Ebs (my "twin" back in high school) was up for the weekend. Our mutual friend was Juliet in R&J that weekend. I hadn't seen Ebs in about a month and Juliet in even longer. Ironic considering she lived across campus and attended the Old Alma Mater. The party we were attending after the show had been moved across campus. I couldn't see the show until the next night because of dinner at my director's house. We were sharing a Russian dinner in honor of Anton Chekhov's brilliant playwriting. And as an excuse to eat and drink together.
We were all bringing something, I brought the vodka and the shot glasses. Shortly after I arrived we took some good Vodka, better than mine, as an appertif. We toasted. I showed everyone the proper way to shoot Vodka. Breathe out completely through the mouth, drink, inhale slowly through the nose. The Vodka was excellent, it tasted clean and vaguely of lemons. I drank another with a cast member, most people were not getting drunk.
Dinner consisted of Borscht with Sour Cream, Russian Pastry, and Potatoes. After dinner we resumed drinking the Vodka. Once the good vodka was gone, mine was opened up. Late during dinner LD arrived and we took a shot of Vodka together. Russian hospitality dictates that nobody should drink alone, or without a toast. I think we drank to life.
After we finished eating I had another drink with LD and we went outside for a cigarette. Shortly thereafter I got a phone call from Ebs and Juliet. They were supposed to come to the party that was next to my house. We agreed to meet shortly at the site of the new party. I told LD I was going, she wanted to come. We went inside. Me, my Director and LD all took a final shot of Vodka. I put the vodka and one shot glass in my backpack and we headed out. I was very drunk and excited to see my friends. They were both very dear to me. Over the course of the night I offered Vodka to anyone who wanted it, and even to people who didn't. I invited Ebs and Juliet back to play beer pong at my house. On our way off from the party I saw my Director and LG and invited them as well. We all stumbled back.
We left the party at 2:30. Around 4:00 Paul Buerre and I had managed to play 5 or 6 games with very little in the way of breaks. My head was swamped, but I was not tired. The 4 girls had taken turns, LD had left around 3:30. My Director was listless, as was I. When Ebs and Juliet decided to head out I agreed to walk my Director home. Instead, we wandered around campus for some time. I drank a beer. I threw the empty in a trashcan and then kicked it over. The top clanged off. She made me right it. We visited all my late night adventure locales. The echo spot. The mirror on the lake. We climbed the mushroom tree. Then we decided to climb up on the roof of the gym. The field house at the old alma mater has peaked roofs that dip into valleys and sweep down almost reaching the ground in the back of the building. Perfect for climbing up and sliding down. I quickly climbed using my fingertips and the balls of my feet. I was wearing converse with the soles worn slick, but still went up in one graceful walk. I sat and waited for My Director on the slope of the roof. All the running around had exacerbated my drunken state and looking out over the dark golf course I felt the world dipping up and down with my breath. I tried to explain how to get up the roof which at 5am was starting to get wet from the coming morning. I was unable. Eventually she made her way up and collapsed next to me, across my lap. I laid down to steady myself so I wouldn't slide down from the high point of the roof. She laid down next to me. I shivered.
"Are you cold?"
"No."
"This was fun."
"Yeah, it was."
"Don't try and do anything."
"I won't."
"Okay."
We laid silently for a long time. Occasionally I would shiver and she would offer to leave. I wanted to stay.
Finally the moment was over, it was 5:30. We slid down the way we came up and walked around the front of the building.
"What now?" I asked.
"Well, I have keys to the academic buildings, we could go on top of one of those."
"Wait, are you serious?"
"Yes."
"You've had these the whole time?"
"Yes."
"Let's go on top of a building and watch the sunrise." I hadn't watched the sunrise in a long time.
"Okay, we just need to go back and get them."
We walked to her house. Her roomate was asleep on the couch, the TV was on. She woke up confused, My Director talked to her briefly and she went into her room. I turned the TV off.
"I have to go to bed."
"No sunrise?"
"Maybe some other time."
"I'll hold you to that."
"Okay."
We hugged. I went home. On the way I kicked over the same trashcan again. When I got home I was mostly sober. I drank a glass of milk and sat on the couch. After I was done I got undressed and fell asleep in my bed, alone. I had a date with Ebs and Juliet for breakfast the next morning. I didn't want to miss it.
9.29.2006
9.28.2006
The Rapist
I worked at Ellis Island for a little less than a month this summer, not long enough to get a fancy little ID card with my picture on it. Instead, I had to sign in at this security stand by the boat every day (and once the blockheaded idiot wouldn't let me on because they had a "by BOSTON I meant married" listed, but that's another story that involves a lot of yelling by me and my boss at this dolt). Anyway, when my name got checked off they gave me this name tag with a front and back part. As the day went on, the back grew increasingly red until the words "EXPIRED" were all over it, tipping everyone off that my day of fun fun fun in the island sun was over and it was time to get shitfaced.
I'm thinking that it might be nice to apply this concept in reverse to therapy patients. When a session is over, slap a big red SANE tag on them that would then wear down and indicate that it was time for another session.
But how to make this most effective? Should the label be applied to the forehead and gradually cracked by the worried furrowing of the patient's brow? Or under the eyes so that their tears make the ink stream down into an unreadable mess? These decisions must be made on a case by case basis.
I feel very strongly about this.
I'm thinking that it might be nice to apply this concept in reverse to therapy patients. When a session is over, slap a big red SANE tag on them that would then wear down and indicate that it was time for another session.
But how to make this most effective? Should the label be applied to the forehead and gradually cracked by the worried furrowing of the patient's brow? Or under the eyes so that their tears make the ink stream down into an unreadable mess? These decisions must be made on a case by case basis.
I feel very strongly about this.
9.26.2006
The Recent Trip to the Old Alma Mater (The incidents surrounding day one)
Leaving work early was pleasant, walking to Grand Central in the pouring rain was not. I elected to take the subway and make the transfer though it was only 7 blocks on foot. I needed a ride from the train station when I got in, through some amazing turn of fate P. Dizzle not only picked up his phone, but was already dropping someone off when I got in. The trainride up was uneventful, but life moves in slow motion outside the bubble of The Old Alma Mater. Once I arrived I never stopped moving.
I arrived at 7:30 and picked up two 30 racks of Genesse Beer on the way back from the train station. I hadn't had it since I graduated. P. Dizzle dropped me off at J-Rad's where I was staying. He wasn't in so I left one 30 in his fridge and called him. He was out and would be back "soon." Knowing this meant anywhere between 1 and 6 hours I took the other 30 to P. Dizzle's. I raided his fridge and said hey to his housmates. We sat around, I drank my cold, delicious beer, they drank whiskey sours. His housmates both got ready to bartend so P. and I smoked some pot, and drank another beer, his was a good one. I called Photoshop and was greeted with enthusiasm.
"Hey Photoshop, what's up?"
"Other Alex! How are you? Are you here?"
"Yeah, I'm hanging out at P. Dizzle's"
"What are your plans?"
"Making the rounds, seeing what's going on."
"Well you should come over here, have a glass of wine, smoke some hookah and then keep moving if you want or we can all go and party together."
"Alright, I'll finish my beer and do that."
"Can't wait!"
I finished my beer, P. and I said a little prayer to the revered Jim Beam and I went on my way with 6 of my beers. Immediately upon entering Photoshop's house I found myself in a room with 10 or so beautiful women, none of whom I had ever met. I was also greeted by a Gin and Tonic and a hug from Monica. This is what I love about the Alma Mater.
Turned out it was Ladies Night at their house and that they had still invited me. I was flattered, if a little put off. Eventually N-Unit arrived, we shot the shit for a bit and then I was off yet again after a call from J-Rad informing me he was back. Upon my arrival J-Rad was in the shower. I grabbed my crown, and filled my bag with beer. When he got out we went to the party across the way. We scouted for people we knew. I found Goodfuck, gave him and his compatriots a beer. 10 minutes was too long to stay at a party this generic so I left. I took the shuttle there and drank a beer quietly on the way. Arriving found a small party with an ambulance outside. Someone had drunkenly cut their foot open on broken glass. He was sitting there laughing uncontrollably. Photoshop was there, we talked again. She had just broken up with her boyfriend of several years, it was her topic of conversation for the night. The party broke up and the hostess invited me to stay and smoke a joint. I waited for 5 minutes outside with Photoshop, we went across the way to Paul's house. He obliged must faster than the other house. After we smoked calls were made and we went back to the other party. It was still very boring.
We went to J-Rad's house. I called K. to find out what she was doing, she was at the mug. We had talked about how that was a bad idea. She was there and I had no intention of leaving, so I stayed. Most of my friends were there anyway. It was late and I was hungry, having recently fallen into a high paying job I called and ordered two pizzas. I could pay for them myself and I felt elated. Though it could have been the additional beer I drank while we smoked the blunt waiting for the pizza. I later found out there was Opium in the blunt. As Paul Buerre said, this was a time when opium was all over campus.
After eating the pizza I found myself extremely sleepy. I couldn't tell why, though it was obvious. I made plans to get up and go to breakfast at the Big Tomato with J-Rad, Goodfuck, Smoker and 9 Blunts. I fell asleep on the plastic mattress, fully, dressed, and slept peacefully for the first time in several months.
I arrived at 7:30 and picked up two 30 racks of Genesse Beer on the way back from the train station. I hadn't had it since I graduated. P. Dizzle dropped me off at J-Rad's where I was staying. He wasn't in so I left one 30 in his fridge and called him. He was out and would be back "soon." Knowing this meant anywhere between 1 and 6 hours I took the other 30 to P. Dizzle's. I raided his fridge and said hey to his housmates. We sat around, I drank my cold, delicious beer, they drank whiskey sours. His housmates both got ready to bartend so P. and I smoked some pot, and drank another beer, his was a good one. I called Photoshop and was greeted with enthusiasm.
"Hey Photoshop, what's up?"
"Other Alex! How are you? Are you here?"
"Yeah, I'm hanging out at P. Dizzle's"
"What are your plans?"
"Making the rounds, seeing what's going on."
"Well you should come over here, have a glass of wine, smoke some hookah and then keep moving if you want or we can all go and party together."
"Alright, I'll finish my beer and do that."
"Can't wait!"
I finished my beer, P. and I said a little prayer to the revered Jim Beam and I went on my way with 6 of my beers. Immediately upon entering Photoshop's house I found myself in a room with 10 or so beautiful women, none of whom I had ever met. I was also greeted by a Gin and Tonic and a hug from Monica. This is what I love about the Alma Mater.
Turned out it was Ladies Night at their house and that they had still invited me. I was flattered, if a little put off. Eventually N-Unit arrived, we shot the shit for a bit and then I was off yet again after a call from J-Rad informing me he was back. Upon my arrival J-Rad was in the shower. I grabbed my crown, and filled my bag with beer. When he got out we went to the party across the way. We scouted for people we knew. I found Goodfuck, gave him and his compatriots a beer. 10 minutes was too long to stay at a party this generic so I left. I took the shuttle there and drank a beer quietly on the way. Arriving found a small party with an ambulance outside. Someone had drunkenly cut their foot open on broken glass. He was sitting there laughing uncontrollably. Photoshop was there, we talked again. She had just broken up with her boyfriend of several years, it was her topic of conversation for the night. The party broke up and the hostess invited me to stay and smoke a joint. I waited for 5 minutes outside with Photoshop, we went across the way to Paul's house. He obliged must faster than the other house. After we smoked calls were made and we went back to the other party. It was still very boring.
We went to J-Rad's house. I called K. to find out what she was doing, she was at the mug. We had talked about how that was a bad idea. She was there and I had no intention of leaving, so I stayed. Most of my friends were there anyway. It was late and I was hungry, having recently fallen into a high paying job I called and ordered two pizzas. I could pay for them myself and I felt elated. Though it could have been the additional beer I drank while we smoked the blunt waiting for the pizza. I later found out there was Opium in the blunt. As Paul Buerre said, this was a time when opium was all over campus.
After eating the pizza I found myself extremely sleepy. I couldn't tell why, though it was obvious. I made plans to get up and go to breakfast at the Big Tomato with J-Rad, Goodfuck, Smoker and 9 Blunts. I fell asleep on the plastic mattress, fully, dressed, and slept peacefully for the first time in several months.
9.22.2006
Stepfather
Since sixth grade, the only book I’ve read that wasn’t assigned to me is the galley of my mom’s boyfriend’s unpublished novel, “Fountain of Youth”. It’s about an Icelandic playboy who seduces tourist women in the hot baths of Iceland, waits for them to fall asleep, then looks at photographs of their children in their wallets and jerks off to them.
It’s a comedy!
The boyfriend, Johann, was born in Russia and raised in Iceland to an Argentinian mother and a South African father. His accent, suffice it to say, had an exotic beauty that you couldn’t place, and it sucked my mom right in. He had her at “heelo, mi nayme ist Johann.”
He was a charming guy beyond that, though a bit awkward. The first time he stood in our foyer waiting for my mom to come down the stairs, we talked about the NBA. Mom must have told him I was a basketball fanatic, because he clearly hadn’t watched a game in his life “You theenk the Wilt Chamberlain will be best champion?”
I’m pretty sure his English was better than I remember; I was ten years old, an age when any abnormality is exaggerated (we all remember the kid from class with glasses as thick as bulletproof windows, or the one whose nose dripped a stream of snot comparable to Niagara Falls). When I talk to him now he has occasional tense problems, but his vocabulary is decidedly better than mine. Writers adapt quickly I guess.
Anyway, ten years later he was still in the picture and wanted me to read his book because it was in trouble. His translator thought it was beautifully written, but too perverse to be published in America. Like always, mom must have tipped him off that I was in a Modern Irish Novels class (Ulysses for Hipsters), so he wanted an expert reader to tell him what kind of obscenities trial he could expect if his book ever made it out there.
It wasn’t so much the acts of the Icelandic gentleman that made “Fountain of Youth” disturbing. I saw Terminator 2 when I was seven, The Exorcist when I was nine. Little could shock me at this point. The part that bothered me was that Fridrick showed no remorse or lack of self-respect for what he did. The book was written in first person, leaving ample chance for him to loathe himself for what he did with these pictures, or for mentally undressing little girls he saw at church. I’d never thought the phrase “I am what I am” applied to playboy pedophiles, and the fact that Fridrick liked himself just the way he was made me wonder about this Johann.
“The Fact ees, people are overly concerned about what the other people is doing,” Johann said. “You may theenk Fridrick ees sick, but no one is hurt by his actions, so vat’s the harm?” The harm is that I tried that excuse once when a professor found out I’d used a line from a KRS One song in a paper and made me write an entirely new one on a different topic. If I can’t get away with shit, I sure as Hell don’t want Fridrick to be able to. “Vunce again you are worrying about vat the others is doing. Stick to yourself.”
I talked about Johann one night in bed with Jessica. I was watching the light that fell through the blinds shift as people walked past on the quad, talking and talking to this girl I’d met a week before about my mom’s boyfriend who I’d never even mentioned to my best friends. She kept telling me to go on, and the more I talked the more strange I felt that it had never crossed my mind to mention this guy to anyone before. He had been around for half my life, had always given me birthday presents and lent me money, and somehow I’d shut him out of my “real” life. I had a family self and a friends self, and Johann was only big enough for one of them.
So you could call it fate when, two days later, Johann called me at the dorm and asked if I’d like to come down to the city that weekend to shop for mom’s birthday. I almost said no out of habit—he’d invited me to countless Mets, Jets, and Nets games that I’d been too busy or too tired or too scared at the prospect of running into someone I vaguely knew at school who was above me in the social pecking order but who might be in a particularly generous mood so would say hi to me and I’d have to explain why this Viking oaf with chest hair peeking above his top button was with me. I told him we could meet at Union Square at noon, and immediately started to think of where I’d tell my friends I was going on Saturday. Oh what a tangled web I weave when myself I do deceive (inspired by Sir Walter Scott, for all you tight-ass plagiarism Nazis out there).
Saturday morning came and I left the dorm before the hung over masses aroused themselves from their caves, avoiding any explanation of where I was off to at the ungodly hour of 10 AM. I caught a Metro North and sat on the river side, watched the sailboats dance on the choppy Hudson and remembering a time when I thought every person ever killed by the mafia was right underneath the surface, constantly being run into by the bottoms of sailboats or, more gruesomely, the engines of motor boats. When my dad ran off just after my sixth birthday, I convinced myself that this is what had happened to him. It was somehow comforting, thinking he couldn’t possibly have found anything but boat-related head wounds outside of mom and I.
Johann was waiting in front of the George Washington equestrian statue (thankfully not riding it, the Viking madman). We started off going to stores we knew we liked to get us into the shopping mood; Virgin Records, Forbidden Planet. We spent over an hour in the Strand while Johann must have walked through all 18 miles of books looking for one copy of something he’d written. Upon learning that they had in fact had a copy of “Vulcan Necklace” earlier in the week but sold it, he smiled and strode out of the musty corridors, back into the Broadway sunshine. “I know they vas lying, but it vas nice of them to do so,” he beamed.
It was lunchtime, so I suggested we get a quick bite at McDonald’s or Cosi. “No, no, no,” Johann said. “Today is special. I take you to Mesa Grill.”
“No, that’s too much trouble,” I said, suddenly feeling awful about pacing the aisles and rolling my eyes at the Strand. “Anyway, we’ll never get in.”
“Ah,” Johann flipped his hand and continued walking. “I know chef, Bobby Flay. Did you know I used write food reviews?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s good living, but only so many times can say ‘gastronomic’ and ‘succulent’ before I say Hell with it, I’m writing vat I vant.”
“I know what you mean.” There are only so many times I can write “extrapolate” and “transcends” before considering switching to a Physical Education major.
When we walked into the restaurant, Johann was immediately recognized by the Maitre D’. “Ah, Señor Sveinsson! Como estas?” They kissed each other on both cheeks and seemed to talk about the weather – I thought I picked up a “sol” in there somewhere. At one point Johann motioned toward me, drawing the Maitre D’s admiring eyes in my direction. I smiled, said “hola,” and looked back at the floor.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” I said when we reached our table.
“Ven my mother died, I vent to her homeland, the Argentina, out of respect for her memory. Her cousin Roberto allowed me stay in his carriage house and I learnt from heem.”
“How long did you stay for?”
“Two months, then come to America,” he said. I nodded and perused the menu.
For the whole meal, people from the restaurant staff kept coming up and shaking Johann’s hand, ecstatic to see him. “They really like you here, don’t they?”
“I used come a lot, but today they have special reason,” he said, licking feta cheese off his lips. “Anthony, I invite you to city today not just for shop, but I have news.” He smiled at me, but I couldn’t meet his intense eyes for more than a few seconds.
Johann breathed out loud, nervously. “At my home, Iceland, we are very close the North Pole, so days are not like here, yes? In summer, only dark one hour of day, and in the vinter, sometimes 23 hours of dark sky. When I first come to America, it was in summer. I expect bright all day! So when sun go down, I am very upset. I cry at night, I stay up with all lights on drinking vodka, wait for sun to come back. And that vinter, when day is bright, I nail boards to my vindows and stay inside. Food is delivered and I never go out. Do you see?”
“Guess it’s hard to move someplace new.” I brushed some crumbs off the tablecloth.
“I want go back home terribly, until I meet your mother. She look at my photos of home, listen about fishing on frozen lake with my mother and father. She stay with me and hold me when sun go down in the summer, give me errands to force me out of house in winter. She take care of me, but make me know that this America is different. She teach me the good of change. Anthony, I love your mother, and today I buy her ring and make her my wife.”
“My mom doesn’t want to get remarried.” It was something I said without thinking about how rude I sounded. She had once said this to me, so at least I wasn’t lying.
Johann smiled, but I could tell I’d hurt him. “People change, Anthony. There was a woman in Iceland who cheat on me. It hurt so much I cannot stay, so I decide I visit Argentina and then come to USA to live writer’s life – adventures in 20’s, write about them in 30’s, drink myself to death in 40’s. But I meet your mother. I’d never write another vord if I knew it mean ve can be together forever. I change.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, is ok.” He patted me on the shoulder. “So after lunch, ve go to the jewelers, yes?”
We didn’t talk on the way. Johann walked with his hands behind his back and whistled while I looked at my feet and listened to my heart thumping. It was at breakfast the morning of my 12th birthday that mom had said she’d never marry again. I was eating a bowl of Kix while she was opening the mail, and I remember her cursing. In her hand was a twenty-dollar bill, “Happy Birthday Anthony” written above Andrew Jackson. “It’s from your father,” she said.
“Awesome,” I said, grabbing for the bill. She snatched it and crumpled it in her fist.
“We don’t need him,” she said, and started to cry. “We’re doing just fine without him, aren’t we?”
“I guess,” I agreed, kissing goodbye to the NBA Live game I would’ve bought with the money.
“Do you remember him, Anthony? It was half of your life ago; do you really remember what it was like to have him living here?”
“I don’t know. I remember watching TV with him. We watched Pee Wee.”
“Do you like Johann?”
“He’s ok.”
“If only I’d met him first.” She blew her nose into a napkin. “But he understands that I can’t marry again. He’s so good to me, Anthony. You should spend some time with him alone, just the two of you. It’d be fun.”
“Maybe.” And here we were, eight years later and alone together for the first time, Johann after what I knew my mom didn’t want and taking me along for the ride.
“Dammit,” I said, smacking my head. “I just remembered I told a friend I’d be at her a cappella fundraiser at 4. If I don’t leave now I won’t make it.”
“Oh, is ok, Anthony. I see you ven you come home for Thanksgiving, yes?”
“Definitely. And, uh, good luck with…you know…”
“Ha, yes,” he said, then hugged me tighter than he ever had before. “Take care, Anthony.”
On the train back to Poughkeepsie I sat on the riverside once again. But this time I didn’t look out the window – I stared at the back of the seat in front of me and fumed. The girl to my right was chewing her gum too loudly. The man in a suit’s cell phone conversation was too loud. The mother could shut the fuck up about “look! Look! Hudson River! Can you say Hudson River?” to her baby already. I’d have taken a sleeping pill if the trip wasn’t less than two hours.
By the time I got back on campus I didn’t even remember my excuse of the friend’s a cappella fundraiser. I sat in one of the tall trees by my dorm, watching Frisbee practice. Around five o’clock, when the light was starting to pitch my shadow onto the Frisbee field, my buddy Roy found me.
“Wilson? What’re you doing up there?”
“You’re lookin at it, Roy.” I didn’t know his last name,
“Well get the fuck down here. Me and the boys are gettin’ our drink on tout de suite.”
“You read my mind.”
Roy and I went to his room and mixed our patented half-tonic half-gin super-drink in his Nalgene. We took a couple slugs and then went down the hall to Mikey’s for Irish car bombs. The chronology of the late afternoon/night from then on is hazy, but I do know that I was caught by security pissing on a bush outside and I was kissed on the cheek by somebody wearing black lipstick. That’s about all I can say.
And I thought college was about making memories.
I forgot to close my shade that night, so at 6 AM the sun came streaming over the quad and nudged me awake with a pounding headache. I almost fell down on the way over to the window to close the thing, and as soon as I did my computer loudly alerted me that I had mail. I guess I had been blasting some music when I passed out, cause the alert probably woke up the whole dorm. I stumbled to my desk and mashed the keyboard. The e-mail was from my mother, her subject line simply “!”. She wrote, “sorry if I woke you, but I just couldn’t wait any longer!! They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll let them do the talking!” The first picture was of my mom showing off a giant diamond ring on her right hand. There were tears in her eyes, but I had never seen her look happier. In the second photo, Johann had his arms around my mother. He was kissing her flushed cheeks, and wiping her tears away with his monogrammed handkerchief.
I stared at the pictures for a minute, allowing myself a smile. I forwarded the e-mail to Jessica, and went back to bed.
It’s a comedy!
The boyfriend, Johann, was born in Russia and raised in Iceland to an Argentinian mother and a South African father. His accent, suffice it to say, had an exotic beauty that you couldn’t place, and it sucked my mom right in. He had her at “heelo, mi nayme ist Johann.”
He was a charming guy beyond that, though a bit awkward. The first time he stood in our foyer waiting for my mom to come down the stairs, we talked about the NBA. Mom must have told him I was a basketball fanatic, because he clearly hadn’t watched a game in his life “You theenk the Wilt Chamberlain will be best champion?”
I’m pretty sure his English was better than I remember; I was ten years old, an age when any abnormality is exaggerated (we all remember the kid from class with glasses as thick as bulletproof windows, or the one whose nose dripped a stream of snot comparable to Niagara Falls). When I talk to him now he has occasional tense problems, but his vocabulary is decidedly better than mine. Writers adapt quickly I guess.
Anyway, ten years later he was still in the picture and wanted me to read his book because it was in trouble. His translator thought it was beautifully written, but too perverse to be published in America. Like always, mom must have tipped him off that I was in a Modern Irish Novels class (Ulysses for Hipsters), so he wanted an expert reader to tell him what kind of obscenities trial he could expect if his book ever made it out there.
It wasn’t so much the acts of the Icelandic gentleman that made “Fountain of Youth” disturbing. I saw Terminator 2 when I was seven, The Exorcist when I was nine. Little could shock me at this point. The part that bothered me was that Fridrick showed no remorse or lack of self-respect for what he did. The book was written in first person, leaving ample chance for him to loathe himself for what he did with these pictures, or for mentally undressing little girls he saw at church. I’d never thought the phrase “I am what I am” applied to playboy pedophiles, and the fact that Fridrick liked himself just the way he was made me wonder about this Johann.
“The Fact ees, people are overly concerned about what the other people is doing,” Johann said. “You may theenk Fridrick ees sick, but no one is hurt by his actions, so vat’s the harm?” The harm is that I tried that excuse once when a professor found out I’d used a line from a KRS One song in a paper and made me write an entirely new one on a different topic. If I can’t get away with shit, I sure as Hell don’t want Fridrick to be able to. “Vunce again you are worrying about vat the others is doing. Stick to yourself.”
I talked about Johann one night in bed with Jessica. I was watching the light that fell through the blinds shift as people walked past on the quad, talking and talking to this girl I’d met a week before about my mom’s boyfriend who I’d never even mentioned to my best friends. She kept telling me to go on, and the more I talked the more strange I felt that it had never crossed my mind to mention this guy to anyone before. He had been around for half my life, had always given me birthday presents and lent me money, and somehow I’d shut him out of my “real” life. I had a family self and a friends self, and Johann was only big enough for one of them.
So you could call it fate when, two days later, Johann called me at the dorm and asked if I’d like to come down to the city that weekend to shop for mom’s birthday. I almost said no out of habit—he’d invited me to countless Mets, Jets, and Nets games that I’d been too busy or too tired or too scared at the prospect of running into someone I vaguely knew at school who was above me in the social pecking order but who might be in a particularly generous mood so would say hi to me and I’d have to explain why this Viking oaf with chest hair peeking above his top button was with me. I told him we could meet at Union Square at noon, and immediately started to think of where I’d tell my friends I was going on Saturday. Oh what a tangled web I weave when myself I do deceive (inspired by Sir Walter Scott, for all you tight-ass plagiarism Nazis out there).
Saturday morning came and I left the dorm before the hung over masses aroused themselves from their caves, avoiding any explanation of where I was off to at the ungodly hour of 10 AM. I caught a Metro North and sat on the river side, watched the sailboats dance on the choppy Hudson and remembering a time when I thought every person ever killed by the mafia was right underneath the surface, constantly being run into by the bottoms of sailboats or, more gruesomely, the engines of motor boats. When my dad ran off just after my sixth birthday, I convinced myself that this is what had happened to him. It was somehow comforting, thinking he couldn’t possibly have found anything but boat-related head wounds outside of mom and I.
Johann was waiting in front of the George Washington equestrian statue (thankfully not riding it, the Viking madman). We started off going to stores we knew we liked to get us into the shopping mood; Virgin Records, Forbidden Planet. We spent over an hour in the Strand while Johann must have walked through all 18 miles of books looking for one copy of something he’d written. Upon learning that they had in fact had a copy of “Vulcan Necklace” earlier in the week but sold it, he smiled and strode out of the musty corridors, back into the Broadway sunshine. “I know they vas lying, but it vas nice of them to do so,” he beamed.
It was lunchtime, so I suggested we get a quick bite at McDonald’s or Cosi. “No, no, no,” Johann said. “Today is special. I take you to Mesa Grill.”
“No, that’s too much trouble,” I said, suddenly feeling awful about pacing the aisles and rolling my eyes at the Strand. “Anyway, we’ll never get in.”
“Ah,” Johann flipped his hand and continued walking. “I know chef, Bobby Flay. Did you know I used write food reviews?”
“I didn’t.”
“It’s good living, but only so many times can say ‘gastronomic’ and ‘succulent’ before I say Hell with it, I’m writing vat I vant.”
“I know what you mean.” There are only so many times I can write “extrapolate” and “transcends” before considering switching to a Physical Education major.
When we walked into the restaurant, Johann was immediately recognized by the Maitre D’. “Ah, Señor Sveinsson! Como estas?” They kissed each other on both cheeks and seemed to talk about the weather – I thought I picked up a “sol” in there somewhere. At one point Johann motioned toward me, drawing the Maitre D’s admiring eyes in my direction. I smiled, said “hola,” and looked back at the floor.
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” I said when we reached our table.
“Ven my mother died, I vent to her homeland, the Argentina, out of respect for her memory. Her cousin Roberto allowed me stay in his carriage house and I learnt from heem.”
“How long did you stay for?”
“Two months, then come to America,” he said. I nodded and perused the menu.
For the whole meal, people from the restaurant staff kept coming up and shaking Johann’s hand, ecstatic to see him. “They really like you here, don’t they?”
“I used come a lot, but today they have special reason,” he said, licking feta cheese off his lips. “Anthony, I invite you to city today not just for shop, but I have news.” He smiled at me, but I couldn’t meet his intense eyes for more than a few seconds.
Johann breathed out loud, nervously. “At my home, Iceland, we are very close the North Pole, so days are not like here, yes? In summer, only dark one hour of day, and in the vinter, sometimes 23 hours of dark sky. When I first come to America, it was in summer. I expect bright all day! So when sun go down, I am very upset. I cry at night, I stay up with all lights on drinking vodka, wait for sun to come back. And that vinter, when day is bright, I nail boards to my vindows and stay inside. Food is delivered and I never go out. Do you see?”
“Guess it’s hard to move someplace new.” I brushed some crumbs off the tablecloth.
“I want go back home terribly, until I meet your mother. She look at my photos of home, listen about fishing on frozen lake with my mother and father. She stay with me and hold me when sun go down in the summer, give me errands to force me out of house in winter. She take care of me, but make me know that this America is different. She teach me the good of change. Anthony, I love your mother, and today I buy her ring and make her my wife.”
“My mom doesn’t want to get remarried.” It was something I said without thinking about how rude I sounded. She had once said this to me, so at least I wasn’t lying.
Johann smiled, but I could tell I’d hurt him. “People change, Anthony. There was a woman in Iceland who cheat on me. It hurt so much I cannot stay, so I decide I visit Argentina and then come to USA to live writer’s life – adventures in 20’s, write about them in 30’s, drink myself to death in 40’s. But I meet your mother. I’d never write another vord if I knew it mean ve can be together forever. I change.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, is ok.” He patted me on the shoulder. “So after lunch, ve go to the jewelers, yes?”
We didn’t talk on the way. Johann walked with his hands behind his back and whistled while I looked at my feet and listened to my heart thumping. It was at breakfast the morning of my 12th birthday that mom had said she’d never marry again. I was eating a bowl of Kix while she was opening the mail, and I remember her cursing. In her hand was a twenty-dollar bill, “Happy Birthday Anthony” written above Andrew Jackson. “It’s from your father,” she said.
“Awesome,” I said, grabbing for the bill. She snatched it and crumpled it in her fist.
“We don’t need him,” she said, and started to cry. “We’re doing just fine without him, aren’t we?”
“I guess,” I agreed, kissing goodbye to the NBA Live game I would’ve bought with the money.
“Do you remember him, Anthony? It was half of your life ago; do you really remember what it was like to have him living here?”
“I don’t know. I remember watching TV with him. We watched Pee Wee.”
“Do you like Johann?”
“He’s ok.”
“If only I’d met him first.” She blew her nose into a napkin. “But he understands that I can’t marry again. He’s so good to me, Anthony. You should spend some time with him alone, just the two of you. It’d be fun.”
“Maybe.” And here we were, eight years later and alone together for the first time, Johann after what I knew my mom didn’t want and taking me along for the ride.
“Dammit,” I said, smacking my head. “I just remembered I told a friend I’d be at her a cappella fundraiser at 4. If I don’t leave now I won’t make it.”
“Oh, is ok, Anthony. I see you ven you come home for Thanksgiving, yes?”
“Definitely. And, uh, good luck with…you know…”
“Ha, yes,” he said, then hugged me tighter than he ever had before. “Take care, Anthony.”
On the train back to Poughkeepsie I sat on the riverside once again. But this time I didn’t look out the window – I stared at the back of the seat in front of me and fumed. The girl to my right was chewing her gum too loudly. The man in a suit’s cell phone conversation was too loud. The mother could shut the fuck up about “look! Look! Hudson River! Can you say Hudson River?” to her baby already. I’d have taken a sleeping pill if the trip wasn’t less than two hours.
By the time I got back on campus I didn’t even remember my excuse of the friend’s a cappella fundraiser. I sat in one of the tall trees by my dorm, watching Frisbee practice. Around five o’clock, when the light was starting to pitch my shadow onto the Frisbee field, my buddy Roy found me.
“Wilson? What’re you doing up there?”
“You’re lookin at it, Roy.” I didn’t know his last name,
“Well get the fuck down here. Me and the boys are gettin’ our drink on tout de suite.”
“You read my mind.”
Roy and I went to his room and mixed our patented half-tonic half-gin super-drink in his Nalgene. We took a couple slugs and then went down the hall to Mikey’s for Irish car bombs. The chronology of the late afternoon/night from then on is hazy, but I do know that I was caught by security pissing on a bush outside and I was kissed on the cheek by somebody wearing black lipstick. That’s about all I can say.
And I thought college was about making memories.
I forgot to close my shade that night, so at 6 AM the sun came streaming over the quad and nudged me awake with a pounding headache. I almost fell down on the way over to the window to close the thing, and as soon as I did my computer loudly alerted me that I had mail. I guess I had been blasting some music when I passed out, cause the alert probably woke up the whole dorm. I stumbled to my desk and mashed the keyboard. The e-mail was from my mother, her subject line simply “!”. She wrote, “sorry if I woke you, but I just couldn’t wait any longer!! They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll let them do the talking!” The first picture was of my mom showing off a giant diamond ring on her right hand. There were tears in her eyes, but I had never seen her look happier. In the second photo, Johann had his arms around my mother. He was kissing her flushed cheeks, and wiping her tears away with his monogrammed handkerchief.
I stared at the pictures for a minute, allowing myself a smile. I forwarded the e-mail to Jessica, and went back to bed.
9.20.2006
The incident of the first/second date
Our first "date" was a week ago, though I was unaware of it at the time. She called and invited me to see a free movie. I assumed our mutual friend would be there. She called her a few times during the night, to see if indeed we would be interrupted by a third party. I bought her a cup of tea at a cafe and we walked around until 10:30 or so. Only later did I think, "I went on a date tonight... Didn't I?"
Last night she called me again. She left a message.
"Hey Other Alex, it's Fast Talk. I was just trying to get in touch with you, wondering if you wanted to get together."
I called her back when I got off the subway. No answer, I called back 30 minutes later.
"Helloooooo!"
"Hey Other Alex, what's up?"
"Nothing, just returning your call."
"Ah, I'm sorry, my sister was on the phone when you called earlier."
"S'ok. Um... I can't really hang out tonight, but tomorrow would be great. Do you want to... I don't know, like... Get dinner? Or... Something?"
"Yeah, that sounds great, I have a coupon I think for somewhere in Murray Hill."
"Great, I get off work at 6, so I'll give you a call before I leave and we can firm up plans."
"Sounds great! I'll see you then."
"Alright, cool. Bye."
"Bye."
I called her the next day, we made plans to meet outside the Public Library at 6:15. We met and started wandering. Down 5th avenue, past the Empire State Building, talking about life. She talked about libraries and her job that she had for two days before she was let go. I was hungry. We stopped and got tacos and smoothies at a restaurant, sitting and talking for an hour or so. I paid for dinner and we went on.
The night consisted mostly of walking around aimlessly. We went down to Union Square. She insisted we go into the diesel. We made a quick tour, tried to figure out if one of the clerks was male or female until he complimented her sunglasses, and left.
"BYE!" She yelled to what appeared to be a dashingly dressed security guard for the store. "I love saying bye to people in stores."
"Well, I suppose it's sad, you might never see them again."
"I KNOW!" She pushed me on the arm.
Across the street we sat on the steps of the square and talked about bums and skaters and how people making out on park benches had no class. Pleasant conversation about nothing in particular. But no gaps. Everything flowed naturally. Conversation as art. She kept talking about her lack of a job. Everything was about art to her, beauty, design, style, fashion, I wished I could be as passionate about my passions. In my post collegiate youth I stumbled into a job that pays well and have been riding the disposable income because for the first time ever I know where my next paycheck will come from and I know it will be large. We kept walking.
9 blocks north brought us to the flatiron building. The view of the Empire State was fantastic, the flatiron was dull. Neither of us was impressed.
"So what do you want to do?" I queried.
"I don't really care."
"Neither do I. Do you want to get some coffee/tea or something? I'd like to sit down."
"Okay, yeah, let's do that."
"Should we just keep walking 'til we find a place?"
"Sure, we can head to the lower east side."
"Alright, I know there's stuff there."
We started off.
"So, if you could do anything with all your money right now what would it be?" An interesting question I thought.
"I guess I'd blow it all on a trip. Go back to Europe, bounce around. There's nothing particular holding me here."
"That's cool. What would you be doing right now if you had your choice?"
'I'd walk around aimlessly with you' I thought.
"I dunno... Go to a bahhhhhhh." Myself and McDouchebag always traded Boston accents for no reason in particular.
"Yeah, I don't drink though."
"That's why I never brought it up."
We walked all the way to the lower east side, to 5th and 1st Ave. We had been walking since 49th and 6th. I wanted to sit down.
"So what do you want to do? I don't know of any specific cafe's here."
"I know of one on Ave. A. I went there years ago." She told me.
"Are you sure? There's not all that much out there, this is sort of the main drag." I didn't know of anything but bars past 1st Ave.
"I promise it's out there within a block, but I can't give you a direction."
"You just want to take me out there and steal my wallet don't you?"
"If I wanted your wallet I would have taken it, where is it? Right back here..." She went for my back pocket. I moved my wallet to my front pocket.
"Not anymore."
We arrived at Ave. A. Traffic whizzed by and music poured from a nearby bar.
"I don't think it's here, it was a much quieter area than this."
We walked to Ave. B.
"Well... Maybe it's not here anymore. There's all these places, they don't need some divey cafe anymore I guess."
"Maybe they do, I mean... All they have are these places." The multitude of generic restaurant/bars would have benefited from a dive.
"I'm sorry." We passed an open vegetable stand. "Do you need any celery or greens?"
"No, I think I'm set."
We passed a hookah bar. Pausing, she looked at the menu.
"We could get a hookah."
"Yeah, we could."
"Is there anyone in there."
As she stuck her face into the window I saw a man, clearly the owner, look back motioning at us.
"I think he's waving us in."
He stuck his head out, informed us that a hookah was $20, they had tea and we should come in. We obliged.
"So I don't know what to do about this job thing. I've been sending out my resume, faxing it to people. I'm really forward with everyone, I'm just like; 'Hi, what do you do?'" She leaned in and placed her cheek on mine.
"Well, all I'm saying is I'm temping and for the first time I have disposable income and it's great. I can afford to..."
"Take out people who don't have jobs?"
"Yeah, but I love to do that. I don't have to worry about money anymore."
"Yeah, I guess. I'm just so stressed out because I think of everything in terms of the future."
"I think of everything in terms of the present. My whole life was phrased in terms of the next step, finishing high school, finishing college, now I've finished college and have nothing to do with my life. I kind of like wasting time."
The hookah was prepared well, real coals were used and replaced, the water was cold. I blew smoke rings, she was impressed and tried, unsuccessfully, to blow them herself. I tried to teach her but she didn't really want to know. When the hookah started to burn I went to the bathroom. Coming back she had moved down the bench and put her feet up. I sat down next to her and did the same. Gradually we started holding hands.
"I'm so tired, do I look tired?" She asked.
"Not really, you look fine."
"I'm soooooo tired."
"From what?"
"From everything! I've been doing stuff all day today. I went to the library! The train took like 2 hours to get to Manhattan. I should go home."
"Do you want to get the check?"
"Yeah, sure."
I got the check. The tea was overpriced and the tip was already added so it cleaned me out. We got up and left.
"So what are you doing tomorrow? Same ol' boring job?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"When do you have to be in?"
"10, 10am. What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing I guess, and everything. What is this? Is this Tomkins Square park."
"It is indeed."
"So we're on St. Mark's!"
"Yeah... Where we were before." We arrived at 1st Ave. "So there's a train station 7 blocks south and 7 blocks north."
"Let's go north, the PATH is at that one. Right?"
"Yeah, 14th st, we passed it earlier."
"Alright, let's go!" We started off. "Are those magazines?" She grabbed at a stack of Men's Health magazines on the side of the road, coming up instead with a cookbook that had been put in the middle of the stack. "My sister hates it when I go through the trash." She kept walking. Barely pausing she stuffed the cookbook in a phonebooth and continued on. "I love putting things in phone booths. In fact if we ever hang out and I DON'T put something in a phone booth, you have to be like 'Hey, you didn't put anything in a phone booth yet.'"
"Deal." We arrived at 14th and 1st. "Dammit... I can't believe I forgot that the 14th st stop is at 6th Ave. We either have to walk back 13 blocks or walk over 5 avenues."
I grabbed her hand, she held mine.
"Which way is it? Left? Straight?"
"Left."
"Okay. So what was your craziest relationship?" A land mine.
"I've only really had 3, one for one month, one for 4 months and one for 2 1/2 years. And they all ended not so well."
"No one was like, totally crazier than the other." Stop asking these questions.
"Not really, I guess the last one I broke up with 4... maybe 5 times. It was completely toxic."
"Why'd you keep getting back together? The sex?" Goddammit.
"Kind of. That and I never really meet new people where I'm from, so we'd have the same job, same social circle, so we'd fall into bed."
"Yeah, I never meet people either. That's why I'm still with my boyfriend." I loosened my hand but quickly regained composure. "I just never meet anyone new where I used to live. His name's Ned, he got the short end of the name stick, right?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. He's weird. It's like, I moved and called him and was like 'maybe I'll never see you again' and he's just 'whatever' and went back to playing video games. And all his friends are these 19 year olds and they think they're the shit. I've never even met any of his friends. His best friend is this 19 year old kid. Whatever."
"He sounds like a real winner."
"I wonder what he would have thought if I had told him I was going on a date tonight. He probably wouldn't have cared. Oh my god! Would he have cared?"
"I have no idea."
"It's like, you know someone for 2 years and you don't know anything about them. Or maybe it's the opposite, you know everything and there's just not much to know."
"Like I said, I have no idea."
"Whatever, I'm in New York, I should be dating people."
"Yeah."
We arrived at the station. When the halls parted we said goodbye. The hug was tight and gradually escalated until she kissed me on the cheek, started to go, ducked back in and gave me a short kiss on the lips.
"Were you weirded out when I brought up Ned?"
"A little bit."
"Sorry."
"It's alright."
"So when do I see you again? I'm probably going out of town this weekend."
"Okay, I dunno, give me a call or I'll call you or something. "
"Ok, bye."
The train ride home was crowded, I was silent. When I arrived home before I opened the door I beat the brick wall until my knuckles were ragged and bloody. When I reached in my pocket for my keys I found $2 that I used to buy tonic water. Then I went inside poured out the rest of my Gin and mixed a mason jar full of full strength gin and tonic. Downing that I called Paul Buerre. As I related my story he reminded me that any girl who would like us would have to be crazy.
I couldn't say I disagreed with him.
Last night she called me again. She left a message.
"Hey Other Alex, it's Fast Talk. I was just trying to get in touch with you, wondering if you wanted to get together."
I called her back when I got off the subway. No answer, I called back 30 minutes later.
"Helloooooo!"
"Hey Other Alex, what's up?"
"Nothing, just returning your call."
"Ah, I'm sorry, my sister was on the phone when you called earlier."
"S'ok. Um... I can't really hang out tonight, but tomorrow would be great. Do you want to... I don't know, like... Get dinner? Or... Something?"
"Yeah, that sounds great, I have a coupon I think for somewhere in Murray Hill."
"Great, I get off work at 6, so I'll give you a call before I leave and we can firm up plans."
"Sounds great! I'll see you then."
"Alright, cool. Bye."
"Bye."
I called her the next day, we made plans to meet outside the Public Library at 6:15. We met and started wandering. Down 5th avenue, past the Empire State Building, talking about life. She talked about libraries and her job that she had for two days before she was let go. I was hungry. We stopped and got tacos and smoothies at a restaurant, sitting and talking for an hour or so. I paid for dinner and we went on.
The night consisted mostly of walking around aimlessly. We went down to Union Square. She insisted we go into the diesel. We made a quick tour, tried to figure out if one of the clerks was male or female until he complimented her sunglasses, and left.
"BYE!" She yelled to what appeared to be a dashingly dressed security guard for the store. "I love saying bye to people in stores."
"Well, I suppose it's sad, you might never see them again."
"I KNOW!" She pushed me on the arm.
Across the street we sat on the steps of the square and talked about bums and skaters and how people making out on park benches had no class. Pleasant conversation about nothing in particular. But no gaps. Everything flowed naturally. Conversation as art. She kept talking about her lack of a job. Everything was about art to her, beauty, design, style, fashion, I wished I could be as passionate about my passions. In my post collegiate youth I stumbled into a job that pays well and have been riding the disposable income because for the first time ever I know where my next paycheck will come from and I know it will be large. We kept walking.
9 blocks north brought us to the flatiron building. The view of the Empire State was fantastic, the flatiron was dull. Neither of us was impressed.
"So what do you want to do?" I queried.
"I don't really care."
"Neither do I. Do you want to get some coffee/tea or something? I'd like to sit down."
"Okay, yeah, let's do that."
"Should we just keep walking 'til we find a place?"
"Sure, we can head to the lower east side."
"Alright, I know there's stuff there."
We started off.
"So, if you could do anything with all your money right now what would it be?" An interesting question I thought.
"I guess I'd blow it all on a trip. Go back to Europe, bounce around. There's nothing particular holding me here."
"That's cool. What would you be doing right now if you had your choice?"
'I'd walk around aimlessly with you' I thought.
"I dunno... Go to a bahhhhhhh." Myself and McDouchebag always traded Boston accents for no reason in particular.
"Yeah, I don't drink though."
"That's why I never brought it up."
We walked all the way to the lower east side, to 5th and 1st Ave. We had been walking since 49th and 6th. I wanted to sit down.
"So what do you want to do? I don't know of any specific cafe's here."
"I know of one on Ave. A. I went there years ago." She told me.
"Are you sure? There's not all that much out there, this is sort of the main drag." I didn't know of anything but bars past 1st Ave.
"I promise it's out there within a block, but I can't give you a direction."
"You just want to take me out there and steal my wallet don't you?"
"If I wanted your wallet I would have taken it, where is it? Right back here..." She went for my back pocket. I moved my wallet to my front pocket.
"Not anymore."
We arrived at Ave. A. Traffic whizzed by and music poured from a nearby bar.
"I don't think it's here, it was a much quieter area than this."
We walked to Ave. B.
"Well... Maybe it's not here anymore. There's all these places, they don't need some divey cafe anymore I guess."
"Maybe they do, I mean... All they have are these places." The multitude of generic restaurant/bars would have benefited from a dive.
"I'm sorry." We passed an open vegetable stand. "Do you need any celery or greens?"
"No, I think I'm set."
We passed a hookah bar. Pausing, she looked at the menu.
"We could get a hookah."
"Yeah, we could."
"Is there anyone in there."
As she stuck her face into the window I saw a man, clearly the owner, look back motioning at us.
"I think he's waving us in."
He stuck his head out, informed us that a hookah was $20, they had tea and we should come in. We obliged.
"So I don't know what to do about this job thing. I've been sending out my resume, faxing it to people. I'm really forward with everyone, I'm just like; 'Hi, what do you do?'" She leaned in and placed her cheek on mine.
"Well, all I'm saying is I'm temping and for the first time I have disposable income and it's great. I can afford to..."
"Take out people who don't have jobs?"
"Yeah, but I love to do that. I don't have to worry about money anymore."
"Yeah, I guess. I'm just so stressed out because I think of everything in terms of the future."
"I think of everything in terms of the present. My whole life was phrased in terms of the next step, finishing high school, finishing college, now I've finished college and have nothing to do with my life. I kind of like wasting time."
The hookah was prepared well, real coals were used and replaced, the water was cold. I blew smoke rings, she was impressed and tried, unsuccessfully, to blow them herself. I tried to teach her but she didn't really want to know. When the hookah started to burn I went to the bathroom. Coming back she had moved down the bench and put her feet up. I sat down next to her and did the same. Gradually we started holding hands.
"I'm so tired, do I look tired?" She asked.
"Not really, you look fine."
"I'm soooooo tired."
"From what?"
"From everything! I've been doing stuff all day today. I went to the library! The train took like 2 hours to get to Manhattan. I should go home."
"Do you want to get the check?"
"Yeah, sure."
I got the check. The tea was overpriced and the tip was already added so it cleaned me out. We got up and left.
"So what are you doing tomorrow? Same ol' boring job?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
"When do you have to be in?"
"10, 10am. What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing I guess, and everything. What is this? Is this Tomkins Square park."
"It is indeed."
"So we're on St. Mark's!"
"Yeah... Where we were before." We arrived at 1st Ave. "So there's a train station 7 blocks south and 7 blocks north."
"Let's go north, the PATH is at that one. Right?"
"Yeah, 14th st, we passed it earlier."
"Alright, let's go!" We started off. "Are those magazines?" She grabbed at a stack of Men's Health magazines on the side of the road, coming up instead with a cookbook that had been put in the middle of the stack. "My sister hates it when I go through the trash." She kept walking. Barely pausing she stuffed the cookbook in a phonebooth and continued on. "I love putting things in phone booths. In fact if we ever hang out and I DON'T put something in a phone booth, you have to be like 'Hey, you didn't put anything in a phone booth yet.'"
"Deal." We arrived at 14th and 1st. "Dammit... I can't believe I forgot that the 14th st stop is at 6th Ave. We either have to walk back 13 blocks or walk over 5 avenues."
I grabbed her hand, she held mine.
"Which way is it? Left? Straight?"
"Left."
"Okay. So what was your craziest relationship?" A land mine.
"I've only really had 3, one for one month, one for 4 months and one for 2 1/2 years. And they all ended not so well."
"No one was like, totally crazier than the other." Stop asking these questions.
"Not really, I guess the last one I broke up with 4... maybe 5 times. It was completely toxic."
"Why'd you keep getting back together? The sex?" Goddammit.
"Kind of. That and I never really meet new people where I'm from, so we'd have the same job, same social circle, so we'd fall into bed."
"Yeah, I never meet people either. That's why I'm still with my boyfriend." I loosened my hand but quickly regained composure. "I just never meet anyone new where I used to live. His name's Ned, he got the short end of the name stick, right?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. He's weird. It's like, I moved and called him and was like 'maybe I'll never see you again' and he's just 'whatever' and went back to playing video games. And all his friends are these 19 year olds and they think they're the shit. I've never even met any of his friends. His best friend is this 19 year old kid. Whatever."
"He sounds like a real winner."
"I wonder what he would have thought if I had told him I was going on a date tonight. He probably wouldn't have cared. Oh my god! Would he have cared?"
"I have no idea."
"It's like, you know someone for 2 years and you don't know anything about them. Or maybe it's the opposite, you know everything and there's just not much to know."
"Like I said, I have no idea."
"Whatever, I'm in New York, I should be dating people."
"Yeah."
We arrived at the station. When the halls parted we said goodbye. The hug was tight and gradually escalated until she kissed me on the cheek, started to go, ducked back in and gave me a short kiss on the lips.
"Were you weirded out when I brought up Ned?"
"A little bit."
"Sorry."
"It's alright."
"So when do I see you again? I'm probably going out of town this weekend."
"Okay, I dunno, give me a call or I'll call you or something. "
"Ok, bye."
The train ride home was crowded, I was silent. When I arrived home before I opened the door I beat the brick wall until my knuckles were ragged and bloody. When I reached in my pocket for my keys I found $2 that I used to buy tonic water. Then I went inside poured out the rest of my Gin and mixed a mason jar full of full strength gin and tonic. Downing that I called Paul Buerre. As I related my story he reminded me that any girl who would like us would have to be crazy.
I couldn't say I disagreed with him.
The Trouble with Trees
So, I went to a few parties this weekend. Friday night at old man Fenton's place. The only thing I remember is that we had to explain to some girl what a hookah was, which seems odd after being at the old alma mater where everyone not only knows what they are, but owns at least one.
She asked what we were smoking, I said plum, and she said, "You can smoke a plum?" I was too confused to laugh.
Saturday night I went to my old friend's, the republican, girlfriend's place. Now, to set things straight, I call him the republican because so many people at the old alma mater had their "one republican friend" from home who would always come up in a story from time to time. This has no bad connotations, as I am, in fact, friends with the man, and I don't think something as simple as party affiliation should condemn someone to hatred. It's just a cute moniker.
So, Saturday night I was planning on going to two parties in Somerville, one hosted by another alum of the old alma mater. After dinner, however, the roomie was having second thoughts about going out. Then when I called my ride, she also backed out. My backup plan for a ride wasn't picking up his phone, so I finished the bottle of red wine, being the only red wine drinker in the house, and hopped on the T.
Being slightly drunk on the T is fun, until you realize:
1. You need to pee. God damn that was a lot of wine.
2. You need some water. That might've been an excessive amount of wine.
3. Your stomach hurts.
Then you remember last time you drank that much wine, which is another story, and how you almost threw up because you were too full, not too drunk.
I made it to the party without excreting anything, even though I fucked up the republican's directions.
For some odd reason, I decide to bypass the water and go for a fresh, cold PBR. I also decide that once I finish the PBR I am moving straight into g&t. I think the hour long ride on the T might've had something to do with it.
The republican informs me that this party is filled with Trinity alum, his girlfriend being one of them. I had met some of his old college buddies from Conn earlier in the week and had hoped to maybe recognize someone at this party. No such luck.
Then some girl walks into the room yelling, "Paul's here! I heard you were coming!" I have no idea who this person is, so we are introduced, and I promptly forget her name. I note that this girl is crazy, but since she is the only person I didn't know to have willingly talked to me so far, I start to chat it up.
She introduces me to her ex?-boyfriend, a large, bear-like man in the cuddly sense. I really thought I heard ex in there, but she was all flirty with him. Then again she was all flirty with most of the guys in the room.
At some point, she tells me that she likes saying the named Paul because she went out with a guy named Paul. According to her, that meant we couldn't go out. I don't know why she was telling me this. She was the one doing all of the flirting.
I did get my pee in eventually, but not the water. My stomach is at this point a bubbling cauldron of bottle of wine, PBR, and two gin and tonics. I think I felt a kick.
People are leaving, some to go to bed, others, led by flirty girl, to go to a club/chinese restaurant near Harvard. The ex? is stumbling wildy. Never one to miss a party, I follow. The republican and his girlfriend have some business, they will be catching up.
People other than the flirty girl are talking to me at this point, which is good, cause I hate flirty girls. They never mean it. They just want everyone to want them. But no touchy. No, no, no.
Along the way, a cat prances past. I turn to look at it, and it meows at me. I meow back, and we converse for a little while as it walks past, slowly turning my head more in the opposite direction I am walking. I deftly maneuver past one tree, and, not wanting to abruptly end our conversation, don't turn and walk side of head first into the next tree.
The flirty girl notices, and asks what I have done. I say that I was talking to the cat, because I love talking to cats, and didn't notice the tree. She says, "I don't like cats. I can't deal with them. We can't be in this relationship anymore." I am quite puzzled. She says that we should kiss on the cheek. I go in for the old we both kiss each other on the cheek at the same time, and she backs away, exclaiming, "No! The cheek, on the cheek!" I inform her that's where I was going, and give her a little peck. This girl is wildy uncontrollable.
The republican gives me a call. He is there. We are still at least five minutes away. Apparently we took the long way. The ex? is being carried on the shoulders of two girls at this point.
We get to the bar, and I see the republican and his girlfriend there. Them having more sense than the lot of Trinity kids combined, I walk ahead and begin talking to them. We move to the bouncer as the other kids get there.
"Can I see some ID?"
"Sure."
"How much have you had tonight?"
"I don't know, a few gin and tonics." I leave out the bottle of wine. I feel like most people would think I'd be plastered after that, judging by my size. They're forgetting my Irish.
"I'm not going to let you in."
"What?! Why?"
"You swayed. You've had enough." I'm glad I forgot about the tree thing here, cause I might've brought that up. I'm also glad I wasn't as drunk as he thought I was, cause I might've started something.
"Fuck you. I'm fine."
"Well, I'm not going to let you in."
Some of the Trinity kids were going into the bar. I don't remember seeing him specifically, but I'm pretty sure the ex? made it in. The huge dude who had to be carried the whole way. And I was standing there, drunk, but not plastered, with no outlet for my inebriation. People from the inside of the bar were saying it was last call, and they weren't letting anyone else in. It was 1:30. Fucking Boston.
The republican and his girlfriend led me back through the shortcut. I got another conversation with a cat, this time while still. I even got to pet it. I probably shouldn't pet random cats that come my way.
When we got back, I finally had that water. Then I passed out on a couch, in a beautiful pillow, and slept away flirty girl and asshole bouncer.
She asked what we were smoking, I said plum, and she said, "You can smoke a plum?" I was too confused to laugh.
Saturday night I went to my old friend's, the republican, girlfriend's place. Now, to set things straight, I call him the republican because so many people at the old alma mater had their "one republican friend" from home who would always come up in a story from time to time. This has no bad connotations, as I am, in fact, friends with the man, and I don't think something as simple as party affiliation should condemn someone to hatred. It's just a cute moniker.
So, Saturday night I was planning on going to two parties in Somerville, one hosted by another alum of the old alma mater. After dinner, however, the roomie was having second thoughts about going out. Then when I called my ride, she also backed out. My backup plan for a ride wasn't picking up his phone, so I finished the bottle of red wine, being the only red wine drinker in the house, and hopped on the T.
Being slightly drunk on the T is fun, until you realize:
1. You need to pee. God damn that was a lot of wine.
2. You need some water. That might've been an excessive amount of wine.
3. Your stomach hurts.
Then you remember last time you drank that much wine, which is another story, and how you almost threw up because you were too full, not too drunk.
I made it to the party without excreting anything, even though I fucked up the republican's directions.
For some odd reason, I decide to bypass the water and go for a fresh, cold PBR. I also decide that once I finish the PBR I am moving straight into g&t. I think the hour long ride on the T might've had something to do with it.
The republican informs me that this party is filled with Trinity alum, his girlfriend being one of them. I had met some of his old college buddies from Conn earlier in the week and had hoped to maybe recognize someone at this party. No such luck.
Then some girl walks into the room yelling, "Paul's here! I heard you were coming!" I have no idea who this person is, so we are introduced, and I promptly forget her name. I note that this girl is crazy, but since she is the only person I didn't know to have willingly talked to me so far, I start to chat it up.
She introduces me to her ex?-boyfriend, a large, bear-like man in the cuddly sense. I really thought I heard ex in there, but she was all flirty with him. Then again she was all flirty with most of the guys in the room.
At some point, she tells me that she likes saying the named Paul because she went out with a guy named Paul. According to her, that meant we couldn't go out. I don't know why she was telling me this. She was the one doing all of the flirting.
I did get my pee in eventually, but not the water. My stomach is at this point a bubbling cauldron of bottle of wine, PBR, and two gin and tonics. I think I felt a kick.
People are leaving, some to go to bed, others, led by flirty girl, to go to a club/chinese restaurant near Harvard. The ex? is stumbling wildy. Never one to miss a party, I follow. The republican and his girlfriend have some business, they will be catching up.
People other than the flirty girl are talking to me at this point, which is good, cause I hate flirty girls. They never mean it. They just want everyone to want them. But no touchy. No, no, no.
Along the way, a cat prances past. I turn to look at it, and it meows at me. I meow back, and we converse for a little while as it walks past, slowly turning my head more in the opposite direction I am walking. I deftly maneuver past one tree, and, not wanting to abruptly end our conversation, don't turn and walk side of head first into the next tree.
The flirty girl notices, and asks what I have done. I say that I was talking to the cat, because I love talking to cats, and didn't notice the tree. She says, "I don't like cats. I can't deal with them. We can't be in this relationship anymore." I am quite puzzled. She says that we should kiss on the cheek. I go in for the old we both kiss each other on the cheek at the same time, and she backs away, exclaiming, "No! The cheek, on the cheek!" I inform her that's where I was going, and give her a little peck. This girl is wildy uncontrollable.
The republican gives me a call. He is there. We are still at least five minutes away. Apparently we took the long way. The ex? is being carried on the shoulders of two girls at this point.
We get to the bar, and I see the republican and his girlfriend there. Them having more sense than the lot of Trinity kids combined, I walk ahead and begin talking to them. We move to the bouncer as the other kids get there.
"Can I see some ID?"
"Sure."
"How much have you had tonight?"
"I don't know, a few gin and tonics." I leave out the bottle of wine. I feel like most people would think I'd be plastered after that, judging by my size. They're forgetting my Irish.
"I'm not going to let you in."
"What?! Why?"
"You swayed. You've had enough." I'm glad I forgot about the tree thing here, cause I might've brought that up. I'm also glad I wasn't as drunk as he thought I was, cause I might've started something.
"Fuck you. I'm fine."
"Well, I'm not going to let you in."
Some of the Trinity kids were going into the bar. I don't remember seeing him specifically, but I'm pretty sure the ex? made it in. The huge dude who had to be carried the whole way. And I was standing there, drunk, but not plastered, with no outlet for my inebriation. People from the inside of the bar were saying it was last call, and they weren't letting anyone else in. It was 1:30. Fucking Boston.
The republican and his girlfriend led me back through the shortcut. I got another conversation with a cat, this time while still. I even got to pet it. I probably shouldn't pet random cats that come my way.
When we got back, I finally had that water. Then I passed out on a couch, in a beautiful pillow, and slept away flirty girl and asshole bouncer.
9.18.2006
The incident at the Czech Border
Amsterdam is cold in November. The people are colder. Blood-sucking parasites desperate for money and willing to get it by any means necessary. This is why pot is so popular there, the only honest ones are just as stoned as the tourists. This is also why so many bad decisions come about, desperation to leave causes many poorly conceived plans to be executed.
I woke up on the day we were leaving earlier than I wanted. The girls on the trip were headed to Barcelona. Forgetful gave me a hug as her eyes tried to apologize for the last night, maybe she even had to. My eyes tried to accept the apology, maybe they did. They left and I went back to sleep. My head still hurt, though not from the drinking. Before they left Kiwi handed me the bag we had bought last night with specific instructions to mail it off with the rest of our stash. I packed her 5 grams in my bag and gave them my goodbyes and goodlucks for their own adventure to Spain.
Me, Dank, B. and Bruce Lee all went about our business. Getting lost in a marajuana smoke daze. As the day wore on the realization that we had not passed a post office, nor had we bought shipping material or coffee or peanut butter or the worlds largest bottle of toothpaste, I grew worried. I had a half ounce of contraband in my bag and we were travelling over international borders.
"Hey guys, can we stop and buy some peanut butter so I can put this stuff in there?"
"Dude, don't worry."
"Yeah man, you'll be fine, just stick it in your sock."
"Oh... yeah I guess that'll be alright."
Somewhere in my brain I convinced myself that my earlier travels by rail had brought no searches and seizures. This would be no different. My friends wouldn't convince me do something this stupid. I was holding it for them.
"Don't worry man, we'll find a post office as soon as we get to Prague."
------------------------------------------------
That night me and Dank smoked behind the fence in the Bus Depot before we boarded the night bus to Prague. As I handed the driver my ticket he stopped me.
"Grosse."
The word was soft and poetic, I love the Czech language. That word is forever burned into my memory.
"Grosse." He repeated the word and pointed to my backpack.
"I can't take it aboard?" I recognized the word from the little French I spoke.
He said more words I didn't understand, but his pointing at the the cargo hold made it understood, I couldn't have my backpack on the bus. It would stay in the cargo hold. I stuck a name tag on it and got into my seat. When we started my brain, seeping with THC quickly forced my eyes shut and I slept.
----------------------------
I woke up to a warning. We were crossing the border. It was pitch black out when the German officials came on board the bus and took everyone's passports. There were two Czech's to my right, probably 2 years younger than I was. They were drunk and getting in fights with the driver the entire ride. I asked them if they knew if this was standard procedure or if something was amiss. They had no idea, it had never happened before. I started to sweat. I forced the calm when I looked out the window at the officials in the baggage hold. My friends thought this was funny. I tried to see the humor. The flashlights swung up toward the windows on the bus and blinded me to it. After 5 minutes they reboarded and gave back our passports. But I could still feel the heat in my cheeks. After the fear passed the invincibility came and I fell asleep.
----------------------------
I woke up to a familiar warning. Though now it was morning and my eyes, wearied by lack of sleep and consumption were not telling me the truth. They pulled people at random from the bus. I kept my head on the window, my eyes more awake than my body. In the same moment as my body arose, I heard,
"And you." As I saw a uniformed finger squarely in my direction. I calmly got up and exited the bus. As I picked up my backpack from the cargo hold I noticed my nametag had fallen off. In a split second I had my chance at freedom. I couldn't though, the thought of winding up with something worse in a strangers bag forced my hands to my own. How would I explain 2 kilos of cocaine? I doubted the border patrol would be very sympathetic to me telling them my excuse for switching bags with someone smuggling 2 kilos of coke was my own effort to smuggle an admittedly much more reasonable amount of marijuana.
I tried to force my brain into a plan as the passengers they had corralled went on our 500 ft death march. Maybe I could slip the pot into my pocket and then flush it into the bathroom. The sheer ludicrousness of this thought did not deter my frantic, weed-addled, sleep deprived brain. I would make this happen. Even if the worst occured and they searched it, they would just throw my things around, frighten me, but not hold up everyone for an entire search of every passengers numerous belongings.
As the border patrol meticulously went through every article of baggage, the wallets and the shoes of the Czech kids sitting next to me, I grew worried. As I tried to open my bag the border official told me to put it at my side and leave it alone. I complied. When my turn came I kept calm. When they found my leopard print handcuffs I made no comment. The look when the found my red pants and shirt with the snakeskin "A" on them likewise elicited nothing. I explained the adderal I had in an altoids tin was ibuprofin. My collection of argyle socks was my undoing. When they finally opened the very last pocket they had to search they pulled out the one sock I prayed they would never find and poured out its contents.
"What's this?"
"I have no idea!"
"Really?"
"Guys. Did anyone do anything with my bag." They all squirmed and looked away offering grunts and mumbles to distance themselves from me.
"I've never seen that before in my life. I don't know why it was in my bag. It isn't mine." My stoicism broke.
"It's your problem now. Everyone back to the bus!" The room cleared.
------------------------------------
I followed them through corridors and small rooms until we reached a back room, the desk and chair with only one door told me what it was. I was asked the same questions over and over.
"Other Alex"
"The USA."
"I'm here on holiday from school."
"It's only for me."
"I got it in Amsterdam."
"I forgot it was in my bag."
"I have less than $2000 Euro's, I'm a student."
"On Holiday. We have a week off."
"Prague."
"Yes, it's only for me."
"I was holding it for me and my friends, for this, for the holiday."
"Come with me." The guard instructed. I went for my bag. "You won't need that."
I followed him through another maze of rooms and hallways and he stood by a door and ushered me in. When he flipped on the light the room was bare except for 2 jail cells.
"Go." He gestured toward the cell. I went in.
"Take down your trousers." I complied slowly, expecting the worst.
"Pants too." I did. The next 5 seconds were the longest of my life.
"Okay." He started to leave.
"One last time, who was the marijuana for?"
"It was for me and my friends, it was for the holiday."
"Come with me." He said. It was almost friendly.
He took me into the other room where the other border guards had weighed out the baggie. 13.3 grams. He handed me a sheet, explained that I would be taken to a nearby police station and then let go on the next bus to Prague. Then he sent me out to a front room, with all my things except my passport, and I waited.
---------------------------------
Hours passed. I read a play, wrote in my journal, sketched the antechamber I was stuck in and waited. A man was brought through in handcuffs and another man exited through the front door, apparently free. I tried not to think about which I would be. After two and a half hours two police men I had seen enter 5 minutes prior informed me that they were the "crime police." I was being taken into the station 2km into Germany, processed and fined for "Shmugglin" and let go. The put me in the back of a small BMW and we drove into the nearist town the name of which escapes me.
---------------------------------
I get to the station and get processed. Name. Age. Hometown. Reason for travelling. Finally they inform me I have to pay 245.50 euros and then I can catch a bus. I do not have 245.50 euros on me. I have 0 euros on me. Leaving Amsterdam I figured it would be a good idea to spend all my euros and not have to change money in Prague. This was a bad idea. They agree to drive me to a bank so I can use the ATM. On the way the police officer and I talk a bit. He asks how the marijuana is in Amsterdam. Tells me about how the fines have been changing over the years. I try to joke around, but something is lost in the translation and he doesn't laugh with any spirit. I began to think this kind of thing happens a lot.
We get to the bank and I use the ATM. It doesn't work. It won't accept my card. I try again. The cop tells me to try my credit card, which, since I don't know the PIN is an excercise in futility. Not that I want 250 Euros on my credit card anyway. He goes to the bank manager and I, in possibly my first logical thought of the day, try another ATM which works. We drive back to the station, I'm fingerprinted and get my change and go back to the border. Though not before reminding them they have yet to give me my passport. After running to retrive it I'm brought back to the front room at the border. I now have to wait while my passport is screened to make sure I'm not an international terrorist or drug kingpin. This will take 30-45 minutes. 1 hour and a half later I go to ask what is happening. They run around pretending to figure out what's happening. Then tell me it'll just be a little longer. 45 minutes later I'm given my passport and told that the next bus is at 10 tonight. It is presently about 1:30 in the afternoon. I have no euros, no ticket, my phone is almost dead, I'm at the German/Czech border in the assfuck of nowhere and the single thing I know about Prague is that we were supposed to go into Florence station. Life has been better.
----------------------------------------
I got up and left the room where I was being held. Step one, calm down. I went to the resturant at the truck depot and spent my last 5.50 euros on cigarettes, forgoeing my plan to quit and a soda because I hadn't eaten in hours and didn't have enough money for food. I looked for an ATM, there were none. There were, however, 6 money changing stations. Step two, get some money. None of the money changing stations had ATM's, nor did they accept travellers cheques. While I had no cash, I did have $80 in Cheques that could be used to buy a bus ticket. I began to worry, with no money and no phone I had no way of making it to Prague. Though by now I have stopped worrying about partying in Prague and started thinking about getting my plane back to England in Budapest at the end of the week. I go back to the place where I was held to see if the border police have any insight. Step three, ask for help.
"None of the money stations take travellers cheques, will the bus driver let me get on here because I already had a ticket?"
"No, you'll need to pay."
"Well... will they take a card?" He snickered.
"No."
"Well, what should I do? There's no way for me to get money and I need to get on a bus."
He took me over to a window. "You see those trucks down there?"
"Yes."
"Ask one of them."
Step four, hitchhike.
-------------------------------
I went down to the Czech side of the border and found an outlet so I could charge my phone. After sitting there for 5 minutes the Czech border patrol came in and started yelling at me. In Czech. This proved problematic as I spoke no Czech and they no English. After a few minutes of gesturing to the phone and outlet I decided to leave, though when I got up to go they waved me off and went away. I sent a text message to my friend.
"Stuck at German border. Going to hitchhike to Prague. Pray for me."
I hoped for the first time in my life that there was a God, and that they would pray.
I went to the truck depot booth and went inside. This idea proved to be a poor one because the guard in the booth was very edgy. He immediately demanded my passport. I provided it. He entered some information into a computer, I tried to explain my situation, every time I took one step into the room he screamed at me to get back. Finally he gave me my passport with the instructions to just ask the drivers. Step five, ask around. I started asking every driver I could.
"Praha? You go to Praha?"
It was the closest thing I could do to communicate. After an hour of this I decided to ask the car drivers who were starting to come more frequently to the change stations at the border. After about 50 drivers two were heading there, one with a car totally jam packed with wooden furnature who apologized for not being able to help me and one woman who took one look at my haggard clothes and tired face, snorted "no" and drove off in her mercedes. This was fruitless so I went into the restuarant and asked the drivers in there. I asked drivers who were 6'6" and weighed 300+lbs. with huge bushy beards. I asked clean cut drivers who spoke no english. I asked drivers who looked like they hadn't slept in months. Nobody was going to Praha, Prague was 263km away and getting no closer. Finally I asked a man who looked about 30.
"Are you going to Prague? PRAHA?"
"Yes, I am."
"You speak English?!"
"A little bit."
"I was detained at the border and missed my bus, I need to get to Prague, can I get a ride?"
"I'm sorry, no, my company does not let me give rides."
"Oh... who's your company?"
"They are in the US Haliburton. I was driving military equipment."
Haliburton was my route to salvation.
"Wow. Where are you from." I was wasting time, but this was the first person who spoke english who wasn't involved in arresting me.
"Hungary."
"I'm going there after I get to Prague... That is... assuming I get to Prague. I should really get going, I need to find a ride before it gets dark." It was nearing 5 o'clock.
"Hey, I will take you. Get in. My name is Zoly."
"Thank you."
"I am only going to 20 km outside of Prague though. Then I switch drivers, he may not take you."
"20km from Prague is better than 263. I'll come with you."
----------------------------------------
The ride was uneventful. We made small talk, which was difficult because his English was not wonderful, and my Hungarian was non-existant. Some other friends who were in Prague called at one point and agreed to meet me at Florence train station after I got to Prague. Then they would buy me a drink. I needed a drink. After 2 hours we arrived at a truck stop. The other driver wasn't there yet so I used the bathroom. When I came out I heard the first good news all day, he would take me. The 20 km went by in about 30 minutes. He offered me a cigarette at one point, I smoked on of my own. When we saw signs for Praha he posed me his first inquiry of the drive.
"Praha?"
"Yes, Praha."
He pulled over on the side of the road.
"Praha. 5 Kilometers, no more Praha."
"Okay... thanks."
I got my things and got out on the side of the highway. I was there, though were exactly there was I had no idea. I saw a gas station 1000ft down the road and walked there. Inside I felt excited as I saw maps and an American style highway rest stop. I went directly to the counter.
"Do you speak English?"
"No, but he does." The clerk gestured to the manager in the back talking with a woman.
"Hello, I need to get a map so I can get to the train station."
The woman chimed in. "I'm going there, I can give you a ride." Prague became my favorite city ever at that second.
"Thank you so much."
We went outside and got in her car. The station was close.
"So how did you get to that gas station?"
"I was detained at the border, I had to hitchhike."
"I used to do that years ago, that's why I picked you up."
"Thank you so much. What do you do now?"
"I manage a four star resort, there's a branch in Nepal, so I'm usually there, but there's one in Prague so I'm here for the month."
"Wow."
"So do you have enough money for a ticket?"
"No, will it not take a card?"
"No, here take this." She gave me 30 crowns. More than the 20 needed for the subway fare.
"Thank you."
"Here we are, just go down that ramp and the station is right there."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I still don't know where she was from or what her name was.
I called the girls who had called me earlier and told them to meet me at the train station which I would be arriving at shortly. Then I went to Florence train station, still the only place I had a name for in Prague. I arrived and went to an ATM across the street to get some cash. When I got back to the station NYU had arrived to greet me. I ran and tackeled her screaming about nothing except seeing a friendly face. She asked me to explain but I said it was a long story and I'd tell it when we got back to Old Town where the other girls were waiting to get dinner. When we arrived they all wanted to know my ordeal. Just as I got prepared to launch into it a man off the street approached.
"Hey man, you want some weed? Hash?"
I said no.
I woke up on the day we were leaving earlier than I wanted. The girls on the trip were headed to Barcelona. Forgetful gave me a hug as her eyes tried to apologize for the last night, maybe she even had to. My eyes tried to accept the apology, maybe they did. They left and I went back to sleep. My head still hurt, though not from the drinking. Before they left Kiwi handed me the bag we had bought last night with specific instructions to mail it off with the rest of our stash. I packed her 5 grams in my bag and gave them my goodbyes and goodlucks for their own adventure to Spain.
Me, Dank, B. and Bruce Lee all went about our business. Getting lost in a marajuana smoke daze. As the day wore on the realization that we had not passed a post office, nor had we bought shipping material or coffee or peanut butter or the worlds largest bottle of toothpaste, I grew worried. I had a half ounce of contraband in my bag and we were travelling over international borders.
"Hey guys, can we stop and buy some peanut butter so I can put this stuff in there?"
"Dude, don't worry."
"Yeah man, you'll be fine, just stick it in your sock."
"Oh... yeah I guess that'll be alright."
Somewhere in my brain I convinced myself that my earlier travels by rail had brought no searches and seizures. This would be no different. My friends wouldn't convince me do something this stupid. I was holding it for them.
"Don't worry man, we'll find a post office as soon as we get to Prague."
------------------------------------------------
That night me and Dank smoked behind the fence in the Bus Depot before we boarded the night bus to Prague. As I handed the driver my ticket he stopped me.
"Grosse."
The word was soft and poetic, I love the Czech language. That word is forever burned into my memory.
"Grosse." He repeated the word and pointed to my backpack.
"I can't take it aboard?" I recognized the word from the little French I spoke.
He said more words I didn't understand, but his pointing at the the cargo hold made it understood, I couldn't have my backpack on the bus. It would stay in the cargo hold. I stuck a name tag on it and got into my seat. When we started my brain, seeping with THC quickly forced my eyes shut and I slept.
----------------------------
I woke up to a warning. We were crossing the border. It was pitch black out when the German officials came on board the bus and took everyone's passports. There were two Czech's to my right, probably 2 years younger than I was. They were drunk and getting in fights with the driver the entire ride. I asked them if they knew if this was standard procedure or if something was amiss. They had no idea, it had never happened before. I started to sweat. I forced the calm when I looked out the window at the officials in the baggage hold. My friends thought this was funny. I tried to see the humor. The flashlights swung up toward the windows on the bus and blinded me to it. After 5 minutes they reboarded and gave back our passports. But I could still feel the heat in my cheeks. After the fear passed the invincibility came and I fell asleep.
----------------------------
I woke up to a familiar warning. Though now it was morning and my eyes, wearied by lack of sleep and consumption were not telling me the truth. They pulled people at random from the bus. I kept my head on the window, my eyes more awake than my body. In the same moment as my body arose, I heard,
"And you." As I saw a uniformed finger squarely in my direction. I calmly got up and exited the bus. As I picked up my backpack from the cargo hold I noticed my nametag had fallen off. In a split second I had my chance at freedom. I couldn't though, the thought of winding up with something worse in a strangers bag forced my hands to my own. How would I explain 2 kilos of cocaine? I doubted the border patrol would be very sympathetic to me telling them my excuse for switching bags with someone smuggling 2 kilos of coke was my own effort to smuggle an admittedly much more reasonable amount of marijuana.
I tried to force my brain into a plan as the passengers they had corralled went on our 500 ft death march. Maybe I could slip the pot into my pocket and then flush it into the bathroom. The sheer ludicrousness of this thought did not deter my frantic, weed-addled, sleep deprived brain. I would make this happen. Even if the worst occured and they searched it, they would just throw my things around, frighten me, but not hold up everyone for an entire search of every passengers numerous belongings.
As the border patrol meticulously went through every article of baggage, the wallets and the shoes of the Czech kids sitting next to me, I grew worried. As I tried to open my bag the border official told me to put it at my side and leave it alone. I complied. When my turn came I kept calm. When they found my leopard print handcuffs I made no comment. The look when the found my red pants and shirt with the snakeskin "A" on them likewise elicited nothing. I explained the adderal I had in an altoids tin was ibuprofin. My collection of argyle socks was my undoing. When they finally opened the very last pocket they had to search they pulled out the one sock I prayed they would never find and poured out its contents.
"What's this?"
"I have no idea!"
"Really?"
"Guys. Did anyone do anything with my bag." They all squirmed and looked away offering grunts and mumbles to distance themselves from me.
"I've never seen that before in my life. I don't know why it was in my bag. It isn't mine." My stoicism broke.
"It's your problem now. Everyone back to the bus!" The room cleared.
------------------------------------
I followed them through corridors and small rooms until we reached a back room, the desk and chair with only one door told me what it was. I was asked the same questions over and over.
"Other Alex"
"The USA."
"I'm here on holiday from school."
"It's only for me."
"I got it in Amsterdam."
"I forgot it was in my bag."
"I have less than $2000 Euro's, I'm a student."
"On Holiday. We have a week off."
"Prague."
"Yes, it's only for me."
"I was holding it for me and my friends, for this, for the holiday."
"Come with me." The guard instructed. I went for my bag. "You won't need that."
I followed him through another maze of rooms and hallways and he stood by a door and ushered me in. When he flipped on the light the room was bare except for 2 jail cells.
"Go." He gestured toward the cell. I went in.
"Take down your trousers." I complied slowly, expecting the worst.
"Pants too." I did. The next 5 seconds were the longest of my life.
"Okay." He started to leave.
"One last time, who was the marijuana for?"
"It was for me and my friends, it was for the holiday."
"Come with me." He said. It was almost friendly.
He took me into the other room where the other border guards had weighed out the baggie. 13.3 grams. He handed me a sheet, explained that I would be taken to a nearby police station and then let go on the next bus to Prague. Then he sent me out to a front room, with all my things except my passport, and I waited.
---------------------------------
Hours passed. I read a play, wrote in my journal, sketched the antechamber I was stuck in and waited. A man was brought through in handcuffs and another man exited through the front door, apparently free. I tried not to think about which I would be. After two and a half hours two police men I had seen enter 5 minutes prior informed me that they were the "crime police." I was being taken into the station 2km into Germany, processed and fined for "Shmugglin" and let go. The put me in the back of a small BMW and we drove into the nearist town the name of which escapes me.
---------------------------------
I get to the station and get processed. Name. Age. Hometown. Reason for travelling. Finally they inform me I have to pay 245.50 euros and then I can catch a bus. I do not have 245.50 euros on me. I have 0 euros on me. Leaving Amsterdam I figured it would be a good idea to spend all my euros and not have to change money in Prague. This was a bad idea. They agree to drive me to a bank so I can use the ATM. On the way the police officer and I talk a bit. He asks how the marijuana is in Amsterdam. Tells me about how the fines have been changing over the years. I try to joke around, but something is lost in the translation and he doesn't laugh with any spirit. I began to think this kind of thing happens a lot.
We get to the bank and I use the ATM. It doesn't work. It won't accept my card. I try again. The cop tells me to try my credit card, which, since I don't know the PIN is an excercise in futility. Not that I want 250 Euros on my credit card anyway. He goes to the bank manager and I, in possibly my first logical thought of the day, try another ATM which works. We drive back to the station, I'm fingerprinted and get my change and go back to the border. Though not before reminding them they have yet to give me my passport. After running to retrive it I'm brought back to the front room at the border. I now have to wait while my passport is screened to make sure I'm not an international terrorist or drug kingpin. This will take 30-45 minutes. 1 hour and a half later I go to ask what is happening. They run around pretending to figure out what's happening. Then tell me it'll just be a little longer. 45 minutes later I'm given my passport and told that the next bus is at 10 tonight. It is presently about 1:30 in the afternoon. I have no euros, no ticket, my phone is almost dead, I'm at the German/Czech border in the assfuck of nowhere and the single thing I know about Prague is that we were supposed to go into Florence station. Life has been better.
----------------------------------------
I got up and left the room where I was being held. Step one, calm down. I went to the resturant at the truck depot and spent my last 5.50 euros on cigarettes, forgoeing my plan to quit and a soda because I hadn't eaten in hours and didn't have enough money for food. I looked for an ATM, there were none. There were, however, 6 money changing stations. Step two, get some money. None of the money changing stations had ATM's, nor did they accept travellers cheques. While I had no cash, I did have $80 in Cheques that could be used to buy a bus ticket. I began to worry, with no money and no phone I had no way of making it to Prague. Though by now I have stopped worrying about partying in Prague and started thinking about getting my plane back to England in Budapest at the end of the week. I go back to the place where I was held to see if the border police have any insight. Step three, ask for help.
"None of the money stations take travellers cheques, will the bus driver let me get on here because I already had a ticket?"
"No, you'll need to pay."
"Well... will they take a card?" He snickered.
"No."
"Well, what should I do? There's no way for me to get money and I need to get on a bus."
He took me over to a window. "You see those trucks down there?"
"Yes."
"Ask one of them."
Step four, hitchhike.
-------------------------------
I went down to the Czech side of the border and found an outlet so I could charge my phone. After sitting there for 5 minutes the Czech border patrol came in and started yelling at me. In Czech. This proved problematic as I spoke no Czech and they no English. After a few minutes of gesturing to the phone and outlet I decided to leave, though when I got up to go they waved me off and went away. I sent a text message to my friend.
"Stuck at German border. Going to hitchhike to Prague. Pray for me."
I hoped for the first time in my life that there was a God, and that they would pray.
I went to the truck depot booth and went inside. This idea proved to be a poor one because the guard in the booth was very edgy. He immediately demanded my passport. I provided it. He entered some information into a computer, I tried to explain my situation, every time I took one step into the room he screamed at me to get back. Finally he gave me my passport with the instructions to just ask the drivers. Step five, ask around. I started asking every driver I could.
"Praha? You go to Praha?"
It was the closest thing I could do to communicate. After an hour of this I decided to ask the car drivers who were starting to come more frequently to the change stations at the border. After about 50 drivers two were heading there, one with a car totally jam packed with wooden furnature who apologized for not being able to help me and one woman who took one look at my haggard clothes and tired face, snorted "no" and drove off in her mercedes. This was fruitless so I went into the restuarant and asked the drivers in there. I asked drivers who were 6'6" and weighed 300+lbs. with huge bushy beards. I asked clean cut drivers who spoke no english. I asked drivers who looked like they hadn't slept in months. Nobody was going to Praha, Prague was 263km away and getting no closer. Finally I asked a man who looked about 30.
"Are you going to Prague? PRAHA?"
"Yes, I am."
"You speak English?!"
"A little bit."
"I was detained at the border and missed my bus, I need to get to Prague, can I get a ride?"
"I'm sorry, no, my company does not let me give rides."
"Oh... who's your company?"
"They are in the US Haliburton. I was driving military equipment."
Haliburton was my route to salvation.
"Wow. Where are you from." I was wasting time, but this was the first person who spoke english who wasn't involved in arresting me.
"Hungary."
"I'm going there after I get to Prague... That is... assuming I get to Prague. I should really get going, I need to find a ride before it gets dark." It was nearing 5 o'clock.
"Hey, I will take you. Get in. My name is Zoly."
"Thank you."
"I am only going to 20 km outside of Prague though. Then I switch drivers, he may not take you."
"20km from Prague is better than 263. I'll come with you."
----------------------------------------
The ride was uneventful. We made small talk, which was difficult because his English was not wonderful, and my Hungarian was non-existant. Some other friends who were in Prague called at one point and agreed to meet me at Florence train station after I got to Prague. Then they would buy me a drink. I needed a drink. After 2 hours we arrived at a truck stop. The other driver wasn't there yet so I used the bathroom. When I came out I heard the first good news all day, he would take me. The 20 km went by in about 30 minutes. He offered me a cigarette at one point, I smoked on of my own. When we saw signs for Praha he posed me his first inquiry of the drive.
"Praha?"
"Yes, Praha."
He pulled over on the side of the road.
"Praha. 5 Kilometers, no more Praha."
"Okay... thanks."
I got my things and got out on the side of the highway. I was there, though were exactly there was I had no idea. I saw a gas station 1000ft down the road and walked there. Inside I felt excited as I saw maps and an American style highway rest stop. I went directly to the counter.
"Do you speak English?"
"No, but he does." The clerk gestured to the manager in the back talking with a woman.
"Hello, I need to get a map so I can get to the train station."
The woman chimed in. "I'm going there, I can give you a ride." Prague became my favorite city ever at that second.
"Thank you so much."
We went outside and got in her car. The station was close.
"So how did you get to that gas station?"
"I was detained at the border, I had to hitchhike."
"I used to do that years ago, that's why I picked you up."
"Thank you so much. What do you do now?"
"I manage a four star resort, there's a branch in Nepal, so I'm usually there, but there's one in Prague so I'm here for the month."
"Wow."
"So do you have enough money for a ticket?"
"No, will it not take a card?"
"No, here take this." She gave me 30 crowns. More than the 20 needed for the subway fare.
"Thank you."
"Here we are, just go down that ramp and the station is right there."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I still don't know where she was from or what her name was.
I called the girls who had called me earlier and told them to meet me at the train station which I would be arriving at shortly. Then I went to Florence train station, still the only place I had a name for in Prague. I arrived and went to an ATM across the street to get some cash. When I got back to the station NYU had arrived to greet me. I ran and tackeled her screaming about nothing except seeing a friendly face. She asked me to explain but I said it was a long story and I'd tell it when we got back to Old Town where the other girls were waiting to get dinner. When we arrived they all wanted to know my ordeal. Just as I got prepared to launch into it a man off the street approached.
"Hey man, you want some weed? Hash?"
I said no.
The Carlo Rossi Incident
Summer after Sophomore year at The Old Alma Mater was miserable. I was caught up in a series of bad jobs and perpetually breaking up with my Ex-Girlfriend. I was smoking pot non-stop but not drinking ever. The one time I had people over to drink I made a huge bowl of Sangria that was excluded in favor of greenery and emptied Cigars. Being underage at the time I put the jar of sangria in my closet and forgot about it for months. At one point I was going to drink the whole thing on a bad night when I found it had gone bad. I was very high at the time and instead of just emptying I put it back. When I was packing to go abroad for the next semester at the end of the summer I found it and decided to get rid of it.
My parents had gone to the grocery store and I took the jug and started out of my door, I would pour it out in our yard and put the bottle somewhere. Problem solved. But two steps outside my door the top of the jug shot off like a cannon. Then a gyser of purple Carlo Rossi sprayed, firehose like, all over the stairwell, my bathroom, my parents bathroom and the general upstairs area. Thankfully my parents bedroom door was closed. When all was said and done the wine had sprayed through a seperating window between my half bath and my parents master bathroom onto the skylight. A distance of about 10 feet over and 10 feet up. The entire area looked like a scene from "The Shining." I poured salt over all of the carpet and tried to wash off the walls. I later learned that they were pourous walls surfaces and virtually impossible to clean well. When I heard my parents come back I went outside and calmly explained what happened. To their credit they took it well. I finished cleaning with their help and then repainted the wall the next day.
If I ever make Sangria again I'll make sure to drink it quickly.
My parents had gone to the grocery store and I took the jug and started out of my door, I would pour it out in our yard and put the bottle somewhere. Problem solved. But two steps outside my door the top of the jug shot off like a cannon. Then a gyser of purple Carlo Rossi sprayed, firehose like, all over the stairwell, my bathroom, my parents bathroom and the general upstairs area. Thankfully my parents bedroom door was closed. When all was said and done the wine had sprayed through a seperating window between my half bath and my parents master bathroom onto the skylight. A distance of about 10 feet over and 10 feet up. The entire area looked like a scene from "The Shining." I poured salt over all of the carpet and tried to wash off the walls. I later learned that they were pourous walls surfaces and virtually impossible to clean well. When I heard my parents come back I went outside and calmly explained what happened. To their credit they took it well. I finished cleaning with their help and then repainted the wall the next day.
If I ever make Sangria again I'll make sure to drink it quickly.
9.17.2006
The Old Alma Mater Part I
So, as other Alex pointed out, I took a constitutional off to the old alma mater this week. My successor as fearless leader of my a cappella group informed me that there may not have been a group anymore if I didn't come back and sing at the concert for all the new freshmen. I knew this was an exaggeration, but I, jobless and loving all things about the old alma mater, hastily made my way to the campus anyways. I packed three shirts, three pants (one of which of the pajama variety), and three pairs of boxers. I plan on being there from Wednesday afternoon to Friday afternoon.
I arrive earlier than expected, and within a few hours have found frisbee practice and, without proper footwear, gotten a few nice dirt marks on pants #1. One might have called them dirty at this point. This does not stop me from wearing them for the next two and a half days. Apparently during practice I tried to call the ex and see what she was up to, but instead called the old friend with a very similar name to the ex. She informed me of this later, but I, not having remembered making the calling, blame a rook. We talk about how each of us is doing, having not had what one might call a conversation in a good year, hinting at the awkwardness of good friends turning into old ones.
We leave and go to McRookle's room and drink beers while he talks about his recent run ins with the law, one of which was being caught peeing on Canal Street. I tell him about the time I was almost caught peeing on campus. Fortunately I couldn't find the hole in my boxers until the security guard came out of the bushes. Foolish as they are and seeing I wasn't as deathly drunk as he expected, he let me off without even checking the wall for a puddle. McRookle was not as lucky. The judge wouldn't even be sympathetic when he explained that he was getting on a train and really needed to pee.
After that, Hobester and I found Preggers and a few other salty dogs in his room. There were fires to be lit. Funny thing about the old alma mater is that 95% of the time there is no opium on the campus. Maybe even 96%. During the other 4-5% everyone is smoking opium. Period. You may not know it, but you are. I willingly obliged the call of the old alma mater, and after becoming thoroughly chilled, we somehow made it to J-rad's house, who I had told I'd be visiting hours ago while at the concert. Beirut ensues, with varying success. J-rad and I rekindle our partnership. I try to bounce too much. Eventually everyone has to leave. I think the idea of class the next day started to get to them. I'd like to say I never let it bother me until the morning, but it probably did around 2-4 a.m. on a Wednesday. J-rad informs me of his extra bed, which after giddiness, bacon, and Entourage, I crawl into.
There's more to come later. Including the good part.
Dawn of a New Day for those girls from high school gym class
Remember those girls? Whatever the game, they were sure to stand in a group and scream when any action came within ten feet of them. Were these girls disinterested in gym class? Maybe you see their ass as half-empty, but I see it half-full. Stay with me now, because here comes the pitch for my new sport: The International Half-Assed Sports League.
My league's contests will be played "I dunno...what about over there?" in the sport of whatever ball is lying in the muck over by those rusty bleachers. Once the game is established by a committee of "come on by Austin I meant married, tell us what to play already, I've got a nap to take," the chosen sport will played by the internationally recognized rules with one important exception; my strict rules to ensure lack of effort. The DICKtionary defines effort as "a vigorous or determined attempt", but how does one definitively define what is and what is not effort? Unfortunately, explaining and enforcing my rules will involve entirely breaking them. Now I know how George W Bush feels.
I briefly half-assedly flirted with the idea of defining "running effort" as a bend of the knee past a certain angle, or the absence of at least one foot on the ground. But instead of going through the trouble of hiring a team of protractor-toting referees sneaking up behind players, and acknowledging the existence of jackasses who will speed walk their way into unconscionable trying, I've decided to take the easy route of simply measuring effort by velocity. Replace those protractors with radar guns and you've got yourself a pseudo-sport!
Sure, that takes care of physical exertion, but what about mental/emotional investment in the outcome of the contest? How can you measure a man's soul? I'll tell you how, with an extensive network of replay cameras catching every facial distortion on the grassless field of play. Every furrowed brow, every unglazed over eye, every deep breath in the form of a sigh will result in massive fines and possible jail time (jail will be constructed under the rusty bleachers and manned by that guy over there with the shopping cart ranting about the government). Also worth mentioning: deep breaths in the form of getting more oxygen to an exerted body will be equally punished, as exertion is, of course, evil and contrary to what we're doing here, you asshole.
First contest is "whenever you want, I don't care" at "that's too far, let's just use this sidewalk here." Please bring a thousand dollars cash to help finance my team of officials, my radar guns, my replay cameras and televisions, and the stuffing of my own coiffers. See ya around I guess.
My league's contests will be played "I dunno...what about over there?" in the sport of whatever ball is lying in the muck over by those rusty bleachers. Once the game is established by a committee of "come on by Austin I meant married, tell us what to play already, I've got a nap to take," the chosen sport will played by the internationally recognized rules with one important exception; my strict rules to ensure lack of effort. The DICKtionary defines effort as "a vigorous or determined attempt", but how does one definitively define what is and what is not effort? Unfortunately, explaining and enforcing my rules will involve entirely breaking them. Now I know how George W Bush feels.
I briefly half-assedly flirted with the idea of defining "running effort" as a bend of the knee past a certain angle, or the absence of at least one foot on the ground. But instead of going through the trouble of hiring a team of protractor-toting referees sneaking up behind players, and acknowledging the existence of jackasses who will speed walk their way into unconscionable trying, I've decided to take the easy route of simply measuring effort by velocity. Replace those protractors with radar guns and you've got yourself a pseudo-sport!
Sure, that takes care of physical exertion, but what about mental/emotional investment in the outcome of the contest? How can you measure a man's soul? I'll tell you how, with an extensive network of replay cameras catching every facial distortion on the grassless field of play. Every furrowed brow, every unglazed over eye, every deep breath in the form of a sigh will result in massive fines and possible jail time (jail will be constructed under the rusty bleachers and manned by that guy over there with the shopping cart ranting about the government). Also worth mentioning: deep breaths in the form of getting more oxygen to an exerted body will be equally punished, as exertion is, of course, evil and contrary to what we're doing here, you asshole.
First contest is "whenever you want, I don't care" at "that's too far, let's just use this sidewalk here." Please bring a thousand dollars cash to help finance my team of officials, my radar guns, my replay cameras and televisions, and the stuffing of my own coiffers. See ya around I guess.
9.14.2006
Zagat's Review: Chez Branton et Monkeyfucker
Locals, Queensers, and out of town dignitaries have been dining at this "roach-infested Hell hole" for "year". Outsiders might walk by and shake their head "in disgust", but all the regulars know what really keeps this place packed. From the "drunken rantings" of the maitre d' to the "inedible" selection of spices provided by the manager, this "neighborhoodless" neighborhood hot spot will surely be serving up "tiny hambugers on mistakenly raisined buns" and "shit! we forgot the corn!" for many "months" to come. Watch for "live roaches" in your yams and you're sure to have a "time".
9.12.2006
Monkeyfucker goes home for the weekend
Me and my cousin rolled into Mystic at around 12 in the afternoon and we didn't stay in the same place for more than fifteen minutes until seven forty five. That was when we took the mushrooms. We had been drinking cider and beer for some time. Several hours later, when they had started to kick in, I was across the river in New London listening to the rising and falling, always rocking operatic stylings of Organizational Behavior.
When I met my brother some time later in Mystic, he was emerging from the local Irish bar with a girl named Vanesse and her pug dog Walt. We fed my brother and Vanesse mushrooms, but not Walt. When the morning arrived, we put Vanessa in a cab, passed out for a few hours, and then caught a ride to the wedding. We got there in time to give the groom shots beforehand. We applauded racously at the wedding. At the bride and groom's house there was a dinghy full of beer and liquor, and a bar besides. At one point the bide and groom got into a canoe and were driven, by the best man, who manned a tractor named Mr. Ed.
Later me and my cousin got into a coversation with my aunt about how the first humans must have fucked monkeys, in order to produce more humans.
Later the best man puked in a far off corner of the lawn for a quarter of hour, to no concer of anyone save his loving grilfriend.
Eventually we found ourselves in the bar again, where apparently I was given a rose. I still don't know why, but I hear the gifter was a darling.
I ended the weekend on a Finngulf forty-one, a beautiful yacht for those who know. It was a six and a half hourvoyage to Newport and the wind was right on our nose. We edged up against it as much as we could, but the current was against also also, so we got thrashed the entire time. Waves ranging from fifteen feet to twenty slammed on our bow, and rushed back in our faces. Me and my dad must have looked like rats when we got in. The nice thing about Newport is that there is a bar within ten yards of any dock. I caught a train somehow and made it back to New York by 3 in the morning.
When I met my brother some time later in Mystic, he was emerging from the local Irish bar with a girl named Vanesse and her pug dog Walt. We fed my brother and Vanesse mushrooms, but not Walt. When the morning arrived, we put Vanessa in a cab, passed out for a few hours, and then caught a ride to the wedding. We got there in time to give the groom shots beforehand. We applauded racously at the wedding. At the bride and groom's house there was a dinghy full of beer and liquor, and a bar besides. At one point the bide and groom got into a canoe and were driven, by the best man, who manned a tractor named Mr. Ed.
Later me and my cousin got into a coversation with my aunt about how the first humans must have fucked monkeys, in order to produce more humans.
Later the best man puked in a far off corner of the lawn for a quarter of hour, to no concer of anyone save his loving grilfriend.
Eventually we found ourselves in the bar again, where apparently I was given a rose. I still don't know why, but I hear the gifter was a darling.
I ended the weekend on a Finngulf forty-one, a beautiful yacht for those who know. It was a six and a half hourvoyage to Newport and the wind was right on our nose. We edged up against it as much as we could, but the current was against also also, so we got thrashed the entire time. Waves ranging from fifteen feet to twenty slammed on our bow, and rushed back in our faces. Me and my dad must have looked like rats when we got in. The nice thing about Newport is that there is a bar within ten yards of any dock. I caught a train somehow and made it back to New York by 3 in the morning.
sundaynoon delight
Greetungs, ragscallions! BAIMM here to announce the commencing post of the 2aughaught6 pigball seasoning! last week saw the potato sacking of oakwood's aaron brooks, a pinch of branton's "humans cannot ingest this sauce!" sauce, and the severe concussing of kansas city's trenchtown green. don't forget to salt the wound, sports fans!
if you missed my first week of picks on an unaffiliated website, then i'll spare you the slight inconvenience of asking me for the URL by telling you that my record was how ever many games there were and 0. the switch to BTH is all about the benjamins (soze and banneker), so without further "freddy adu", i predict an offensive bombing of hiroshima, with Watford absolutely dropping one on Aston Villa and causing regrettable mutant births for the next several Northeast Birmingham generations, 2-nil. now take a hike, ex-pats, the big boys have got some MAN'S pigball to ponder!
my mortal kombat character scorpion's "come here!" move of the week is a career day for JP Lostintranslatman. P will throw for an astounding 153 yards and one touchdown as the Buffalo are run off a cliff by the Miami Manatees, 24-7. looking closer to home, the Yorktown Pigball Airbusses' three-headed running back monster (must have been born near Aston Villa) will produce no less than 25 yards of offense (with an over-under of two fumbles, you pick'em) in a dignified spanking by the NE-Pats (up yours, ex-pats!), 426-5. and what of the Yorktown Pigball Larges taking on the Philbert Baldies?? uh, i dont know...24-20.
to the Off-Field Betting Queues!
if you missed my first week of picks on an unaffiliated website, then i'll spare you the slight inconvenience of asking me for the URL by telling you that my record was how ever many games there were and 0. the switch to BTH is all about the benjamins (soze and banneker), so without further "freddy adu", i predict an offensive bombing of hiroshima, with Watford absolutely dropping one on Aston Villa and causing regrettable mutant births for the next several Northeast Birmingham generations, 2-nil. now take a hike, ex-pats, the big boys have got some MAN'S pigball to ponder!
my mortal kombat character scorpion's "come here!" move of the week is a career day for JP Lostintranslatman. P will throw for an astounding 153 yards and one touchdown as the Buffalo are run off a cliff by the Miami Manatees, 24-7. looking closer to home, the Yorktown Pigball Airbusses' three-headed running back monster (must have been born near Aston Villa) will produce no less than 25 yards of offense (with an over-under of two fumbles, you pick'em) in a dignified spanking by the NE-Pats (up yours, ex-pats!), 426-5. and what of the Yorktown Pigball Larges taking on the Philbert Baldies?? uh, i dont know...24-20.
to the Off-Field Betting Queues!
9.10.2006
four soothe!
Y'all ready for my C and C Music Factory JAMMMMMMMMZ?
Iae haveth leeraecs of fyne qualitie for thoun! Loke!:
It's a bit trite
Macgruff taking a bite out of crime
I just want to do a line
And maybe to wine and dine Miss Subway -
She's sublime!
And then ride the A to Far Rockaway
Or take a hayride in the pumpkin patch
until Miss Subway gives me a rash
Who's she been suckin' off?
David Hasselhoff?
They pee in a trough on his beach
Consider it a breach of contract
Subway fortune alimony, baby!
(Chorus)
So what to do with the money?
Fly honies be askin' for a refill of the Tanqueray
Cast away, bitch!
Shove off with Hasselhoff!
I hear he's been lonely
Been pacing on the pier in his low-rise boot cuts
Poop poop butt butt
Sorry baby, it's the tourettes talkin'
It's like Russian Roulette with my rhymes
Anyway, Knight Rider solves crimes
But he just wasn't meant for these times
Hasselhoff sells dime bags to schoolchildren!!
(Chorus)
So what's my beef with this guy?
If he were stranded in a stall, would I lend him a ply?
Truth is, I'd always spare a square
Can't be petty when Davey's in trouble
Hate to burst your bubble, folks
I'm all talk
Throw to first like Chuck Knoblauch
So if this shadow has offended
It's only cause my head is all dented
Pity me...
(Chorus) (Fade-out) (Fade-in) (Repeat)
Iae haveth leeraecs of fyne qualitie for thoun! Loke!:
It's a bit trite
Macgruff taking a bite out of crime
I just want to do a line
And maybe to wine and dine Miss Subway -
She's sublime!
And then ride the A to Far Rockaway
Or take a hayride in the pumpkin patch
until Miss Subway gives me a rash
Who's she been suckin' off?
David Hasselhoff?
They pee in a trough on his beach
Consider it a breach of contract
Subway fortune alimony, baby!
(Chorus)
So what to do with the money?
Fly honies be askin' for a refill of the Tanqueray
Cast away, bitch!
Shove off with Hasselhoff!
I hear he's been lonely
Been pacing on the pier in his low-rise boot cuts
Poop poop butt butt
Sorry baby, it's the tourettes talkin'
It's like Russian Roulette with my rhymes
Anyway, Knight Rider solves crimes
But he just wasn't meant for these times
Hasselhoff sells dime bags to schoolchildren!!
(Chorus)
So what's my beef with this guy?
If he were stranded in a stall, would I lend him a ply?
Truth is, I'd always spare a square
Can't be petty when Davey's in trouble
Hate to burst your bubble, folks
I'm all talk
Throw to first like Chuck Knoblauch
So if this shadow has offended
It's only cause my head is all dented
Pity me...
(Chorus) (Fade-out) (Fade-in) (Repeat)
The Paul Buerre coming into NYC Incident
Paul Beurre calls me at 4.
"(other) ALEEEEEXXXX!!!"
"Who is this?"
"(other) ALEEEEXXXXX!!!"
"No it's not."
"PAUUUULLLLLBBUUUUUUERRRRREEEE!!"
"HOLY SHIT! PAULBEURRE!"
"Guess where I am."
"I dunno."
"I am overlooking the retreat."
"Bah?"
"I came to The Old Alma Mater for the Acapella preview concert. Guess how I'm getting home."
"Chinatown bus. You're staying here tonight. We're getting drunk."
"Yeah. I'm going to get all my worldly possessions. I'll call you when I get to NY."
"Rock n' Cock"
He gets here at 8:15. We go to dinner, drink a beer, buy 2 sparks and a 40 each and back to the apartment. I am going to drink on par with Paul Beurre. (Sidenote: Paul Buerre is the 2nd most hardcore drinker I know. He has been quoted "I was either going to make love to a woman or make love to a keg. And I went with the keg.")
We crack the 40s. Take them down. I tear through my 2 sparks. PB is slower than me. I rule. I split the stray sparks. By Austin I meant Married is mocking us. He has only had 2 sparks. What a jerk. I fill a nalgene with 500ml of gin, ice, tonic/lemon lime seltzer and lime juice.
"Alright Paul Buerre. We're marking our arms with how many drinks we have tonight."
"Okay."
"Every 100ml from this nalgene is 1."
(Note: 50 ml is roughly 1 shot [a little more], so a 1/2 n' 1/2 nalgene is going to make each 100 ml 50 gin 50 tonic.")
We start marking. Leave the apt at 11ish. I'm powering through the nalgene, PB is behind.
Arriving at the east village finds the nalgene at 700ml. 1 for each of us. I'm up to 7. We get to a very crowded bar. Immediately leave for Hop Devil. I buy a beer for myself, PB and some random girl. I tip well, I'm hitting the nalgene for the rest of the night, so hopefully the bartender will still like me, I'm wearing a crown so I think he has to.
Here's where the night gets blurry.
During the course of the night I:
~Drink the rest of the nalgene
~Call a girl named Mary Beth, Mary Ann (I had met her before and actually knew her name)
~Scream at the bartender I know causing him to not serve me
~Insult people outside when I don't remember their names either (I met them recently and didn't know them)
Then I got a text message from a girl I met a few nights ago and insulted a whole lot because she had awful taste in music. We text back and forth
Her: (12:14) Boat?
Me: (12:14) Where?
Her: (12:16) Smith and warren
Me: (12:33) Seriously is thing awesome or shitty?
Her: (12:38) Boat is fun. It's a hike though so no problem drinking another time
Me: (1:37) I will drink with you for a million years
Her: (1:39) See, i drink all the time, so it's a match
Me: (1:40) I'll take you any time any place
Her: (1:41) Why, that's suggestive
Me: (1:43) I know
She stopped texting me at that point. In fairness, I do like suggesting things.
The night wasn't all that crazy from then on. Garden variety drinking. I was bombed and at 15 I got another beer, yelled at the bartender for not having anything less than $5.50 basically finished the nalgene and stumlbed home. Other people stayed and had fun.
Apparently, around this point I tried to find Paul Buerre. By calling his phone. At his house. In Rhode Island. Where his parents live. I am certain they were a bit put off by a blitzed friend of their son calling them at 3am and yelling about... something. I am something of a notorious drunk dialer... but oh man... oh man oh man oh man...
Back at home I walked through my roomates room when he was apparently with a girl (so did everyone else in the apt). When I woke up I went for water and found Paul Buerre shirtless and unconscious on the futon with a roomate of mine he had not met on the other futon. Oh Buerre...
Then we went to a diner and came up with the idea that we're better than Hemingway. Which we are. Or will be once I get a better story than this.
"(other) ALEEEEEXXXX!!!"
"Who is this?"
"(other) ALEEEEXXXXX!!!"
"No it's not."
"PAUUUULLLLLBBUUUUUUERRRRREEEE!!"
"HOLY SHIT! PAULBEURRE!"
"Guess where I am."
"I dunno."
"I am overlooking the retreat."
"Bah?"
"I came to The Old Alma Mater for the Acapella preview concert. Guess how I'm getting home."
"Chinatown bus. You're staying here tonight. We're getting drunk."
"Yeah. I'm going to get all my worldly possessions. I'll call you when I get to NY."
"Rock n' Cock"
He gets here at 8:15. We go to dinner, drink a beer, buy 2 sparks and a 40 each and back to the apartment. I am going to drink on par with Paul Beurre. (Sidenote: Paul Buerre is the 2nd most hardcore drinker I know. He has been quoted "I was either going to make love to a woman or make love to a keg. And I went with the keg.")
We crack the 40s. Take them down. I tear through my 2 sparks. PB is slower than me. I rule. I split the stray sparks. By Austin I meant Married is mocking us. He has only had 2 sparks. What a jerk. I fill a nalgene with 500ml of gin, ice, tonic/lemon lime seltzer and lime juice.
"Alright Paul Buerre. We're marking our arms with how many drinks we have tonight."
"Okay."
"Every 100ml from this nalgene is 1."
(Note: 50 ml is roughly 1 shot [a little more], so a 1/2 n' 1/2 nalgene is going to make each 100 ml 50 gin 50 tonic.")
We start marking. Leave the apt at 11ish. I'm powering through the nalgene, PB is behind.
Arriving at the east village finds the nalgene at 700ml. 1 for each of us. I'm up to 7. We get to a very crowded bar. Immediately leave for Hop Devil. I buy a beer for myself, PB and some random girl. I tip well, I'm hitting the nalgene for the rest of the night, so hopefully the bartender will still like me, I'm wearing a crown so I think he has to.
Here's where the night gets blurry.
During the course of the night I:
~Drink the rest of the nalgene
~Call a girl named Mary Beth, Mary Ann (I had met her before and actually knew her name)
~Scream at the bartender I know causing him to not serve me
~Insult people outside when I don't remember their names either (I met them recently and didn't know them)
Then I got a text message from a girl I met a few nights ago and insulted a whole lot because she had awful taste in music. We text back and forth
Her: (12:14) Boat?
Me: (12:14) Where?
Her: (12:16) Smith and warren
Me: (12:33) Seriously is thing awesome or shitty?
Her: (12:38) Boat is fun. It's a hike though so no problem drinking another time
Me: (1:37) I will drink with you for a million years
Her: (1:39) See, i drink all the time, so it's a match
Me: (1:40) I'll take you any time any place
Her: (1:41) Why, that's suggestive
Me: (1:43) I know
She stopped texting me at that point. In fairness, I do like suggesting things.
The night wasn't all that crazy from then on. Garden variety drinking. I was bombed and at 15 I got another beer, yelled at the bartender for not having anything less than $5.50 basically finished the nalgene and stumlbed home. Other people stayed and had fun.
Apparently, around this point I tried to find Paul Buerre. By calling his phone. At his house. In Rhode Island. Where his parents live. I am certain they were a bit put off by a blitzed friend of their son calling them at 3am and yelling about... something. I am something of a notorious drunk dialer... but oh man... oh man oh man oh man...
Back at home I walked through my roomates room when he was apparently with a girl (so did everyone else in the apt). When I woke up I went for water and found Paul Buerre shirtless and unconscious on the futon with a roomate of mine he had not met on the other futon. Oh Buerre...
Then we went to a diner and came up with the idea that we're better than Hemingway. Which we are. Or will be once I get a better story than this.
Boston...
So, my daily routine for the last month has been:
1. Crawl out of bed around noon.
2. Go jerk around (though not off, cause I'm using the roomie's computer) on the internet.
3. Look for a job? Though pretty much continue jerking around on the internet.
4. When five rolls around and I still don't have a job, open the jug of Carlo.
5. Rinse. Repeat. Drink.
I will note that my plan is usually to have one glass (coffee mug) of Carlo. Often times I hit five, realize I'm drunk and noone around me is with me, and go to bed.
1. Crawl out of bed around noon.
2. Go jerk around (though not off, cause I'm using the roomie's computer) on the internet.
3. Look for a job? Though pretty much continue jerking around on the internet.
4. When five rolls around and I still don't have a job, open the jug of Carlo.
5. Rinse. Repeat. Drink.
I will note that my plan is usually to have one glass (coffee mug) of Carlo. Often times I hit five, realize I'm drunk and noone around me is with me, and go to bed.
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