. I'll still love you.
__________________________
Investigative Report, Submitted by Staff Reporter Harold Moffett to Editor-in-Chief, Erika Swenson of the Sunday Union Monitor, Concord, New Hampshire, 03301, USA
Title: Do You Know the Pirate Queen?
When Sheriff’s deputy, John Norwich (28) of Weare, NH, arrived at the house of one Benjamin Anders Cosgrove (26), he expected to find that Cosgrove’s hysterical neighbor had simply over-reacted. The Concord Sherriff’s office had received a 911 call from a Miss Angela James (56) of Fisk Road. She insisted that she was sure that her neighbor, Cosgrove must be dead, as it had been nearly two months since she had seen movement from his house.
To the deputy’s surprise, instead, he found a note, a last will and testament, and a riddle that leaves him with questions that he may never be able to answer to his satisfaction.
The home on 112 Fisk Road was purchased by Cosgrove in early 2003. Its appearance suggests that Cosgrove took genuine care of both his possessions and the house itself, but it does in fact appear to have been abandoned for some time. The lawn has not been mowed since the beginning of spring, and weeds are growing up in the driveway and between the paving stones of the front walkway. The door, while closed, was not locked. The kitchen table was set for one, and there were the mummified remains of a chicken dinner moldering away on it.
The television was still on, and Cosgrove’s laptop was off, but in sleep mode.
“It all looked as though the guy had just, I don’t know—gone out for a minute and planned to come right back… And then, just… didn’t. It still gives me a cold chill,” said a source close to the investigation. This statement was made after the source emerged from the house, which has been officially ruled not to be a crime scene.
“There doesn’t appear to have been any foul play,” said Sheriff Andrew Eastman, “and there is no proof that anything at all has happened to Mr. Cosgrove. He may simply have gone on vacation without telling anyone.”
According to his neighbor, Ms. James, Ben was a very personable man who lived alone and who had no close relatives. “He always seemed rather shy to me. But whenever I needed help with yard work, he would come over and help me. He was such a nice young man.”
Benjamin worked from a home office as an online writing tutor for a large company based in Florida, and had no pets, friends, or discernable hobbies other than watching television on his flat screen(mostly sci-fi), and playing Mafia Wars and Farmville on Facebook.
To say that his disappearance is strange is simply stating the obvious, but even the authorities have not been able to come up with a plausible explanation of where Cosgrove went.
According to another source, when Deputy Norwich entered the house, he could hear the television, and though the house should have smelled of mildew and rancid food, he smelled nothing except a cool breeze, marked by a tang of salt in the air.
“He swore to me that for a second he felt like he had stepped out of Concord, and onto the Boardwalk of Hampton Beach.”
It should be noted that Concord is approximately 55 miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean.
Deputy Norwich declined to comment on the matter, stating that the investigation had been officially closed.
It is a fact that the deputy never reported this mysterious breeze in his write up of the incident at the house, merely telling friends and family.
Still, all questions regarding the competence of our sheriff’s office aside, the riddle remains.
The real question is… Who is this mysterious Pirate Queen?
And what really happened to Benjamin Anders Cosgrove?
We may never know.
*The Text of Benjamin Anders Cosgrove’s final communication is included below, with no omissions, revisions, or additions of any kind. You must draw your own conclusions from its contents.
Harold Moffett
Staff Reporter
The Daily Union Leader –
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
June 14, 2010
From “Brisket” Cosgrove, to Whom it May Concern:
By the time anyone reads this letter, I will be long gone, having sailed off into the sunset to face whatever comes next. Please don’t worry about me; I look forward to this adventure in a way that I have never looked forward to anything else in my life. You see, my story begins (and ultimately ends) like this:
Once upon a time, a little over two weeks ago now, my car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and I was left stranded by the side of the road with 26 dollars in my pocket, no cell service, and a bad case of Poison Oak. One of my Nikes was only hanging on by sheer willpower. I was dressed in gym shorts and a ripped Bruins t-shirt, and I smelled like bug spray, old sweat, and dead leaves.
As you can probably gather from the above, it was not the conclusion of my best day ever.
After walking along the side of a state road in serious need of repair for a few hours, I at last reached a watering hole.
Seriously, it was a literal watering hole, or to be more specific, it was a well. Located in the exact center of a large quadrangle, it was bordered on each side by an old building. On the northern side was an ancient town hall; to the south was a small protestant church. To the east and west were houses that had reached such an extreme state of disrepair that they were barely identifiable as dwellings any longer. Each seemed to be leering at me, like the skulls of mummies, only instead of missing eyes, teeth and noses, they had lost their shingles, windows and doors. Just outside the square was a large green sign, welcoming me to “Scenic and historic Smallborotonville!” However, the condition of the sign made its very presence both disturbing and menacing.
At some point in the distant past, the sign had doubtless been equally as scenic as the town, but now the paint was cracked, chipped, and faded, and the wood from which it was made had been so chewed up by both insects and the weather, that I doubt if it would have continued to stand without the enormous pines growing up around it sheltering it from the breeze. In fact, those same sheltering trees crowded so closely around the sign that it was almost invisible from the road leading to the square.
Suffice to say, I didn’t feel that I had been particularly welcomed to the town. This forbidding place was more like a hidden castle in an enchanted forest, or a dead city in the heart of a jungle.
My hands actually started to sweat a little. Honestly, I wasn’t all that used to adventure. Actually, that’s a lie… I had never been on an adventure in my life, unless you counted getting lost in my back yard once when I was ten. Then, I cried like a baby. And now, here I was, stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no prospects, and apparently, no hope of assistance from any other human beings; I felt an unwilling lump rise in my throat, and I pushed it down as hard as I could.
How was this possible? I couldn’t be more than 10 or 20 miles from I-93 for crying out loud!
Bottom line? I had absolutely no idea where I was, how I had gotten there, or how the hell I would ever get home again. Somewhere along my staggering journey down the side of the road, I had actually begun to wonder if I might die before I saw anything but softwood forests, swamps, enchantingly picturesque abandoned farmhouses, and crumbling stone walls.
Even the center of town appeared to be deserted. In fact, it appeared as though no one had lived in this town since Abraham Lincoln was in middle-school.
Dejected, I approached the well, and pumped the handle several times. Luckily, this at least seemed operational. I suppose you might think that it was foolish of me to simply assume that the water was safe to drink. I mean, who knows what carcasses might have ended up down there in a spring flood or something, but by that time, I didn’t care if there was strychnine and a dead ‘possum in that well. It was wet and cool, and I intended to consume it and bathe my hot face and hands in it.
The water was as refreshing as possible under the circumstances, and I sat down in the grass of the town common in order to contemplate my immediate future.
This depressed me so much, that by the time I noticed approaching footsteps, I had simply given up and lain down on the grass like a deflated balloon. I even began to wonder if I wasn’t in a coma in a hospital somewhere… Did this place even exist? Did I exist?
And then I had the scariest thought ever… Perhaps I had died and gone to… New England?
Better than hell I supposed, though not by much.
And then a shadow landed on me. I looked up in shock, with a gasp of indrawn breath, and an intense full-body shudder. I rolled nimbly to my feet and said, “Oh my god! I thought I was never going to set eyes on another human being as long as I lived!”
Once I stood, I got my first really close look at a local.
To be honest, she wasn’t all that impressive, but I had no burning desire to complain, given that she was the first potential assistance I had seen in what felt like forever.
She was short and sturdily built, with brown hair and merry blue eyes ringed with nearly black pigment toward the outer edge of the irises. Her face was plain, but cheerful, with two small dimples and dark brows and lashes.
On a second perusal she began to really come into focus for me. She was statuesque, and wore black boots with spiky heels, which had sunk just a bit into the turf of the quadrangle. She wore black pants, and a black shirt made of some velvety material that flowed loosely. Her hair rioted in total excess about her round face. She seemed harmless… but also, oddly intimidating. There was something about the aura of confidence that she gave off that freaked me out a little.
She wore no adornments that I could see, save a delicate chain of white gold that held a single diamond, and a tiny charm of silver that was etched with a tiny heart. When she offered me her hand to shake, her shirt opened just a bit at the collar, and I could see the extreme edge of some tattoo on her chest above her right breast. As her body turned I saw that she carried on her hip, a scabbard, currently empty, and a holster in which she kept, not a pistol, but rather a … Multi-tool.
This was already the single strangest encounter I had ever had with anyone, not that I’d had many encounters, as a life-long geek and introvert, I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, and quite frankly, women as a species mystified me more than theoretical math.
I was shaking hands with an actual pirate, who must have some affiliation with Home Depot (considering the multi-tool anyway). Or, rather, I was shaking hands with a strange little woman who was dressed somewhat like a pirate.
This whole day had gone from weird to completely surreal with one handshake.
As we shook, she introduced herself. “Hi there, stranger. I’m called Virginia by those who know my family, Your Majesty by those who my reputation, and Verge by a select few. You look a bit—“
She was too polite to continue, and trailed off, leaving me holding the conversational reigns. It took me a second, but I climbed into the driver’s seat and took my turn at word craft.
I explained both who I was, and how I had arrived in Smallborotonville. Her eyes widened, and she listened to my tale with no hint of skepticism or disbelief whatsoever. When I finished, she looked down at her feet, took a deep breath, and said,
“You better come with me. I’ll help you get back home safely.”
And so she eventually did… Though the story is a long one, full of adventure, fantasy, and both people and creatures that even you would find difficult, if not impossible to believe.
In one day I saw and did things that I had previously thought impossible.
I battled a band of ninjas while a ship’s deck pitched beneath me; I ran through a dark Saltmine as though my life depended on it (which it did); I fought back a beast that took on a human shape made entirely of the muck from the bottom of a small pond.
Somehow, without even knowing it, I had fallen down some sort of rabbit hole in reality as a result of faulty wiring in my car.
It was the most amazing experience of my life, and at the end of the day, I wiped the blood off my cutlass, bowed low before the Queen, and thanked her for saving me from a fate worse than death…
Boredom.
Unfortunately, after returning me to my car approximately 12 hours later, Verge left me there alone, disappearing back into the woods with only a slight jingle of silver buckles. When I got in, my car started with absolutely no hint of its previous condition. Somewhat dazed, I drove back to my silent and empty house just outside of Concord. Fisk road had never seemed so safe and predictable as it did that night.
But I did not forget my adventure, or the charming and (to those who don’t know her well) mostly inconspicuous Pirate Queen with whom I had shared that adventure.
About 3 days later, when I could no longer stop thinking about it, I headed back in the direction of Smallborotonville, in order to see if I could replicate my amazing adventure again. I received a painful blow, as though disappointment were actually a physical weight on my shoulders.
The road I had been stranded on was gone. The entire turn-off had vanished as though it had never existed. Route 149 met met Route 77 innocently enough, but at the crossroads were only three possible choices… The fourth was simply not there.
I pulled over to the side of the road. The tightness in my chest was distinctly un-manly, or so my esteemed father would probably have said… but the thought that perhaps I had just dreamed up the queen’s existence was horribly depressing and I just didn’t care. I punched the steering wheel with both fists and swore obscenities I had never used before in my life. Other than that, there was no sound or movement anywhere around me. I sat in my still and by now hot car for over twenty minutes.
When I had finally collected myself, I restarted my car and began a u-turn that would return me to face my old life, turning my back on my one chance at adventure.
And then I saw it.
There was a brief flash of movement in the trees, and for the barest hint of an instant I saw what looked like a genuine pirate ship, moving silently and totally improbably through the woods, as though sailing through an ocean of leaves and branches.
On the deck of that sloop, there stood the Queen. As the ship rushed past and before it vanished back into the depths of the forest, she tossed something onto the ground beside my car.
When I had recovered myself, I opened the door to see what she had left behind… It was a clear glass bottle, of a kind that hasn’t been made in years, and contained within was a rolled up piece of paper.
I had to use a pen in order to remove the cork, and draw the paper clumsily out through the top. When I read the contents, I smiled, and I doubt that I have done much of anything else since, except perhaps to re-read the letter, and prepare for the journey to come.
This is what the note said:
To My Dear Friend,
Though we have only known each other a short time, I find that I am anxious to have you join with me to fight the forces of evil, which include but are not limited to: standardized testing, ninjas, and other assorted villains.
I think that you would be a valuable ally and friend.
If you would join my crew and I on our quest, simply return to this place during the next full moon. I make this offer knowing full well that you may reject it and me with it.
I will await you there, my friend.
If you do have second thoughts, do not be sad, instead simply remember me fondly, as your affectionate friend and servant,
The Pirate Queen, Virginia of the Salt Mines, Upon the hour of Twilight
I don’t remember the drive home, but I do know that all I thought about was going on line to find out the date of the next full moon. When I discovered that it was still two weeks away, I sobered a bit.
But since that day, I have thought about little else.
Tonight is the full moon, and the Unvanquished will be waiting, with the Queen and her crew on board.
Good bye to whoever may read these lines. I fondly hope that you are able to one day join the Queen on her adventures as well… They might just change your life.
That’s what they did for me.
Signed,
Benjamin “Brisket” Anders Cosgrove
Upon the dawn of Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Attachment: Last Will and Testament
__________________________
Writer’s Final Note:
Inasmuch as Benjamin really had very little to leave, his possessions themselves are of little note. However, he did dedicate that all his goods as were found to have merit should be left entirely to fund the higher education of worthy and needy students, and thanks to the value of the house he owned, several potential students may find themselves very fortunate indeed, once seven years have passed and he may legally be declared to be deceased.
–Harold Moffett, Staff Reporter, The Daily Union Monitor
Article Submitted on June 14, 2010
__________________________
Editor’s Response: Harold, most of the information in this piece can hardly be credited or cited, much less believed. I am, on a personal note, disappointed that with all of your training you would even attempt to pass off such drivel as “news” to the citizens who read our paper.
Consider yourself on warning, and stick to the Korner Cupboard and captioning photos taken for real articles, since you are clearly incapable of writing an investigative article effectively.
–Editor-in-Chief, Erika Swenson, The Daily Union Monitor
Article Summarily Rejected, June 14, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Shoes Made Me Do It
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.
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.
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.
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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.
