Dating has always been a trouble spot for me. Here's another classic date gone awry from a while back.
I met this handsome fella through an online dating site—let's call him Derek. We chatted for a while, emailed a bit, texted and sexted—the usual gay courting ritual. Until the time finally came to meet in person. The night we were going to meet downtown, my dog gets explosive, bloody, gut-wrenching diarrhea. It's everywhere. It's horrible. It looks like Dexter has been all over my house killing killers. I'm not leaving my dog alone and coming back to more of this. I'm cancelling.
I cancel.
Derek responds with "R U A Flake?"
FLAKE. A dreaded word in the gay world. It means you're a game-player. Not serious about dating. Word gets out (we are a people who gossip) and you get blacklisted.
I call him to explain. He doesn't pick up. I don't leave a voicemail because—who leaves voicemails?
I now have to text a full explanation without sounding gross. I tip toe around the scenery and just say my dog is ill and I need to stay in tonight so I can walk him often and get him on a sensitive stomach diet of chicken and rice. Derek doesn't like dogs and doesn't understand what's happening and thinks I'm making this whole thing up. But, to his credit, he says "K. Fine. Tmrw?"
"Tomorrow." I reply.
It's tomorrow.
I wake up ill. Like horribly, disgustingly ill. I've been up most of the night walking the dog every few hours. When I finally arise for good, my nose is dripping, my eyes are puffy, my throat feels like I've been gargling with razor blades, I can hardly breathe and instead of speaking I'm only able to croak and squeak bits of words. I have to cancel.
"FLAKE" goes through my head. I'm sweating. What do I do? It's not like he'd want to see me like this as a first impression. I could get him sick. I can't eat anything. Maybe soup. But I'm so tired. I could collapse and drown in my soup. Right in front of him. But I wouldn't be a flake. Flake wouldn't be on my tombstone. I would die with honor. In soup.
All day, instead of getting rest, I'm continuing to walk my somewhat-sick dog and worrying about what to do. Do I cancel? Do I go? Do I say anything?
Shit.
It's time to get ready. I get ready. I look revolting. Paler than even normal. Eye bags. Red eyes. Dripping, red nose. I don't have a deeper, sexier, husky "sick voice" but instead a shrill, squeaking whine. Everything is wrong. I just want to crawl into bed. I hate Derek for putting me in this position. I hate that because half of all gays genuinely ARE flakes, I have to go on a death-bed date. I feel completely forced into this date. I'm being date raped. And now I'm so resentful of Derek that I want to cancel for a different reason. But no, I suck it up. Let's get this spite date over with.
I stuff every pocket I possess full of tissues, and leave the house.
I arrive 5 minutes late at the restaurant and he is already seated.
He looks great. I look heinous. He looks well rested, well dressed and chipper. I look like I just crawled out from under a toll bridge.
He stands up and gives me a hug. My nose drips on the collar of his pressed shirt. I cough in his ear.
Good start, champ.
Derek is sweet. Throughout dinner he actually feigns interest in me despite my appearance. He asks thoughtful and interesting questions. And, because my throat is so sore and I'm trying to avoid talking, I give terse, abrupt answers. More phlegm than response, really. I try turning the questions around on him. Keep him talking. Keep me quiet.
He answers with ease and finesse. He's actually interesting. He's a financial advisor but it's not his life. He's creative and crafty. He's also a woodworker and a handyman. How sexy is that?
I excuse myself to the bathroom. I can't take another second of sniffling through my nose, trying to keep the river of snot behind a flimsy dam. I need to blow my swollen red schnoz in private. The sounds aren't gonna be pretty and even I know the table is inappropriate.
I let loose in the men's room. I'm more disgusting than the guy who is clearly lactose intolerant in the back stall. He makes a quick exit when my nose begins to roar—king of the bathroom. I'm glad the fearful peasants have fled. For now I am out of tissues and resort to toilet paper from the stalls. It shreds and tears as I make a dog's dinner of it. But, for a brief moment, I can breathe through a narrow hole in one nostril. Ahhhh. That feels good.
I wash my hands thoroughly. I don't dare look in the mirror. I already know it's fifteen miles of bad road looking back. I don't need even less of an appetite.
I return to the table. Dinner has arrived. I ordered the smallest thing I could. Hopefully eating like a bird and looking pale makes me look thin and mysterious. I go to dig in and I notice Derek giving me a weird look across the table.
"What?" I croak. "Do I have a bat in the cave?" I dab what I assume is a runaway booger with my napkin. I'm past embarrassment at this point.
"No, it's not that." He sort of stammers.
"Well what is it?"
"You uh...I didn't know..." He sort of whispers.
"you didn't know what?!" I ask far more high-pitched and shrilly than intended. My voice cracking like a pubescent teen.
"That you were into that stuff." He says very conspiratorially.
I sort of sit there with my mouth agape. What's happening?
"Can I try?" He asks real quiet.
"Try what?" I try to match his tone...thinking maybe he's building up to some sort of inside joke.
"I'm into it." He whispers. "It's cool. You don't have to worry."
"I'm nothing but worried at the moment." I say flatly. "I don't know what's going on."
"Oh come on, share with me." He says.
"I...Is there..." I stammer "Do you want some of my soup?" I pass it over to him.
He pushes it back and shakes his head. He points to his nose and sniffs.
"Ohhhh." I say. "Sorry, but I'm out of tissues."
"No man. Your coke." He says with a sly smile.
"This is iced tea." I say, pointing to my drink.
Now he's getting mad. And I'm oblivious to the painfully obvious. I'm also very tired, and very dumb.
He takes his straw out of his drink, sticks it to his nose, and sniffs through it, looking at me. He's just done an imaginary line of cocaine.
I reach up to rub my nose and see little flecks and flakes of toilet paper falling away.
Jesus Christ.
"Oh. It's not what you think!" I say louder than I think—my ears as clogged as my nose. I start to ramble. "I'm sick and I'm on Dayquil and Nyquil and I ran out of tissues and the paper was sticky and I have the sniffles and the red nose from wiping and blowing and it hurts and it's not drugs. I wouldn't even know what to do with drugs. I mean I have smoked pot before but who hasn't? I can't breathe anyways even if I had some to sniff or to share. If I did, you could have all of it, I promise!"
He's stunned. I've gone from pale to as red as my nose. Several tables are blatantly listening and watching this unfold.
He leaves a handful of cash on the table and leaves without another word.
I want to shout something clever, like "Now who's the flake, asshole?!" but I have a coughing fit instead.
I take the mostly uneaten meal home and sleep for almost 12 hours. I'm surprised to have a text from Derek when I wake up.
"URA F*k'n idiot dude."
I want to be nasty back. I want to place all the blame on him for making me feel like it was date or die. But the only one that made me feel that way was me. I caved to peer pressure from someone I had never even met. I am an idiot.
So instead all I respond with is "URITE."
Tales of a tactless twit
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Monday, March 26, 2012
Exit Strategy
A few weeks ago, that which I fear most came to pass.
It was a Friday afternoon at the office. Many employees work from home on Fridays, so it was pretty quiet. I wasn't feeling well after an Indian buffet trip the previous night. Normally, I am an avid avoider of public toilets, let alone at work. There is something unprofessional about squatting in the workplace. Sadly, I was given no choice this day. It was coming whether I wanted it to or not.
I cautiously opened the bathroom door. The motion-sensored lights snapped on to reveal an empty, clean men's room. I grabbed a toilet-liner and headed for the furthest-away stall. Preparing everything with as much dignity as possible, I sat down and went about my business.
I didn't think anyone would actually come in, but I made several courtesy flushes just in case. Bathroom etiquette is very important.
Everything was proceeding as well as could be expected. I was quite pleased to have privacy for this delicate moment. And then it happened...
The overhead lights snapped off.
I stifled a scream.
With no windows, it was pitch black. Thoughts flooded through me.
Is someone in here? Dear God. Say something!
"H-hello?" I squeaked into the darkness.
Maybe the janitor shut the lights off... maybe it's five o'clock already... no... it can't be... I would have heard the door open... unless someone snuck in here...
I shivered. My mind reeled with the possibilities of knife-wielding killers slipping into the men's room. Of mindless zombies shambling under the stall wall and feasting on my exposed flesh.
I'm going to die. I'm going to be killed. At work. In the bathroom. In the dark. On a toilet. Smelly and alone.
My corpse will be discovered on Monday morning. Slumped over. Pants around my ankles. Flies everywhere.
I was sitting in the utter darkness, panicked and sweating through my dress shirt.
Just breathe. Calm down. Don't be an idiot. Nobody is in here. You're alone. Killers don't come into company bathrooms to murder people, and even if they did, they wouldn't do it in the dark... right? Right. So who turned off the lights...? Nobody. They're automatic you retard. You're taking too long and they went off. Everything's fine. Just move around and they'll come back on.
I waved my arms around my head.
Nothing.
I stood up.
Nothing.
I shuffled towards the stall door, pants around ankles, arms waving like an angry chimp.
Nothing.
Are the lights tied to the bathroom door somehow? I can't just waltz out there like this. What if someone comes in while I'm here? How am I supposed to explain why I'm sitting here dumping in the dark? They're going to think that I'm a killer. Okay. Be cool. Maintain. Just finish your business, get dressed, and get the hell out. Everything's fine.
I found my way back to my seat and reached for the toilet paper roll atop the empty dispenser.
Thump.
I knocked it to the ground and heard it roll softly into the darkness beyond.
Noooooo!
I got down on hands and knees, pants and belt buckle scraping against the tile floor as I crawled around in blind pursuit. I wasn't finding anything except a mysterious moisture on the floor. I fought back the urge to vomit.
This can't be happening. Any second someone is going to come in. I'm going to be the sick, smelly, psychopath crawling around on the bathroom floor, pants down, ass up, in the dark. It will probably be the CEO too. The fucking CEO is going to stroll in and see me like this—I know it. I'm going to be fired immediately. Possibly arrested. I'll never find another job again. There's no bouncing back from this. I have to get out. I've been in here for like an hour. Just get the fuck up, pull your fucking pants on, and get out before anyone sees you. It doesn't matter if you're not done. You can come back later and tidy up. When the lights are on. Or wait till you get home. Just get out. Pull your pants on and get out. GO! Run bitch, run!
Survival instincts took over. In one fluid motion I got up, got my shirt tucked into my pants, buckled and zipped up, found the stall latch, unlocked it, burst out of it and ran towards the exit in complete darkness. I stopped short, found the bathroom door handle, yanked it open, squinted at the sudden light burst, then erupted towards my cubicle, never looking back.
When I got to my cube I was panting heavily, disheveled, sweaty, and visibly rattled. Adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn't sit down and pretend to work any more. I'd had a near death experience—didn't I deserve the rest of the day off? I sanitized my hands, got my coat, and left the building in disgrace.
When I got home the first thing I did was take a shower and do laundry. I thought I could wash the horrors of the day away, but sleep came uneasily, and I dreamed the whole event happening again.
The moral of this sad story?
Always have an exit strategy.
Oh, and no Indian buffets.
It was a Friday afternoon at the office. Many employees work from home on Fridays, so it was pretty quiet. I wasn't feeling well after an Indian buffet trip the previous night. Normally, I am an avid avoider of public toilets, let alone at work. There is something unprofessional about squatting in the workplace. Sadly, I was given no choice this day. It was coming whether I wanted it to or not.
I cautiously opened the bathroom door. The motion-sensored lights snapped on to reveal an empty, clean men's room. I grabbed a toilet-liner and headed for the furthest-away stall. Preparing everything with as much dignity as possible, I sat down and went about my business.
I didn't think anyone would actually come in, but I made several courtesy flushes just in case. Bathroom etiquette is very important.
Everything was proceeding as well as could be expected. I was quite pleased to have privacy for this delicate moment. And then it happened...
The overhead lights snapped off.
I stifled a scream.
With no windows, it was pitch black. Thoughts flooded through me.
Is someone in here? Dear God. Say something!
"H-hello?" I squeaked into the darkness.
Maybe the janitor shut the lights off... maybe it's five o'clock already... no... it can't be... I would have heard the door open... unless someone snuck in here...
I shivered. My mind reeled with the possibilities of knife-wielding killers slipping into the men's room. Of mindless zombies shambling under the stall wall and feasting on my exposed flesh.
I'm going to die. I'm going to be killed. At work. In the bathroom. In the dark. On a toilet. Smelly and alone.
My corpse will be discovered on Monday morning. Slumped over. Pants around my ankles. Flies everywhere.
I was sitting in the utter darkness, panicked and sweating through my dress shirt.
Just breathe. Calm down. Don't be an idiot. Nobody is in here. You're alone. Killers don't come into company bathrooms to murder people, and even if they did, they wouldn't do it in the dark... right? Right. So who turned off the lights...? Nobody. They're automatic you retard. You're taking too long and they went off. Everything's fine. Just move around and they'll come back on.
I waved my arms around my head.
Nothing.
I stood up.
Nothing.
I shuffled towards the stall door, pants around ankles, arms waving like an angry chimp.
Nothing.
Are the lights tied to the bathroom door somehow? I can't just waltz out there like this. What if someone comes in while I'm here? How am I supposed to explain why I'm sitting here dumping in the dark? They're going to think that I'm a killer. Okay. Be cool. Maintain. Just finish your business, get dressed, and get the hell out. Everything's fine.
I found my way back to my seat and reached for the toilet paper roll atop the empty dispenser.
Thump.
I knocked it to the ground and heard it roll softly into the darkness beyond.
Noooooo!
I got down on hands and knees, pants and belt buckle scraping against the tile floor as I crawled around in blind pursuit. I wasn't finding anything except a mysterious moisture on the floor. I fought back the urge to vomit.
This can't be happening. Any second someone is going to come in. I'm going to be the sick, smelly, psychopath crawling around on the bathroom floor, pants down, ass up, in the dark. It will probably be the CEO too. The fucking CEO is going to stroll in and see me like this—I know it. I'm going to be fired immediately. Possibly arrested. I'll never find another job again. There's no bouncing back from this. I have to get out. I've been in here for like an hour. Just get the fuck up, pull your fucking pants on, and get out before anyone sees you. It doesn't matter if you're not done. You can come back later and tidy up. When the lights are on. Or wait till you get home. Just get out. Pull your pants on and get out. GO! Run bitch, run!
Survival instincts took over. In one fluid motion I got up, got my shirt tucked into my pants, buckled and zipped up, found the stall latch, unlocked it, burst out of it and ran towards the exit in complete darkness. I stopped short, found the bathroom door handle, yanked it open, squinted at the sudden light burst, then erupted towards my cubicle, never looking back.
When I got to my cube I was panting heavily, disheveled, sweaty, and visibly rattled. Adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn't sit down and pretend to work any more. I'd had a near death experience—didn't I deserve the rest of the day off? I sanitized my hands, got my coat, and left the building in disgrace.
When I got home the first thing I did was take a shower and do laundry. I thought I could wash the horrors of the day away, but sleep came uneasily, and I dreamed the whole event happening again.
The moral of this sad story?
Always have an exit strategy.
Oh, and no Indian buffets.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Lost in Translation
I spent Christmas with my family in South Carolina. As always, it was a wonderful time. This year was even better. Why? To make a long story short, my cousin Eric married a woman from Brazil. Due to visa issues, she was unable to come live with him in the U.S. for the past 3 years. She has been living in her small village with her 2 teenage children from a previous marriage, and their new baby girl, Analisa.
This year, right before Christmas, they were finally able to come to the United States. Right before all of this happened, my mother found Eric—who was out of work for years—a good job at her hospital down south. He made plans to leave Boston and move there immediately. Eric and his Brazilian family had less than a week to fly to South Carolina from their respective locations, find a place to live, and acclimate themselves to a very different environment. Did I mention none of the children speaks a word of English and they'd be expected to start high school in January?
My mother knew this was going to be a difficult transition for all of them. She helped look at houses/apartments, buy furniture, chauffeur, and much more. She also invited the whole family over to have Christmas dinner with us so they wouldn't feel alone. Eric's wife Maria spoke English very well, so hopefully she could translate for the kids. Not wanting them to feel entirely left out, my mother looked up dozens of phrases in Portuguese so that she could talk directly to the kids a bit. She also printed out Portuguese labels for each of the food dishes, so they would know what they were eating.
Bless her, she really was trying.
I admired her thoughtfulness and wanted to help. I downloaded an English to Portuguese translation app on my smartphone and we decided to give it a try. My mother spoke several phrases into the microphone, and it returned with Portuguese translations, which we wrote down. Things like:
"What would you like to drink?"
"Would you like more turkey?"
"White meat, or dark meat?"
"Leave room for dessert!"
Having written down the portuguese translations, I instructed my mother to speak them back into the microphone, and verify that we had them correct.
"Why don't you try 'what would you like to drink?'" I suggested.
In her best accent, my mother began her butchery of the language.
O que você gostaria de beber?
Hanking, wanking, salamandar!
After 10 minutes of gut-wrenching laughter, she tried again.
O que você gostaria de beber?
Mother of booklets!
Another 10 minutes of cackling. I suggested she try another phrase—"How about 'Would you like some turkey?'"
Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
Take it outside, Turk!
Gales of laughter.
Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
I'm getting angry now!
"How can this be?!" My mother howled, wiping tears of laughter away. "I'm saying it just like it's written!"
"You're an idiot." My father interjected. "Let Josh try it. He'll do it right."
My mother handed me her sheet of Portuguese and the smartphone.
I've taken several years of Spanish class. I thought that might better prepare me for the task, but I was wrong. I took a deep breath and tried "Do you prefer white meat, or dark meat?"
Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
The Cookie Monster lives in Berlin?
More hysterics.
Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
Hacker boys, upload your photos!
"What the hell are you guys doing?" My brother barked. "Let me try."
I gave him the phone and translated phrases. He tried his hand at "Would either of you like gravy?"
Ou iria-vos como molho?
Terrible youtube dragons!
Cackles all around.
Ou iria-vos como molho?
Would you like a punch?
It got better and better as the day went on. At one point my father gave it a try and came up with Would you like lampshades made of feet?
We decided it would be best not to talk directly to the children for fear of what we might say. It made for a classically awkward family dinner. But when Silent Night came on the radio, we couldn't help giggling at one another.
This year, right before Christmas, they were finally able to come to the United States. Right before all of this happened, my mother found Eric—who was out of work for years—a good job at her hospital down south. He made plans to leave Boston and move there immediately. Eric and his Brazilian family had less than a week to fly to South Carolina from their respective locations, find a place to live, and acclimate themselves to a very different environment. Did I mention none of the children speaks a word of English and they'd be expected to start high school in January?
My mother knew this was going to be a difficult transition for all of them. She helped look at houses/apartments, buy furniture, chauffeur, and much more. She also invited the whole family over to have Christmas dinner with us so they wouldn't feel alone. Eric's wife Maria spoke English very well, so hopefully she could translate for the kids. Not wanting them to feel entirely left out, my mother looked up dozens of phrases in Portuguese so that she could talk directly to the kids a bit. She also printed out Portuguese labels for each of the food dishes, so they would know what they were eating.
Bless her, she really was trying.
I admired her thoughtfulness and wanted to help. I downloaded an English to Portuguese translation app on my smartphone and we decided to give it a try. My mother spoke several phrases into the microphone, and it returned with Portuguese translations, which we wrote down. Things like:
"What would you like to drink?"
"Would you like more turkey?"
"White meat, or dark meat?"
"Leave room for dessert!"
Having written down the portuguese translations, I instructed my mother to speak them back into the microphone, and verify that we had them correct.
"Why don't you try 'what would you like to drink?'" I suggested.
In her best accent, my mother began her butchery of the language.
O que você gostaria de beber?
Hanking, wanking, salamandar!
After 10 minutes of gut-wrenching laughter, she tried again.
O que você gostaria de beber?
Mother of booklets!
Another 10 minutes of cackling. I suggested she try another phrase—"How about 'Would you like some turkey?'"
Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
Take it outside, Turk!
Gales of laughter.
Gostaria der ter a turqueria?
I'm getting angry now!
"How can this be?!" My mother howled, wiping tears of laughter away. "I'm saying it just like it's written!"
"You're an idiot." My father interjected. "Let Josh try it. He'll do it right."
My mother handed me her sheet of Portuguese and the smartphone.
I've taken several years of Spanish class. I thought that might better prepare me for the task, but I was wrong. I took a deep breath and tried "Do you prefer white meat, or dark meat?"
Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
The Cookie Monster lives in Berlin?
More hysterics.
Você prefere carne branca ou escura carne?
Hacker boys, upload your photos!
"What the hell are you guys doing?" My brother barked. "Let me try."
I gave him the phone and translated phrases. He tried his hand at "Would either of you like gravy?"
Ou iria-vos como molho?
Terrible youtube dragons!
Cackles all around.
Ou iria-vos como molho?
Would you like a punch?
It got better and better as the day went on. At one point my father gave it a try and came up with Would you like lampshades made of feet?
We decided it would be best not to talk directly to the children for fear of what we might say. It made for a classically awkward family dinner. But when Silent Night came on the radio, we couldn't help giggling at one another.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
South Carolina
The first time I went to South Carolina was at age 14. I went with my parents and my older brother Brett, who applied to the University of South Carolina.
Brett wanted to visit the campus before making his final undergraduate decision. Of course, the only reason he applied to USC in the first place was because that's where his online girlfriend—whom he'd never met—resided.
Okay.
I didn't want to go, but I wasn't trusted to stay home by myself for 5 days.
Okay.
We weren't exactly flush with cash for 4 plane tickets to Columbia, so we planned to drive the 950 miles from Massachusetts to South Carolina.
Okay.
We were going to do it in the most reliable car we owned—a 1987, 2-door Chevy Cavalier with 125,000 miles on it—still with the original clutch.
Okay.
My father opened up a 16-panel map of the United States and plotted a course. It included an overnight stay at what he believed was a good midway point—Richmond, VA.
Okay.
A month later it was time for our trip. It was Saturday morning. Brett's tour and orientation of the campus was on Monday. My mother packed a cooler of drinks, ice, and snacks and put it in the backseat between me and Brett. She had a stack of trashy romance novels at the ready to read while my father drove. My brother had a stash of science fiction books. I had a book of Mad Libs, some comics, and a Gameboy with back-up batteries. My father had several books on tape so he wouldn't feel left out. We were perfectly content ignoring each other until we got to Southern Connecticut.
I-95 is a fickle beast. It's the most direct route between the Northeast and Southeast but is guaranteed to make you cry at any given time. Just outside of New Haven, CT we were at a stand still.
"Dad. Can you put the air conditioning on? It's June and we're parked on the highway. Windows down ain't cutting it." I pleaded.
"Do you know what running the air conditioner in traffic does to your miles per gallon? Just drink some water. You'll be fine."
"But I already have to pee. I can't drink any more water!"
"There's nothing I can do right now. We're not moving. Just wait until we get into New York." He said as calmly as he could, but I could see him gripping the wheel in frustration.
"Josh, just go in one of the empty water bottles if you have to." My mother said into her book.
"I'm not peeing infront of my family in the backseat of a Chevy on I-95!" I wailed.
"You better not fucking pee back here." Brett barked at me.
"Alright. Shut up both of you. Just go back to reading and get your minds off traffic and piss." My Mother ordered.
Three hours passed before we crossed the border into New York. I think my father realized the gravity of the urine situation when I was tapping my feet so hard against his seat that he was getting sea sick. He took the next exit we could crawl to and stopped at the first gas station. He fueled up, and we all fueled down. Rather than getting back on the highway, Dad decided it would be faster if we took back roads following the highway and got back on it later. When we ended up in the Bronx Housing Projects, he thought better of it and got back onto the I-95 parking lot.
By the time we got into New Jersey, it was already midnight. We were easily 5 hours behind schedule and everyone wanted to stop for the night. My father took the next exit off the highway intending to find a reasonable motel. The sign read "Welcome to Passaic, New Jersey" but it should have read "Welcome to Thieving Crackwhoreville."
The first motel we spotted had no vacancy, which is just as well since there appeared to be a body floating in the pool. At the second motel, my father was greeted by a man jerking off to a porn flick at the reception desk. At the third motel, we got the keys to our room and kindly stepped over the passed out, drunken hooker slumped across the doorway. My mother slid her across the walkway, then shut and bolted the door behind us. The room was awful. It smelled like cigarettes, sex, and urine.
"This costs a hundred bucks a night?" My father asked incredulously.
"We're all exhausted and there's no more hotels. Let's just deal with it tonight and get the hell out of--" My mother started to say as she pulled back the comforter on one of the beds.
It was clear the sheets used to be white, but had faded into a dingy, egg yoke yellow. Complementing that were the dotted blood stains throughout. My mother backed away from the bed and herded us towards the door.
"Come on. We're not staying here. There's bedbugs and God only knows what else in this room."
We stepped back over the passed-out prostitute and got back into the car. My mother took the driver's seat this time as my dad was just too tired to keep going. Brett and I tried to get some sleep in the backseat, but my mother didn't know how to drive the stick-shift Chevy, so we would be jerked awake by cars honking at us as we lurched forward and stalled out. Then my mother's cascade of cursing would follow.
When we crossed over the state line into Virginia, it was 5:00 a.m. and my mother couldn't drive anymore. She took the next exit and found the first hotel. We shambled into the lobby of a Super 8 Motel and asked for a room. The night clerk informed us that check-out was in five hours and were we sure we wanted to stay? My mother assured him that yes, we did want to stay, and that if we were woken up before noon, he would regret being born.
We woke up too late for any sort of breakfast and too early for any sort of lunch, so we just got in the car and drove the rest of the way stopping once at a Dairy Queen to make sure everyone had indigestion for the rest of the trip. Accomplishing that, we arrived in Columbia, SC at our Howard Johnson's hotel at 10 pm. Again, it was too late for dinner anywhere except at the local Bojangle's Chicken Shack—always a great idea to eat heavy right before bed and when you have to get up early and tour a large campus. We all slept miserably and raced for the toilet as soon as we got up. I've never been so close to leaving a deuce in the corner of a hotel room.
When we piled back into the car and headed towards the campus, I asked if my parents would drop me off at a mall or something. I really didn't want to walk around a campus I didn't care about and I didn't want to be far from a toilet. They said they would drop me off somewhere on the way if it looked safe.
As luck would have it, we pulled up to a red light and there on the corner was a video arcade! "Family Fun Amusement Center" it was called, and featured purple stripes and clown faces all along the exterior.
"Just leave me there." I pointed.
My father pulled into the parking lot and fished out some quarters from the cupholder.
"Here ya go. It's all we have."
"Thanks Dad! I'll see you guys when you're done."
I skipped up to the front doors and ignored all of the warning signs—the tinted glass doors, the cigarette smoke eminating from within, the fact that there was not a single window on the exterior of the building, and the only cars in the parking lot were pickup trucks and big rigs.
I swung the door open with my handful of quarters and screeched to a halt. Inside were a line of men hunched over on stools, looking at strip shows on arcade screens. Most had a a cigarette in one hand and an exposed crotch in the other. I must have made a squealing sound because they all stopped fondling themselves and leered at me. I stammered something, dropped all my change on the dirty carpet, and fled from the building.
Running across the parking lot, I saw my parents' car pulling out of the parking lot.
"STOOOOOOP!" I screamed, waving my arms with frantic abandon. "DON'T LEAVE MEEEEEEE!"
They pulled across the intersection and down the highway.
I sat down on the curb, looking back at the "Family Fun Amusement Center" and grimaced. The South Carolina sun was scorching my pasty skin already. I wandered across the street to the only other building I could see—Hank's Pawn Shop.
Spending the day with Hank wasn't so bad. He taught me how to tell the difference between silver and nickel just by biting it, how to tell if a gun was loaded without checking the chamber, what the difference between a stogie and a cigar is, and a few pointers on how to tell if boobs were real or fake. He kept me entertained with stories of his first ex-wife, Maggie, who left him for a Jewish vacuum cleaner salesman. It was pretty sad. He got stuck with a house he couldn't afford on his own, while she took their two kids and left him with a bill for four vacuums.
"Who the fuck buys four vacuums anyways?" Hank asked me.
"Bitches." I replied.
"You're all right kid. Promise me you won't ever marry."
"I won't."
"Good. You're better off being a fag."
"Thanks Hank."
Around dinner time I saw my parents pull into the lot across the street looking for me. I thanked Hank for his hospitality and went to meet them. They seemed surprised to see me coming from the opposite direction.
"How was the arcade?" My mom asked.
"Not what I expected." I replied. "How was the campus?" I asked, seeing my brother in the backseat sulking.
"Not what we expected." She answered. "But it wasn't a total loss. We got you a little something."
She handed me a silver necklace with a giant cock on it—the USC Fighting Gamecocks mascot. I stuck it in my mouth and bit down hard.
"It's not real silver." I said.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Let's go home."
Brett wanted to visit the campus before making his final undergraduate decision. Of course, the only reason he applied to USC in the first place was because that's where his online girlfriend—whom he'd never met—resided.
Okay.
I didn't want to go, but I wasn't trusted to stay home by myself for 5 days.
Okay.
We weren't exactly flush with cash for 4 plane tickets to Columbia, so we planned to drive the 950 miles from Massachusetts to South Carolina.
Okay.
We were going to do it in the most reliable car we owned—a 1987, 2-door Chevy Cavalier with 125,000 miles on it—still with the original clutch.
Okay.
My father opened up a 16-panel map of the United States and plotted a course. It included an overnight stay at what he believed was a good midway point—Richmond, VA.
Okay.
A month later it was time for our trip. It was Saturday morning. Brett's tour and orientation of the campus was on Monday. My mother packed a cooler of drinks, ice, and snacks and put it in the backseat between me and Brett. She had a stack of trashy romance novels at the ready to read while my father drove. My brother had a stash of science fiction books. I had a book of Mad Libs, some comics, and a Gameboy with back-up batteries. My father had several books on tape so he wouldn't feel left out. We were perfectly content ignoring each other until we got to Southern Connecticut.
I-95 is a fickle beast. It's the most direct route between the Northeast and Southeast but is guaranteed to make you cry at any given time. Just outside of New Haven, CT we were at a stand still.
"Dad. Can you put the air conditioning on? It's June and we're parked on the highway. Windows down ain't cutting it." I pleaded.
"Do you know what running the air conditioner in traffic does to your miles per gallon? Just drink some water. You'll be fine."
"But I already have to pee. I can't drink any more water!"
"There's nothing I can do right now. We're not moving. Just wait until we get into New York." He said as calmly as he could, but I could see him gripping the wheel in frustration.
"Josh, just go in one of the empty water bottles if you have to." My mother said into her book.
"I'm not peeing infront of my family in the backseat of a Chevy on I-95!" I wailed.
"You better not fucking pee back here." Brett barked at me.
"Alright. Shut up both of you. Just go back to reading and get your minds off traffic and piss." My Mother ordered.
Three hours passed before we crossed the border into New York. I think my father realized the gravity of the urine situation when I was tapping my feet so hard against his seat that he was getting sea sick. He took the next exit we could crawl to and stopped at the first gas station. He fueled up, and we all fueled down. Rather than getting back on the highway, Dad decided it would be faster if we took back roads following the highway and got back on it later. When we ended up in the Bronx Housing Projects, he thought better of it and got back onto the I-95 parking lot.
By the time we got into New Jersey, it was already midnight. We were easily 5 hours behind schedule and everyone wanted to stop for the night. My father took the next exit off the highway intending to find a reasonable motel. The sign read "Welcome to Passaic, New Jersey" but it should have read "Welcome to Thieving Crackwhoreville."
The first motel we spotted had no vacancy, which is just as well since there appeared to be a body floating in the pool. At the second motel, my father was greeted by a man jerking off to a porn flick at the reception desk. At the third motel, we got the keys to our room and kindly stepped over the passed out, drunken hooker slumped across the doorway. My mother slid her across the walkway, then shut and bolted the door behind us. The room was awful. It smelled like cigarettes, sex, and urine.
"This costs a hundred bucks a night?" My father asked incredulously.
"We're all exhausted and there's no more hotels. Let's just deal with it tonight and get the hell out of--" My mother started to say as she pulled back the comforter on one of the beds.
It was clear the sheets used to be white, but had faded into a dingy, egg yoke yellow. Complementing that were the dotted blood stains throughout. My mother backed away from the bed and herded us towards the door.
"Come on. We're not staying here. There's bedbugs and God only knows what else in this room."
We stepped back over the passed-out prostitute and got back into the car. My mother took the driver's seat this time as my dad was just too tired to keep going. Brett and I tried to get some sleep in the backseat, but my mother didn't know how to drive the stick-shift Chevy, so we would be jerked awake by cars honking at us as we lurched forward and stalled out. Then my mother's cascade of cursing would follow.
When we crossed over the state line into Virginia, it was 5:00 a.m. and my mother couldn't drive anymore. She took the next exit and found the first hotel. We shambled into the lobby of a Super 8 Motel and asked for a room. The night clerk informed us that check-out was in five hours and were we sure we wanted to stay? My mother assured him that yes, we did want to stay, and that if we were woken up before noon, he would regret being born.
We woke up too late for any sort of breakfast and too early for any sort of lunch, so we just got in the car and drove the rest of the way stopping once at a Dairy Queen to make sure everyone had indigestion for the rest of the trip. Accomplishing that, we arrived in Columbia, SC at our Howard Johnson's hotel at 10 pm. Again, it was too late for dinner anywhere except at the local Bojangle's Chicken Shack—always a great idea to eat heavy right before bed and when you have to get up early and tour a large campus. We all slept miserably and raced for the toilet as soon as we got up. I've never been so close to leaving a deuce in the corner of a hotel room.
When we piled back into the car and headed towards the campus, I asked if my parents would drop me off at a mall or something. I really didn't want to walk around a campus I didn't care about and I didn't want to be far from a toilet. They said they would drop me off somewhere on the way if it looked safe.
As luck would have it, we pulled up to a red light and there on the corner was a video arcade! "Family Fun Amusement Center" it was called, and featured purple stripes and clown faces all along the exterior.
"Just leave me there." I pointed.
My father pulled into the parking lot and fished out some quarters from the cupholder.
"Here ya go. It's all we have."
"Thanks Dad! I'll see you guys when you're done."
I skipped up to the front doors and ignored all of the warning signs—the tinted glass doors, the cigarette smoke eminating from within, the fact that there was not a single window on the exterior of the building, and the only cars in the parking lot were pickup trucks and big rigs.
I swung the door open with my handful of quarters and screeched to a halt. Inside were a line of men hunched over on stools, looking at strip shows on arcade screens. Most had a a cigarette in one hand and an exposed crotch in the other. I must have made a squealing sound because they all stopped fondling themselves and leered at me. I stammered something, dropped all my change on the dirty carpet, and fled from the building.
Running across the parking lot, I saw my parents' car pulling out of the parking lot.
"STOOOOOOP!" I screamed, waving my arms with frantic abandon. "DON'T LEAVE MEEEEEEE!"
They pulled across the intersection and down the highway.
I sat down on the curb, looking back at the "Family Fun Amusement Center" and grimaced. The South Carolina sun was scorching my pasty skin already. I wandered across the street to the only other building I could see—Hank's Pawn Shop.
Spending the day with Hank wasn't so bad. He taught me how to tell the difference between silver and nickel just by biting it, how to tell if a gun was loaded without checking the chamber, what the difference between a stogie and a cigar is, and a few pointers on how to tell if boobs were real or fake. He kept me entertained with stories of his first ex-wife, Maggie, who left him for a Jewish vacuum cleaner salesman. It was pretty sad. He got stuck with a house he couldn't afford on his own, while she took their two kids and left him with a bill for four vacuums.
"Who the fuck buys four vacuums anyways?" Hank asked me.
"Bitches." I replied.
"You're all right kid. Promise me you won't ever marry."
"I won't."
"Good. You're better off being a fag."
"Thanks Hank."
Around dinner time I saw my parents pull into the lot across the street looking for me. I thanked Hank for his hospitality and went to meet them. They seemed surprised to see me coming from the opposite direction.
"How was the arcade?" My mom asked.
"Not what I expected." I replied. "How was the campus?" I asked, seeing my brother in the backseat sulking.
"Not what we expected." She answered. "But it wasn't a total loss. We got you a little something."
"It's not real silver." I said.
"Huh?"
"Nothing. Let's go home."
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Bloomin' Onion
Anyone who's had the Bloomin' Onion from the Outback Steakhouse knows well its fried clarion call.
If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.
The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.
When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.
"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.
"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.
"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.
"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.
"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.
"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.
We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.
"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.
"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.
"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.
"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."
"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.
"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.
"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"
"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."
"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.
After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.
Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.
"That does look really good." He said.
"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.
"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."
"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."
"Some mashed potato?"
"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."
"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.
"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."
Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.
"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.
"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.
"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.
I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.
"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."
Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.
"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."
I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.
"Does it hurt much?" He asked.
"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."
I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.
He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.
"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"
"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.
"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.
"Aww of it." I croaked.
"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.
"Wike a coconut thize."
"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."
I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.
When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.
"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.
"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"
"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.
"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"
"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"
"I'm had an awwergic--"
"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"
"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."
If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.
"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.
"I know. I never should have let you date."
"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"
"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"
"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.
"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"
We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.
"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.
"It feels pretty normal again."
"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.
"Sure." I acquiesced.
"Where would you like to go?"
"Outback Steakhou--"
"Shut the fuck up Josh!"
I love my mom.
If it weren't for this, Outback Steakhouse would be nothing. A nonentity. The steak is crap. The food all has the same salty-peppery seasoning. The drinks are watered down. The waitstaff is overly-friendly and annoying. It is my belief that the Bloomin' Onion is single-handedly keeping the place afloat. If they were to close down their entire operation and instead have a Bloomin' Onion kiosk, they would do just as well, if not better. But, I digress.
The Bloomin' Onion is solely responsible for my very first date experience. The date that set the bar so low, that all dates after it were a smashing success. I first met Steve online via gay.com. I was 16 years old. He was 20 and in community college. I didn't even have a car or license yet, so like a gentleman he picked me up at my parent's house (they loved that, by the way). He asked me where I'd like to go for dinner. I replied with the response I gave my parents whenever they asked me—Outback Steakhouse. We drove 30 minutes to the nearest Outback. On the way I was incredibly nervous, so I did what I always do when nervous—tell wildly inappropriate jokes and stories, then laugh so hard I snort. The first time I exploded in cackle-snorts I thought he was going to drive off the road. I could see the shock and horror written on his face, but couldn't seem to keep my mouth shut. I kept filling the silence with bawdy, unflattering stories. Each one was received with more terror than the last. To Steve's credit, he did have the courtesy to fake a smile.
When we arrived at Outback Steakhouse in Tyngsboro, MA there was a 30 minute wait.
"Do you mind waiting a little bit for a table?" He asked me.
"I'm starving. Let's just sit at the bar." I urged.
"Oh... okay... are you sure you don't want to wait for a private table?" He coaxed.
"Nah. Let's just sit at the bar. I see some empty stools next to that old couple." I pointed.
"Umm... it's a little loud over there. Are you sure you don't want to wait?" He practically begged to deaf ears.
"I don't mind a little noise. Let's go eat!" I led him over to the crowded bar area and perched happily on a stool.
We were greeted cheerfully by the bartender who took our drink order.
"Have you boys been here before?" A waitress asked, siddling up next to us and handing us menus.
"I've never been--" Steve started to reply.
"Oh my god, yes! My parents and I come here all the time. In fact, I don't even need a menu." I interrupted loudly, pushing the menu back at her.
"Well that's great. Welcome back." She smiled at me, then turned to Steve apologetically, "I'll just give you a few minutes to look over the menu then."
"Wow... you really like this place huh?" Steve asked.
"Not really. There's just one thing I like here." I chirped while sucking down my soda.
"Oh yeah? What's that?"
"The Bloomin' Onion. Oh my god it's so good. It's like this onion the size of a coconut, all cut up into slivers and deep fried and it comes with this spicy, tangy sauce thing in the middle. It's amazing." I said with lots of hand gesturing.
"That does sound pretty good." He said looking at the menu. "Oh, it's an appetizer? Shall we split it then?"
"Oh no." I replied wide-eyed. "I get it as my meal. You can get your own though... if you want."
"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his face and voice, but it went unnoticed.
After we placed our orders, we sat mostly in silence—me not knowing what to say—he probably not wanting to say anything. We picked at the free loaf of bread speared with a steak knife at the table.
Ten years later, the waitress returned with our meals. He ordered something sensible like steak and potatoes. It looked tough, overcooked, and over-salted. My Bloomin' Onion was emitting steam and each onion petal was perfectly fried golden and looked like something from a magazine. I could see the lust in his eyes.
"That does look really good." He said.
"Yeah. It's amazing." I slurred through a mouthful of fried heaven.
"Would you like to try any of mine?" He asked, sawing at his steak. "I'd gladly trade some steak for some onion."
"No thanks." I gurgled. "I don't really like the steak here."
"Some mashed potato?"
"No thanks. I'm happy with mine."
"That's really all you're going to eat? No meat? No vegetables?" He asked skeptical and incredulous.
"I'll see how I feel afterwards. Maybe dessert."
Concentrating solely on our food at this point, we finished in ten minutes. The waitress came over to clear our empty plates.
"Did we save room for any desse--" She turned to me and stopped, her mouth hanging open.
"What? Do I have onion on my face?" I started touching where my cheek should have been. It was about 3 inches out from where it ought to be.
"Something's wrong with your face..." Steve and the waitress said in unison.
I got up from the table and went immediately to the bathroom. There was a man washing his hands at the sink in front of the mirror. He looked up into the reflection, saw my bulbous face, looked immediately away, and made an exceptionally fast exit. I bolted over to the mirror and examined my freakish face. My cheeks looked like I was hiding golf balls in them. My lips were bigger than Angelina Jolie's. It looked like I had a severe sunburn from my eyes down to my adam's apple. My tongue hurt, so I stuck it out for inspection. It was much larger than normal and was throbbing. It literally felt heavy and clunky. I stuffed it back in my mouth with my fingers and returned to the table, hiding my face behind hands.
"I think I have to go to the hothpital." I slurred. "It hurth."
Seeing his opportunity for an early date escape, Steve offered to drive me to the nearest hospital. We left cash without getting the check and rushed out to the car. As he drove, I pulled down the visor and looked at my swollen face in the mirror and cringed.
"It's not so bad." He comforted. "I'm sure you just have an allergy and need some benadryl."
I tried not to cry, but some tears escaped down my puffy face.
"Does it hurt much?" He asked.
"Not weawy. Ith not tho bad." I managed, "But I weawy wanted detthert."
I was kidding of course, but I'm pretty sure he was appalled anyways.
He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance and told me to go inside while he found parking. When I got to the emergency front desk, the nurses were very accommodating and ushered me back to a triage room. A doctor entered the room a couple minutes later and inspected my face and mouth.
"You're having an allergic reaction. A pretty strong one. I'm giving you a cortisone injection that should relieve the swelling. What did you eat that could be causing this?"
"I think ith the bwoomin' onion" I said.
"How much of this onion did you eat?" He inquired, taking my pulse.
"Aww of it." I croaked.
"How big is it? How much onion?" He pressed.
"Wike a coconut thize."
"Oh my... with that much in your system we need to get it out of you. I'm going to give you a solution that will induce vomiting. You need to expel as much of it as you can."
I spent the next 20 minutes hurling spicy fried onion into a hospital basin. As good is it was going down, it was reversely bad coming up. A nurse made me drink a gallon of water when I was done, before I was allowed to be discharged.
When I got back out to the waiting room, there was no Steve. I asked a nurse at the front desk if she had seen anyone fitting his description. She said no. I sighed, dreading what was to come. Reluctantly, I asked her if I could use their phone. I dialed home.
"Hello?" My Mom asked sweetly.
"Hi mum. Ith Joth. I'm at the hothpital and--"
"YOU'RE WHAT?" She shouted.
"I thaid I'm at the hothpital and I need a ri--"
"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO YOU?"
"I'm had an awwergic--"
"ARE YOU HURT? DID HE HURT YOU? WERE YOU RAPED?"
"Jethuth chritht mom! I'm fine. I need a wide home. I'll expwain in da caw."
If being ding dong ditched at a hospital emergency room wasn't evidence enough that it was not a successful date, my mother driving me home while crying was a pretty good indication. Because I was 16, a typical idiot teenager, and full of misdirected rage, I started yelling at my mother.
"Thith ith all yaw faulth!" I burst at her.
"I know. I never should have let you date."
"No! Ith that you never taw me how to date! I wath a jerk to him!"
"He left you at the hospital alone and without a ride home! He is a pig. You're sweet and too young and men are pricks. You won't be dating anymore!"
"YAW NOT THE BOTTHH OF ME!" I shrieked.
"You're right! You can date all you want! As long as they're women!"
We rode home in an angry silence. We didn't speak the rest of the night and we went to bed angry with each other. In the morning, we both apologized.
"Your face looks all better. How's your tongue?" She asked, giving me a hug.
"It feels pretty normal again."
"Why don't we go out to lunch and spend the day together?" She smiled.
"Sure." I acquiesced.
"Where would you like to go?"
"Outback Steakhou--"
"Shut the fuck up Josh!"
I love my mom.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Mystic Tan
It is about this time of year, every year, when I'm reminded of how painfully Albino-like I am. My choices are either white or red skin. I choose the less painful white. But there was one summer when I was orange.
My mother is very interested in my physical appearance.
"Those jeans make you look fat." She'd say out of the blue.
"You need a haircut. You look like a Beatle." She'd inform me, unprovoked.
"Josh. You're so pale...I can't even look at you. How are you going to get a date like that?" She'd shudder.
My parents live in South Carolina and have fabulous tans. I live in Boston where there's about 340 days of clouds, rain, or snow and about 20 days of pesky interruption by the sun. When I fly home to visit they always seem to forget this. I'll make my way out of the airport gate and they will be waiting for me at baggage claim.
"I could see you coming a mile away! You're a big, pale beacon!" Mom would greet me squinting.
One summer I flew down to visit them with my friend Leanne for a week. We mentioned how we wanted to go to the beach the next day. My mom looked suddenly horrified.
"You can't go to the beach like that!"
"Like what?" I asked.
"That PALE!" She groaned. "Everyone will think you're a yankee.
"I AM a yankee."
"Not in this house. We need you to blend in. What would the neighbors think if they saw you leaving here like that?"
"That you keep me locked in the attic?" I retorted.
"Probably!" She moaned. "You need to get a tan before you can go to a public beach."
"That's kind of the point of going to a beach in the first place."
"Absolutely not. You're getting a tan first."
"How?!" I shouted.
"I'm making a tanning appointment for both of you tomorrow. No buts." She declared.
I thought that laying in a tanning bed for 30 minutes wouldn't be so bad, so I didn't think much of her demand. If it would allow me to go to the beach unmolested, so be it.
In the morning she drove us over to a nearby stripmall. The sign out front said "Mystic Tan" and again, I didn't think anything of it. Inside I expected to see a bunch of coffin-like tanning beds and not much else. Instead, there was a grand, spa-looking lobby with curtains shrouding the back. Above the reception desk was a list of services.
Mystic Tans:
Level 1: $30
Level 2: $40
Level 3: $50
My mom informed the receptionist that we would be needing a Level 3 immediately. She looked at us and nodded agreement.
"Have y'all ever been here befo'?" She asked.
We shook our heads no.
"Have y'all ever had a Mystic Tan befo'?"
We shook our heads no.
"Ummkay, well follow me and I'll show y'all what to do."
She led us back behind a series of curtains into a private sitting area. Surrounding the area were a series of black shower stalls with a curtain leading into each one.
"Inside these two stalls is where your tanning experience will begin." She pointed to two designated Level 3 stalls. "You will remove your clothing out here first, and then proceed into these here stalls when ready. Once inside, there will be a display monitor with instructions and an audio recording will guide you through the process. It's quick, painless, and more efficient than traditional tanning beds. You've come to the right place to get a beautiful, instant tan without the tanlines. Do y'all have any questions?"
Leanne and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
"Good. Y'all will do just fahn. Relax and enjoy yo'selves. I'll see y'all back out front when you're dried off and got yo'selves dressed again." She walked through the curtains to the front desk area.
We didn't waste any time stripping down to nothing and tossing our clothes on the floor. We both wanted to be done quickly and get to the beach. When naked, we walked over to our designated stalls and peeked through the black curtains inside.
"Mine's pitch black..." I said
"Mine too." She said with an echo—her head poking through the curtain.
"You go first." I whined.
"No. You." She said.
"Together." We said in unison.
We pulled our curtains of our gas chambers aside, stepped upward and inward, then closed the curtain behind us. Small floor lights lit up after entering, like you'd see on an airplane. A 6 inch monitor on the wall infront of me flicked on and started playing a prerecorded welcome message. The woman's voice indicated that I should listen carefully to ensure the best possible tan.
"Please stand on the indicated footprints on the floor, and hold your arms out straight to the sides as indicated." (It showed a picture of a woman with her arms level to her shoulders and held out.) "Tanning spray will be released from the nozzles directly in front of you, and will cover the front of your body with tanning solution. Please do not move from this position until asked to turn around to ensure even spray on your front and backside. In just a moment, your mystic tanning experience will begin."
"It's about to start!" I shouted over to Leanne.
"Yup. It's kind of exciting!" She shouted back.
We waited anxiously for our "tanning experience" to begin.
A minute or two went by and nothing was happening in my stall. My arms were getting tired.
"Is anything happening in your stall?" I yelled.
"No! Is yours doing anything?" She yelled back.
"No!" I shouted, "Maybe we should go—" A hard blast of tanning solution erupted into my mouth with a hiss.
"KAHK...WHORK...GAH..." I choked and coughed, doubled over and dropped to my knees.
"YEEEEEEP!" I heard Leanne shriek, followed by loud bangs as she smashed into the walls.
Above me, I could hear the spray jets blasting over my head and hitting the curtain behind. My mouth was on fire from my open-mouthed blast of Mystic Hellfire. My eyes were burning from Satan's spray and I was completely blind. I couldn't see that the spray nozzles were actually descending on the opposite wall, and were nearing me. I was hacking up Mystic Sewage and rubbing furiously at my eyes when it started pelting me in the head. The unexpected force of it sent me reeling backwards and I went sailing out of the stall, taking the curtain with me. I hit the lower ground of the sitting area with a sloppy, wet thwack. Mystic Tan was continuing to spray out of the stall and directly onto the lobby floor now.
Leanne was still screaming as she burst through her stall curtain, slid on the wet floor with a SKREEE sound, and crashed down next to me in a heap. She was flailing and gagging as I flopped around on the cold, wet floor like a displaced goldfish. Tangled in the curtain and blind, I was making very little headway on getting up.
As suddenly as the spray jets started, they stopped. The only sounds in the lobby were our coughs and a gentle dripping sound from inside the stalls.
"Phase one completed," chimed the automated voice. "Please turn around 180 degrees and keep your arms raised. Tanning of your backside will begin momentarily."
We both groaned, knowing that we had to get up and get back in there or else our fronts would be bronze and our backs completely white. Shakily, we managed to get back on our feet and feel our way back to our stalls. My mouth, nose, eyes, and throat were burning as I climbed back inside and turned around with my arms out wide, this time bracing them against the stall walls. I was not going to be bested by this Mystic Bitch.
The cold liquid blasted against the back of my head and shoulders, sending goosebumps down my body. I shivered and shook, but held my footing despite the slippery, wet floor. I could hear Leanne screaming again and heard a thud as she fell down a second time. Panicking, I took a step forward to exit the stall and make sure she was okay. I lost my footing and the continuous blast of Mystic Shit sent me over the edge, crashing onto the lobby floor yet again, and skittering several across the slick tiles with a SQUEEE! I opened my eyes to see Leanne crawling out of her stall on hand and knees, Mystic Napalm firing over her head.
"UGH!" She was sobbing through closed eyes, clawing her way over to my twisted body.
"IT HURTS and BURNS!" I wailed.
The front desk receptionist must have heard our cries from the war zone and burst through the curtain to see us in a heap—Mystic Death squirting unabated from the stalls and further slicking the floors.
"Oh mah lord!" She screamed. "What in the hell happened to y'all?"
"Make it stop!" I begged.
"Full body tanning complete. Please exit the stall and proceed to the air drying station." Chimed the Mystic Whore from the stall.
"I am NOT going to the 'air drying station!' You can't make me!" I yelled at the receptionist standing over our nakedness.
After we dried off, inspected our wounds, and pulled our clothes back on, we returned to the front desk area where my mother was sitting and reading Southern Living. She looked up at us and her mouth dropped open.
"What the hell happened to you?" She exclaimed, getting up from her chair to inspect us.
"Mystic Tan happened to us!" I barked at her, furious for making us go through this, just to go to the beach.
"You're both orange! And spotted! It's awful!" We looked down at ourselves and confirmed that she was correct. We were indeed bright orange in splotches and white in others—like a creamsicle that's been unevenly licked.
"You have to go back!" She yelled at us, then turned to the receptionist, "You have to do it again! You have to fix them!"
"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't allow that. It's a mess back there. I need to spend my lunch break cleaning up. I've never seen anything like it." She tisked at us, "I've seen children get Mystic Tans with less fuss."
"Let's go." My mother commanded, grabbing us and hauling us out to the car.
As soon as the car doors closed, the tirade began. "I can't believe the two of you. I send you in to get a simple spray-on tan and you come out looking like you have leprosy. Not only was that a waste of money and time, but now I can't show my face in there again. 'Aren't you that Albino's mother? You know, the one that turned orange and flopped around on the floor like a retarded sea bass?' We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight and you look like you're dying of sepsis." She continued clucking and grumbling the rest of the way home.
When we got in the door, my father was making coffee in the kitchen.
"Holy hell!" He said wide-eyed when he saw us. "What happened? Was there an explosion?"
"Add Mystic Tan to the places we're not allowed back to." My mother spat.
We didn't go to the beach that day, nor did we go out to dinner. We ordered take out and rented a movie. While we all sat in the living room watching it, my parents sat behind Leanne and I, peeling flecks of orange off our backs while we peeled it off our legs and arms. We looked like a family of apes cleaning each other, but it did work.
After a few hours of peeling and scraping, we were back to pale and there was a pile of orange paint chips on the floor that the family dog was very interested in. In their defense, it was a very Mystic Pile.
My mother is very interested in my physical appearance.
"Those jeans make you look fat." She'd say out of the blue.
"You need a haircut. You look like a Beatle." She'd inform me, unprovoked.
"Josh. You're so pale...I can't even look at you. How are you going to get a date like that?" She'd shudder.
My parents live in South Carolina and have fabulous tans. I live in Boston where there's about 340 days of clouds, rain, or snow and about 20 days of pesky interruption by the sun. When I fly home to visit they always seem to forget this. I'll make my way out of the airport gate and they will be waiting for me at baggage claim.
"I could see you coming a mile away! You're a big, pale beacon!" Mom would greet me squinting.
One summer I flew down to visit them with my friend Leanne for a week. We mentioned how we wanted to go to the beach the next day. My mom looked suddenly horrified.
"You can't go to the beach like that!"
"Like what?" I asked.
"That PALE!" She groaned. "Everyone will think you're a yankee.
"I AM a yankee."
"Not in this house. We need you to blend in. What would the neighbors think if they saw you leaving here like that?"
"That you keep me locked in the attic?" I retorted.
"Probably!" She moaned. "You need to get a tan before you can go to a public beach."
"That's kind of the point of going to a beach in the first place."
"Absolutely not. You're getting a tan first."
"How?!" I shouted.
"I'm making a tanning appointment for both of you tomorrow. No buts." She declared.
I thought that laying in a tanning bed for 30 minutes wouldn't be so bad, so I didn't think much of her demand. If it would allow me to go to the beach unmolested, so be it.
In the morning she drove us over to a nearby stripmall. The sign out front said "Mystic Tan" and again, I didn't think anything of it. Inside I expected to see a bunch of coffin-like tanning beds and not much else. Instead, there was a grand, spa-looking lobby with curtains shrouding the back. Above the reception desk was a list of services.
Mystic Tans:
Level 1: $30
Level 2: $40
Level 3: $50
My mom informed the receptionist that we would be needing a Level 3 immediately. She looked at us and nodded agreement.
"Have y'all ever been here befo'?" She asked.
We shook our heads no.
"Have y'all ever had a Mystic Tan befo'?"
We shook our heads no.
"Ummkay, well follow me and I'll show y'all what to do."
She led us back behind a series of curtains into a private sitting area. Surrounding the area were a series of black shower stalls with a curtain leading into each one.
"Inside these two stalls is where your tanning experience will begin." She pointed to two designated Level 3 stalls. "You will remove your clothing out here first, and then proceed into these here stalls when ready. Once inside, there will be a display monitor with instructions and an audio recording will guide you through the process. It's quick, painless, and more efficient than traditional tanning beds. You've come to the right place to get a beautiful, instant tan without the tanlines. Do y'all have any questions?"
Leanne and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
"Good. Y'all will do just fahn. Relax and enjoy yo'selves. I'll see y'all back out front when you're dried off and got yo'selves dressed again." She walked through the curtains to the front desk area.
We didn't waste any time stripping down to nothing and tossing our clothes on the floor. We both wanted to be done quickly and get to the beach. When naked, we walked over to our designated stalls and peeked through the black curtains inside.
"Mine's pitch black..." I said
"Mine too." She said with an echo—her head poking through the curtain.
"You go first." I whined.
"No. You." She said.
"Together." We said in unison.
We pulled our curtains of our gas chambers aside, stepped upward and inward, then closed the curtain behind us. Small floor lights lit up after entering, like you'd see on an airplane. A 6 inch monitor on the wall infront of me flicked on and started playing a prerecorded welcome message. The woman's voice indicated that I should listen carefully to ensure the best possible tan.
"Please stand on the indicated footprints on the floor, and hold your arms out straight to the sides as indicated." (It showed a picture of a woman with her arms level to her shoulders and held out.) "Tanning spray will be released from the nozzles directly in front of you, and will cover the front of your body with tanning solution. Please do not move from this position until asked to turn around to ensure even spray on your front and backside. In just a moment, your mystic tanning experience will begin."
"It's about to start!" I shouted over to Leanne.
"Yup. It's kind of exciting!" She shouted back.
We waited anxiously for our "tanning experience" to begin.
A minute or two went by and nothing was happening in my stall. My arms were getting tired.
"Is anything happening in your stall?" I yelled.
"No! Is yours doing anything?" She yelled back.
"No!" I shouted, "Maybe we should go—" A hard blast of tanning solution erupted into my mouth with a hiss.
"KAHK...WHORK...GAH..." I choked and coughed, doubled over and dropped to my knees.
"YEEEEEEP!" I heard Leanne shriek, followed by loud bangs as she smashed into the walls.
Above me, I could hear the spray jets blasting over my head and hitting the curtain behind. My mouth was on fire from my open-mouthed blast of Mystic Hellfire. My eyes were burning from Satan's spray and I was completely blind. I couldn't see that the spray nozzles were actually descending on the opposite wall, and were nearing me. I was hacking up Mystic Sewage and rubbing furiously at my eyes when it started pelting me in the head. The unexpected force of it sent me reeling backwards and I went sailing out of the stall, taking the curtain with me. I hit the lower ground of the sitting area with a sloppy, wet thwack. Mystic Tan was continuing to spray out of the stall and directly onto the lobby floor now.
Leanne was still screaming as she burst through her stall curtain, slid on the wet floor with a SKREEE sound, and crashed down next to me in a heap. She was flailing and gagging as I flopped around on the cold, wet floor like a displaced goldfish. Tangled in the curtain and blind, I was making very little headway on getting up.
As suddenly as the spray jets started, they stopped. The only sounds in the lobby were our coughs and a gentle dripping sound from inside the stalls.
"Phase one completed," chimed the automated voice. "Please turn around 180 degrees and keep your arms raised. Tanning of your backside will begin momentarily."
We both groaned, knowing that we had to get up and get back in there or else our fronts would be bronze and our backs completely white. Shakily, we managed to get back on our feet and feel our way back to our stalls. My mouth, nose, eyes, and throat were burning as I climbed back inside and turned around with my arms out wide, this time bracing them against the stall walls. I was not going to be bested by this Mystic Bitch.
The cold liquid blasted against the back of my head and shoulders, sending goosebumps down my body. I shivered and shook, but held my footing despite the slippery, wet floor. I could hear Leanne screaming again and heard a thud as she fell down a second time. Panicking, I took a step forward to exit the stall and make sure she was okay. I lost my footing and the continuous blast of Mystic Shit sent me over the edge, crashing onto the lobby floor yet again, and skittering several across the slick tiles with a SQUEEE! I opened my eyes to see Leanne crawling out of her stall on hand and knees, Mystic Napalm firing over her head.
"UGH!" She was sobbing through closed eyes, clawing her way over to my twisted body.
"IT HURTS and BURNS!" I wailed.
The front desk receptionist must have heard our cries from the war zone and burst through the curtain to see us in a heap—Mystic Death squirting unabated from the stalls and further slicking the floors.
"Oh mah lord!" She screamed. "What in the hell happened to y'all?"
"Make it stop!" I begged.
"Full body tanning complete. Please exit the stall and proceed to the air drying station." Chimed the Mystic Whore from the stall.
"I am NOT going to the 'air drying station!' You can't make me!" I yelled at the receptionist standing over our nakedness.
After we dried off, inspected our wounds, and pulled our clothes back on, we returned to the front desk area where my mother was sitting and reading Southern Living. She looked up at us and her mouth dropped open.
"What the hell happened to you?" She exclaimed, getting up from her chair to inspect us.
"Mystic Tan happened to us!" I barked at her, furious for making us go through this, just to go to the beach.
"You're both orange! And spotted! It's awful!" We looked down at ourselves and confirmed that she was correct. We were indeed bright orange in splotches and white in others—like a creamsicle that's been unevenly licked.
"You have to go back!" She yelled at us, then turned to the receptionist, "You have to do it again! You have to fix them!"
"I'm sorry ma'am, we can't allow that. It's a mess back there. I need to spend my lunch break cleaning up. I've never seen anything like it." She tisked at us, "I've seen children get Mystic Tans with less fuss."
"Let's go." My mother commanded, grabbing us and hauling us out to the car.
As soon as the car doors closed, the tirade began. "I can't believe the two of you. I send you in to get a simple spray-on tan and you come out looking like you have leprosy. Not only was that a waste of money and time, but now I can't show my face in there again. 'Aren't you that Albino's mother? You know, the one that turned orange and flopped around on the floor like a retarded sea bass?' We're supposed to go out to dinner tonight and you look like you're dying of sepsis." She continued clucking and grumbling the rest of the way home.
When we got in the door, my father was making coffee in the kitchen.
"Holy hell!" He said wide-eyed when he saw us. "What happened? Was there an explosion?"
"Add Mystic Tan to the places we're not allowed back to." My mother spat.
We didn't go to the beach that day, nor did we go out to dinner. We ordered take out and rented a movie. While we all sat in the living room watching it, my parents sat behind Leanne and I, peeling flecks of orange off our backs while we peeled it off our legs and arms. We looked like a family of apes cleaning each other, but it did work.
After a few hours of peeling and scraping, we were back to pale and there was a pile of orange paint chips on the floor that the family dog was very interested in. In their defense, it was a very Mystic Pile.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Dear Phil
Dear Phil,
How are you doing, you old so-and-so? It's been a while! Since September 22nd of 2004 to be exact. That was the day I moved out of your house while you were at work.
It was a pretty awful day, but thinking about it now kinda makes me laugh. I mean—what must you have thought when you came home that day and all my stuff was gone? All that I left behind was a note, house key, and several scratches on your walls from moving furniture down the narrow staircase and hallway. The scratches were, for the most part, unintentional. The note, however, I thought you'd really enjoy. You seemed to really like leaving me notes. All sorts of notes. Sometimes I'd walk into the den and there would be a note on the TV.
"Josh—You left the TV on sleep mode again. I'd really appreciate it if you'd turn the TV all the way off. It saves electricity and prolongs the life of the TV."
Well, Phil, as much as I appreciate your concern over the longevity of my television set—the one that's been alive and well since 1995—I'd appreciate it even more if you'd mind your own fucking business. It's especially interesting as to why you're so concerned about the electric bill—the electric bill that I pay for. I also don't see the difference between me leaving the TV slightly on and you keeping your laptop on and plugged in 24/7. I'd also appreciate it if your plane crashed on a remote archipelago filled with cannibals and wasps.
I also really enjoyed the note you left on the washing machine for me.
"Josh—I noticed the last time you did laundry that the size of your loads were too big for the washer and dryer. Can you please stop putting so much in at once? It's going to damage the machines."
Well, Phil, I'm glad you're taking such a keen interest in my laundry practices. I'll tell you what. When there's "damage" to your washer and dryer from my filling them up with a reasonable amount of clothing, I'll be happy to pay for your grievances. Until then, drown in a fire.
Or the notes on the refrigerator.
"Josh—I'd really appreciate it if you would pay more attention to the food you buy at the grocery store. You know I'm on the Atkins diet and hardly any of the food you bought is appropriate for me to eat. Do you want me to fail? Do you want me to be fat so you feel more secure about yourself?"
Well, Phil, that's an interesting point you raise. The funny thing about the Atkins diet is that it basically consists of eating meat and broccoli. Did you by any chance peek in the freezer? The one full of meat and broccoli? The one that even has low-carb ice cream for you? If that's no good, you could always—oh, I don't know—do your own fucking food shopping. It may even do you good to step foot in a grocery store with the rest of us peasants. The common folk who don't have someone else doing their food shopping for them like an indentured servant. It may also do you some good to fall on a pitchfork.
And then there was the very last note. More of a letter really. This one was particularly noteworthy (pun intended) because you actually handed this one to me. And then, smiling, you asked me to read it in front of you. Because of this, I thought it was a good letter. I thought maybe it was a letter of apology. A peace offering in our tumultuous relationship. An olive branch extended because of how inhumanely passive aggressive and rude you had been since the day I moved in with you. After you asked me to move in because you hated how far away I was from you. Because you wanted the chance to get to know me better and spend more time with me. Because you said it was stupid of me to pay a landlord money when you had two empty rooms. Because you knew I had nowhere to go right after college graduation and a limited budget until I found my first real job.
However, it was about as far from these things as a letter could be. Do you remember? I still have it.
"So... what do you think?" You finally asked.
I continued sitting there, staring at you. And then I exploded.
"A LIVING NIGHTMARE?" I shrieked.
"NOT MATURE ENOUGH?" I bellowed.
"MORE CIVIL AND RESPECTFUL TO LEAVE A NOTE?" I screamed.
"YOU'LL TRY AND BE PATIENT WITH ME?" I boomed.
I got up from the couch, threw down your letter, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" You asked of me as I opened the front door.
"I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER!" I screeched, slamming the door behind me.
The next morning, while you were at work, my friend and I moved all of my meager belongings out of your house. The first two times we scratched the paint off your wall with my dresser it was an accident. The third, fourth, and fifth times it was on purpose.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this sooner. I thought it would be more civil to leave you a little note.
How are you doing, you old so-and-so? It's been a while! Since September 22nd of 2004 to be exact. That was the day I moved out of your house while you were at work.
It was a pretty awful day, but thinking about it now kinda makes me laugh. I mean—what must you have thought when you came home that day and all my stuff was gone? All that I left behind was a note, house key, and several scratches on your walls from moving furniture down the narrow staircase and hallway. The scratches were, for the most part, unintentional. The note, however, I thought you'd really enjoy. You seemed to really like leaving me notes. All sorts of notes. Sometimes I'd walk into the den and there would be a note on the TV.
"Josh—You left the TV on sleep mode again. I'd really appreciate it if you'd turn the TV all the way off. It saves electricity and prolongs the life of the TV."
Well, Phil, as much as I appreciate your concern over the longevity of my television set—the one that's been alive and well since 1995—I'd appreciate it even more if you'd mind your own fucking business. It's especially interesting as to why you're so concerned about the electric bill—the electric bill that I pay for. I also don't see the difference between me leaving the TV slightly on and you keeping your laptop on and plugged in 24/7. I'd also appreciate it if your plane crashed on a remote archipelago filled with cannibals and wasps.
I also really enjoyed the note you left on the washing machine for me.
"Josh—I noticed the last time you did laundry that the size of your loads were too big for the washer and dryer. Can you please stop putting so much in at once? It's going to damage the machines."
Well, Phil, I'm glad you're taking such a keen interest in my laundry practices. I'll tell you what. When there's "damage" to your washer and dryer from my filling them up with a reasonable amount of clothing, I'll be happy to pay for your grievances. Until then, drown in a fire.
Or the notes on the refrigerator.
"Josh—I'd really appreciate it if you would pay more attention to the food you buy at the grocery store. You know I'm on the Atkins diet and hardly any of the food you bought is appropriate for me to eat. Do you want me to fail? Do you want me to be fat so you feel more secure about yourself?"
Well, Phil, that's an interesting point you raise. The funny thing about the Atkins diet is that it basically consists of eating meat and broccoli. Did you by any chance peek in the freezer? The one full of meat and broccoli? The one that even has low-carb ice cream for you? If that's no good, you could always—oh, I don't know—do your own fucking food shopping. It may even do you good to step foot in a grocery store with the rest of us peasants. The common folk who don't have someone else doing their food shopping for them like an indentured servant. It may also do you some good to fall on a pitchfork.
And then there was the very last note. More of a letter really. This one was particularly noteworthy (pun intended) because you actually handed this one to me. And then, smiling, you asked me to read it in front of you. Because of this, I thought it was a good letter. I thought maybe it was a letter of apology. A peace offering in our tumultuous relationship. An olive branch extended because of how inhumanely passive aggressive and rude you had been since the day I moved in with you. After you asked me to move in because you hated how far away I was from you. Because you wanted the chance to get to know me better and spend more time with me. Because you said it was stupid of me to pay a landlord money when you had two empty rooms. Because you knew I had nowhere to go right after college graduation and a limited budget until I found my first real job.
However, it was about as far from these things as a letter could be. Do you remember? I still have it.
Dear Josh,
I hope you don't mind me writing all of this down instead of talking to you. I am just too emotional to have this conversation with you. I'm not trying to be passive aggressive or to surprise you, I just want you to know my feelings clearly without me stumbling through them verbally and incoherently.
The last few months of living with you have been a living nightmare. I was hoping that we could be adult enough to be roommates while we continue to date, but I can see you are not mature enough to handle such a complex situation. Ever since you have moved in, you have disrespected me, my property, and our relationship. Whenever I have tried to bring something to your attention that bothers me with a thoughtful note, you laugh it off dismissively or get angry with me for not discussing it with you in person. Unlike you, I don't enjoy confrontation. To me, it seems more civil and respectful to leave a note. Instead of responding in kind, you insist on having a nasty dialogue about everything. What kind of a future does this relationship have if we can't communicate?
I don't want to break up, but I think you have to be a better communicator if this is going to work out. I hope that you will make more of an effort to address my concerns, and in the meantime I will try and be patient with you. I look forward to knowing you better and progressing our relationship in a more healthy environment.
Love,The entire time I was reading your letter, my mouth was hanging open. I couldn't believe a 40-year old man had to write down his feelings for me. When I looked up, trembling with rage, I saw you still smiling sheepishly. Like you were expecting me to give you a big hug and apologize for being so immature. I was speechless.
Phil
"So... what do you think?" You finally asked.
I continued sitting there, staring at you. And then I exploded.
"A LIVING NIGHTMARE?" I shrieked.
"NOT MATURE ENOUGH?" I bellowed.
"MORE CIVIL AND RESPECTFUL TO LEAVE A NOTE?" I screamed.
"YOU'LL TRY AND BE PATIENT WITH ME?" I boomed.
I got up from the couch, threw down your letter, grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" You asked of me as I opened the front door.
"I'LL SEND YOU A LETTER!" I screeched, slamming the door behind me.
The next morning, while you were at work, my friend and I moved all of my meager belongings out of your house. The first two times we scratched the paint off your wall with my dresser it was an accident. The third, fourth, and fifth times it was on purpose.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you all this sooner. I thought it would be more civil to leave you a little note.
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