Halloween Past (Part 3)

We stood there, the three of us, just staring at the six large teenagers walking towards us. I can only imagine that from an outsider’s perspective we must have looked like three kids who suddenly looked into the face of Medusa and were immediately turned into statues.

            It was Finn who broke our silence “Fuck, what are we going to do?” was all he said.

            “I aint giving up my bag to them fuckers.” Fish answered.

            “We gotta run.” Was all I managed to reply.                 

            “Hey, retards! Don’t you go anywhere! You gotta pay your candy tax!” one of the six yelled at us.

            “Tell you what,” Fish said, “You two run faster than I do and I’m a better fighter, so, take my bag and head down Karl street.” Then he handed me his pillowcase.

            “Nah Fish, you aint taking a beating for us. Let’s just drop one bag and all take off.” I said.

            “Screw that,” Finn said, “We follow Fish’s plan. We’ll meet up in my garage. They know about the rafters so if we get away, they won’t look at my house.”

            “Yeah, but then they’ll be pissed off and kick our ass’s later.” I said.

            “Not if I have anything to say about it.” Fish said and that’s when we heard a sharp click.

            I looked towards the sound and saw Fish had pulled out a switchblade and was holding the gleaming steel in his right hand. The street lights reflected off the polished surface. When I looked at Fish’s face I saw the crazy eyes he was famous for.

            “Fish, you don’t want to end up in Juvie. Shit.” I said.

            “I aint gonna kill them. Hell, I probably won’t even cut them, but they don’t know that. Now run fuckers.”

            Finn and I turned and ran.

            “Where the fuck are you going? Get back here!” one of the Nine Hundred Six yelled.

            We ignored the order and kept running.

            “Get them!” was the response.

            As Finn and I rounded the corner from Libel street onto Karl street I glanced back to where Fish was. He was standing tall, waving his knife around and in front of him three of the Nine Hundred Six stood with their hands in the air. The other three were in pursuit of Finn and I.

            “Shit, we got three bogies.” I said to Finn.

            “Fuck them. We run faster.” He said and started to pull away from me.

            The sound of our candy sloshing around along with the coins in our bags drowned out the sounds of the older bullies yelling for us to stop. I could hear Finn trying to tell me something but I couldn’t understand him. I tried to speed up but carrying two bags of candy and money was slowing me down.

            As we passed the large evergreen that was in the yard of the first house on Karl Street I saw there were still some kids walking along the street in costume. The kids were smaller and there were only a few adults with them. As we passed by them, Finn screamed something unintelligible to me and then we were gone.

            Halfway down Karl, when we should have cut into the back yard of the house at 600, which shared a fence with my back yard Finn dodged to the left. Towards 601 on the wrong side of the street. I followed.

            Once in the back yard of 601 Karl, Finn scurried to the back of the tool shed and stopped. He knelt down and tried to catch his breath. “What the hell are we doing? We’re supposed to go to your garage?” I said through heavy gasps.

            “Bags… slowing down… stash ‘em.” Finn muttered.

            I nodded and looked around, there was a couple of bushes near the shed and I quickly stuffed mine and Fish’s bags behind them. Finn followed suit.

            We heard our pursuer’s shouts and we peaked around the corner of the shed. They were standing between the houses. One of them was holding his side, another had his hand on his head and seemed to be crying. “Come on out you bunch of pansies! Come get your ass whooping!”

            We ducked back behind the shed “What do you want to do?” I asked.

            “Double back. They don’t know where we are, so we go back for Fish.”

            “Sounds good. Jump the fence and head up the back yards?” I said pointing to the fence not five feet from us.

            Finn nodded. “Just give me another second to catch my breath.”

            We didn’t get to wait as long as we would have liked, our three bullies started yelling and searching the back yard. We quickly shimmied the fence and ended up in the backyard of a house on Karl Drive. Neither of us knew who lived there and to tell the truth, we didn’t care.

            “Skip, aint this where that girl Laura lives?” Finn asked.

            Why the hell did Finn do that? I asked myself. Bringing up Laura. Ugh, as if I didn’t have enough shit on my mind right then. “No, man, she lives closer to the East River and on the other side of the street. Now shut up about her. Let’s go.”

            We headed towards Libel through the backyards. We were two houses from Libel when Finn started talking again. “So we got a plan? Or do we just blaze in there and rumble like the Sharks versus the Jets?” he said referring to West Side Story. The movie he and I had watched at least a half a dozen times over the past year. It seemed the local UHF station had gotten rights to it and decided to run it at least once a month to try and get ratings. Also, after school or on rainy days in the summer, we’d just make popcorn and watch the television. The afternoon movie theatre was usually a western, a kung fu film, a bad horror movie, but then they started showing West Side Story. Finn was addicted to it. I was bored with it, except for Riff. I liked his character.

            “No plan, but with only three of them, Fish with his knife and you and I show up, we may just win.” I said.

            “Yeah, one day we’re going to kick all their asses. I can’t wait for that day.”

            “I’d be happy if they just moved.” I said as we got to the sidewalk on Libel.

            We both turned towards Karl Street and saw Fish standing on the corner with two larger forms and on the ground were three squirming bodies. “What the hell?” Finn asked.

            “No clue, but let’s go find out.” I said and started jogging. Finn followed.

            As we got closer to Fish and company, we realized the two teens standing with him were the Jamrog twins. The bodies on the ground, squirming, crying and moaning in pain, they were three of the Nine Hundred Six.

            “What the hell happened?” Finn asked as we slowed to a walk.

            “The twins showed up.” Fish answered with a shit eating grin.

            “Yeah, we’ve been wanting to get a piece of these jerks for a while.” Dennis said. He was apparently the older of the two twins.

            “Yeah, hard to believe they’re related to the Sandovals.” Glenn said as he kicked one of the squirming bullies in the stomach.

            “Where are the other three?” Fish asked.

            “Last time we saw them, they were halfway down Karl in the backyard of one of the houses.” I said.

            “Where are the bags?” Fish asked.

            “Stashed them in some bushed behind a shed.” Finn answered.

            “Well, let’s go get them. No need to hang out here.” Fish said as he closed his knife and slipped it into his pocket.

            “Uh, guys, what about the other three?” I asked.

            “Don’t worry, Glenn and I will go with you guys. They aint gonna mess with you no more.”

            “Cool, thanks. Finn said.

            Twenty minutes later all five of us were crowded into the rafters of my garage, Dennis and Glenn were offered anything they wanted from our candy supply. They declined and quickly pulled out some Marlboro’s and lit up and started talking about girls.

            The three of us, Fish, Finn and myself, separated candy, divided it all up and counted the change.

            In the end, we all got what we wanted and spent the night eating as much sugar as we could handle and we learned that while running from a fight is smart, it’s much smarter to have friends who are older and bigger than the bullies who terrorize you.

            I know, not an earth shattering revelation, but as an up and coming teenager who is out wandering the mean streets of your town, it is a vital survival tactic.

            Happy Halloween.

Halloween Past (Part 2)

It didn’t take the three of us long to make our first rounds through the neighborhood. Simply because we split up. Fish would take the left side of a street, I’d take the right and Finn would scout the block over. We’d meet up at the intersection, compare notes and figure out which houses to avoid on our second and hopefully third trips.

            The scouting trip covered six square blocks and took an hour of daylight to go through. When we finished, we met at my garage and dumped our pillow cases in the rafter fort of my garage. We sat around staring at all the sugary goodness that awaited our eager and watering mouths.

            “Shit, I see a lot of dum dum’s, taffy and bubble gum.” Fish said as he poked his hand into his pile sending the candy scattering into Finn’s and my piles. When he pulled his hand out he was holding not one, not two but three Chick Track Cartoon books. “Ugh, fuck, I can’t believe that old man gave me these.” He said and tossed them to the side.

            I looked down at my pile, I spied the corner of an orange wrapper, the one piece of candy I’d been looking forward to getting since I’d stepped off the porch of 605 Karl Street. A nice man had seen my costume, gave out a laugh, reached down into his candy bowl and pulled out a Reese’s peanut butter cup two pack. He then put his hands above his head and said “Well partner, don’t shoot and I’ll give you this here peanut butter cup.”

            I smiled and said “Much obliged you willy varmit.” And opened my pillow case. He promptly dropped the candy into my bag and I left. But I remembered the house. After all, we were on a scouting mission.

            “Skip, whatchoo got there?” Fish asked.

            I help up the Reeses and smiled. “605 Karl street, we all need to go there.”

            Within the next ten minutes a slew of information was conveyed by the three of us to each other. We spat out addresses and what they were giving out as quick as we could. When we finished, we swapped masks, and headed out.

            The second looting took much less time. After all, there were really only a dozen houses to go to within the neighborhood and by the time we’d finished our first round and went back to the houses in different masks our sacks were half full of large candy bars and even some loose change. It seems one generous couple ran out of candy and decided instead of turning off their porch light, they would just drop whatever lose change they had in a large bowl by their front door. We went to that place six times.

            When the man looked down at Fish, whose mask was cracked and only covering half his face said “Hey, haven’t you already been here?”

            Fish looked the man right in the eyes and said “Nah, we walked from Webster Ave, but my twin brother was by earlier.” Then he smiled the biggest shit eating grin I’d ever seen and opened up his pillow case and offered it up to the man. I swear I could hear money jingling as he did this.

            When we got to the street Finn punched Fish in the arm and said “Man, you have got the biggest pair of balls of anyone.”

            We all laughed.

            As we walked toward my house, I looked up to the sky, it was dark and I could see pin pricks of light from the distant stars. “Guys, it’s getting late. Hell, most of the porch lights are off and I think we’ve done pretty good. Wanna head to the rafters?” The rafters is what we called the fort in my garage.

            “Sure Skip.” Fish said, besides, I don’t think we will get much more tonight anyway. Say, you remember those Chick Track books?”

            Yeah, the old man in the nine hundred block of Memory gave them to you. I think I got a few myself, but not from him.”

            “You remember where?”

            I nodded and gave him the addresses.

            “Good. Cause we didn’t get any treats so it’s almost trick time.” He said with a malicious grin.

            As we walked down Libel street, caught up in our own conversations of which candy we’d eat first, which candy was destined for the trash or our younger siblings, which excluded Finn since he was an only child, he usually gave his unwanted candy to his mom or left it in a bowl on the coffee table. Which we’d end up eating over the course of a few months, we didn’t really notice that some of the bullies from the nine hundred block were headed towards us.

            Now, I should mention that the nine hundred block of Memory Avenue in Green Bay, Wisconsin in the mid-1970’s was run by six teenage boys from three different families. Each one as dangerous and mean as a trapped snake. They were so vicious in        fact that Finn and I eventually refused to go to the bus stop down at the intersection and opted instead to jog the two miles to and from school. Rain, shine, snow or just brutal Wisconsin cold.

            We hated those guys. So much so we just called them the Nine Hundred Six. These cats smoked, in the open for all the parents to see them. And, on occasion, they were known to purloin beers and just sit on the corner and drink them out in the open as well. If they saw something they wanted, they took it. If you even looked at them wrong, you were the subject of endless noogies, half nelsons and full nelsons. If you really pissed them off, they’d gang up on you and beat the living hell out of you.

            We hated them. But out of all of us, it was Fish that hated them the most. Probably because he was the one who stood up to them the most and was on the receiving end of most of their abuse. Finn and I usually ran. After all, we both ran a sub five minute mile and very few people could keep up with that speed. Fish couldn’t run for shit. He could run his mouth, but his legs, well, they just couldn’t move fast enough. During the long summer days, when we’d hang out at the baseball fields and play pick-up games, he’d hit a ball into left field and would still be thrown out at first base. He was just slow. But, he was quick witted and had a sharp tongue and always carried a knife. Which inspired Finn and I to do the same.

            We were between Karl Street and Memory Ave when the Nine Hundred Six came around the corner and saw us. When they started shouting, we froze in our tracks.

            To Be Continued.

            Have a great week and a Happy Halloween.

Halloween Past (Part 1)

In the mid 1970’s, in Green Bay, Wisconsin, me and my pals always looked forward to this time of the year. Sure, school was in and our warm, care-free summer days were gone but, the Packers were practicing and football was the talk of the town. But underneath all the sports talk and evening pick-up games of two on two or four on four, we would plan our trick or treating route through our neighborhoods.

            Me being the local paperboy, I was continuously pumped for information as to which house tipped when they paid and which houses were behind on their payments for their daily dose of local news. I believe it was my long-time pal Fish, otherwise known as Al Minnow, who started the questioning and when asked why he wanted to know who was paid in full and tipped and who was behind, he simply answered “Well, if they are paid up to date and can tip then they have money to buy good candy, if they aren’t paid to date, then they will have the cheap candy. We’ll only go to the houses who’ve paid in full. And we’ll ignore the late payers.”

            We all nodded in agreement. After all, it made a ton of sense to our almost teenage ears.

            Two weeks before the fall looting and pillaging of the streets of Green Bay, we would sit around in our fort, or on the curb and discuss which costumes we’d wear. It was Finn, Jimmie Finnegan, who came up with the idea that we should all make sure our masks would be large enough to fit each one of us and that we should all wear at least two sweatshirts or t-shirts depending on the weather and make sure we each carried extra pillowcases in our pockets. You see kids, back in those days, no one ever spent money on a candy bucket in the shape of cheap plastic jack-o-lanterns. Nope we used either paper shopping bags or pillowcases.

            Pillowcases were better, if you dropped it, it would not break and spill your candy all over the street or someone’s sidewalk. And, pillowcases carried more loot, in volume and weight than a paper bag.

            On the great day of free candy we always met at my house. Well, that is to say, between my house and Finn’s house since he lived next door to me and Fish lived about a half mile away. You see, after school let out, Fish would ride his bike home as fast as he could and Finn and I, who usually walked to school together, pretty much ran to our houses.

            Finn went to his house to change, and I bolted into my room to get ready. Since the day was warm, I put on two t-shirts, one had a cowboy on a horse and the other was just plain white but had dark blue trim on the neck and sleeves. I remember thinking I should wear one of my Packer t-shirts but I thought better of it. What if one of the candy givers made a comment about my love for the team and I was forced to talk? What if they were giving out good candy, like snickers or Hershey bars? And when we went back they remembered the shirt except this time I was wearing Fish or Finn’s mask? We’d be busted. Nope, go with something people would likely forget and move on.

            I took my pillowcase off my pillow, it was a bit grungy, hadn’t been washed in a week, nut it was pale blue and didn’t really smell, I stuffed it in my pocket, went to the laundry closet and grabbed a fresh white one to start the night off. Then I headed out to Finn’s house.

            He beat me to my own back door, he was wearing a tan t-shirt and I could see the sleeves of another t-shirt sticking out from under the tan sleeves, his plastic mask dangled around his neck as he came in our back door. “Skip, you ready?”

            “Yeah, I was just heading over to get you. You got everything?”

            “Yup, two cases, two t-shirts and a sweet tooth ready for some candy.”

            “Cool, seen Fish?”

            “Nope, but he’ll be here soon. Hey, aint you forgetting something?”

            “Where’s your mask?”

            I smiled, reached into my right front pocket and pulled it out. It was a Lone Ranger eye mask. I’d tried to talk my mom into buying me one from the store, but she insisted she could make one cheaper from all the cloth lying around the house. You see, out of the three of us, I believe my family was the one in the worst financial straits. Which meant a lot of my jeans had home-made patches on them, I had a lot of thrift store shirts and hand me down shoes. I never really thought much about it then. Now, it is an interesting look back at my childhood.

            My mom, true to her word made the mask and it was black and it fit great.  She even made it large enough for my pals to wear. I dangled the mask in front of Finn and he just looked at it as if it were a wash rag that needed to be thrown away.

            “What the hell is that?”

            “It’s a bandit mask, like the Lone Ranger. My mom made it for me.” I said a bit defensively.

            “I thought we agreed on full face covering masks? What if someone recognizes you? What if we get busted going to the same houses again and again?”

            “I thought about that, look, when I wear it, they might notice my hair or my mouth, when you wear it you have different hair. Same goes for Fish, we all look different. And, this way we don’t have to worry about big kids trying to snatch our bags. I can see better in this than those full face plastic masks.”

            Finn turned his back to me, pulled his mask up and turned around with both thumbs in the air. “Ayyye! Ritchie, tell Al to bring me a cheeseburger!” he said in his best Fonzi voice. He was wearing the “Ben Cooper” Fonzi mask. I laughed.

            “Nice! Your mom got you the “Ben Cooper” costume! Nice!”

            You see, the “Ben Cooper” costumes were the best ones in our eyes. They always had a decent shirt or jumpsuit and the masks looked almost realistic. We all wanted them. It seems most of my friends always had them. However, in my case, I only had the opportunity to get one in my brief stint as a 1970’s kid. That was the “Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man”. I thought it was a great costume. My pals, not so much. But that is another story for another time.

            Finn pulled the mask off his face “Let me see your mask.” He said with his hand out. I handed it over.

            A minute later he was wearing it and dodging imaginary bullets from behind our kitchen table. “You’re right, I can see better with this than the Fonzi mask. Okay, but whoever is wearing it has to keep a look out for the teenagers.”

            Which is when Fish showed up. “Finn, what the hell are you wearing?” was all he said from the landing to my back door.

            “It’s a bandit masks. Skip’s mom made it. It’s pretty cool. And I can see better than with my Fonzi mask. What are you going as?”

            Fish pulled his mask up and let out a loud roar from inside his Frankenstien mask. “Fire Bad!” he added in a low guttural tone.

            Fish and I busted up laughing.

            After a few minute Fish punched us both in our arms. “You two finished, we’re losing daylight.”

            To be continued...

            Have a great week.

Vagabond Planet

Almost twenty years ago Astrophysicists discovered something called “Vagabond Planets”.  These are planets that have been flung out into space that don’t really orbit a star or other large body in the galaxy. They are just sitting there in space all alone, no other mass around it. No one living on it. No real orbit to speak of. It’s just floating all alone in space. This is a pretty cool phenomenon to me. Just being alone. Nothing to bother you. No one pulling you one way or another. You just sit there, existing.

            When I heard about these galactic hermits I immediately liked them. Given, I knew nothing about them and the scientists that discovered them don’t know much about them either. They just know they exist. Which is cool. They are like a giant mystery that we can’t really solve. Sure, we can beam all sorts of rays at them and see what they may be made of but they can never really know what they are or how they got there. Sure, they can speculate but to know exactly what caused them to be flung out of their past orbit into the great void to live its life alone and floating through time on its own course is a bit of an enigma.

            Maybe I like them because they are alone, they have nothing but themselves for company and they are dependent upon nothing for their existence. They are just there. Which is cool to me.

            You see, I am by nature, a person who likes to be alone. I like solitude and being alone with the maniac that lives inside of my mind. I enjoy sorting through my thoughts and figuring out who I am. Why I said what I said in certain situation. Why I acted the way I did in front of people. Not all of these thoughts are pleasant, not all of my answers are positive. No, instead, I spend a good portion of my time beating myself up for past mistakes and trying to figure out how to not make those mistakes in the future.

            Of course, I’m not alone I have a wife, I have a daughter, a family so to speak. I have brothers, sisters, parents, cousins, aunts and uncles. My life is filled with people who tug and pull on my life in many different ways. Just as you do. Just as our planets tug and pull on each other. But you know, the most demands in my life come from my daughter.

            Children will tug and pull on your life like no other force in creation. In my case, it has been an honor and pleasure. Tomorrow my child turns seventeen. Since her inception she has been a constant source of joy and wonderment in my life. Through all of her ups and downs. Her daily and weekly passions that fade as quickly as they arise, through her crushes, loves and heartbreaks and through her continuous daily life, she has struggled, succeeded and grown in ways that amaze me.

            She is far more mature and ready for life than I was at her age. Probably more mature than I am at this age. She has a focus that would put a trained sniper to shame and a vision for her future that most people never have and never will.

            Her attitude when faced with obstacles and adversarial conflict is one of determination and pragmatism. Through all of her experiences she keeps a good attitude, wit and sarcasm that speak to her upbringing and how she sees the world.

            Her self-reliance and dignity are two traits that I know will help her make the right decisions in pretty much every situation she will be faced with. Not to mention, at her age, that of a teenager who should be rebelling against her parents, her teachers and the status quo of the world is pretty much non-existent. I’ve no idea how she became so well rounded, so accepting of others or even how she became so passionate about equality and justice for everyone.

            I believe that she is the one force in my life that has had more impact on my life than any other force. From the second I found out I was going to be a father, to those fleeting moments when I held her on the day she came into the world to those wonderful hugs I get from her every day, I have been pulled into the solar system of her life simply by being her father. I am honored to be her dad and even more honored to be recognized as her father by others.

            My dream of being a vagabond planet, a hermit so to speak will never come to fruition, simply because the strongest force in my life is my own child. I love you Goose and I hope you have an awesome birthday.

            Have a great week.

The Persistence and Perseverance of Freddie

I’ve never been a cat person. I’ve always had dogs, snakes or birds as pets. I was never interested in cats nor did I even like cats. Truth be told, there was only one cat I ever cared for. His name was Tripps, he belonged to a pal of mine named Dominick. A guy I met while taking some college math courses. He was having trouble so I tutored him. Through that tutoring process, he and I became friends. When he had to go away for a while, I watched his cat.

             Tripps was not your ordinary cat. He was a rescue cat. Apparently he’d been abused and something in his little brain got messed up and he couldn’t walk straight, and had no depth perception whatsoever. He was always banging his head into walls, and if he tried to jump off a piece of furniture, he’d either land on his head or his back. At first it was funny, but then it just became sad. So, I helped take care of the little bugger. He was cool. He was loving and he never tried to be mean to anyone or anything. He was also happy to see you when you came home. Like a puppy. So, we bonded.

            And that was the last cat I had any relationship with.

            Until Freddie.

            It was a little more than a year ago when my life was threatened and I had to take a restraining order out on a person. It was a scary time for me and my family. When the incident happened I was home alone and my family was at a church function.

            After the hostile person left, I called over a pal of mine to wait with me on my porch. He brought his own firearms and I had mine as we sat on my porch talking about what had happened and try to figure out if this person was actually crazy enough to come back.

            That’s when Freddie showed up.

            He’s a black cat with little white marks on his chest and stomach. I don’t know why I call the cat a he, or why I even started to call him Freddie. For all I know Freddie could be a girl. But, I being a male, I see most androgynous creatures as male. And before you go and get all “Toxic Masculinity” on me, ask yourself whether or not you do the same thing.

            Freddie hung out all night, even after my buddy left and my family was home. He sat on my porch, primarily on the welcome mat and when I woke up in the morning, came downstairs and opened my front door. He looked up at me as if to say “Don’t worry man, I got this.”

            It was pretty cool.

            Over the course of the next few months Freddie would show up randomly. As if he were checking on my health, my being or maybe he was just looking for some treats. I never had any. I should also mention, when I first met him, he didn’t have a collar on, then one day, he did. So I assumed he belonged to someone in the neighborhood.

            Then one day, he didn’t have a collar.

            It was quite startling that night. It’s dark on my porch at night. I don’t like to have the light on, it attracts too many bugs. Normally, I’d hear Freddie approach because his collar had a bell on it.

            As I sat there, in my black beach chair, legs stretched out and my face alight with the glow of the screen, something bumped against my legs and scared the living hell out of me. I kicked out my legs at the offending touch and heard the cry of the cats painful wail. I turned my flashlight app on my phone on and saw Freddie sitting a few feet looking at me. The pain on his face hurt me to my core. Then he turned his back on me and walked down the steps into the darkness.

            The next day I went to the store and bought some catnip treats as an apology to him. I didn’t know if he’d ever come back. After all, I have no clue as to the memory of cats with the exception of Tripps. And he could barely remember how to stop walking when came to a wall.

            Three nights after purchasing the treats I was on my porch typing away and I felt the familiar rub on my legs. This time I didn’t kick. Instead, I opened the bag of treats, poured a handful onto the porch and watched as Freddie gobbled them up.

            Looking back, that was the moment Freddie adopted me into his family. We’ve even settled into a routine. Most days, he is sitting on my porch in the morning when I walk out the door for work. I scratch behind his ears, tell him he’s a good cat and to safeguard the house. At night, when I get home, he wanders between my ankles rubbing up against them, begging for treats and attention. I go inside, put away my riding gear, grab a cigar and my laptop and go out to my chair and spend time with him.

I’ve expanded his eating habits to food and not just treats, he seems to like the food I buy, it’s in a can and I try to get different flavors for him and he’ll spend an hour just nibbling on the food at my feet. Then, when he wants something crunchy, he stands up and lets me scratch behind his ears for a bit then he starts swiping his paws at my arm and looking at the treat bag. Since I’m a big softy, I get the bag, open it and try to pour some out into my hand all the while he is trying to grab the open bag and dump it onto the porch.

He’s quite adamant about wanting to eat the whole bag. Maybe I should let him. Nah, that would most likely make him sick and I don’t want a sick cat on my porch. Then again, I can’t imagine anyone who would.

 I guess what I’m getting at is this; while all my life I’ve never liked or really wanted a particular animal or even person in my life, sometimes, situations and persistence will change your views. After all, Freddie somehow wheedled his way into my life, I wonder if there will be a human like that sometime in the future?

Have a great week.

Waiter Worries

Seventeen years ago, when my wife got pregnant, I took on a part time job as a waiter. The owner hired me even though I had zero experience as a waiter or even in a kitchen. That is if you discount the ninety days in the U.S. Navy when I worked in vegetable preparation and assisted with the “Jack of the Dust”.

            But, she hired me and I went straight to work. I had a trainer for my first two shifts and then I was cut lose on my own to take orders and bring food to tables. Basically, I became a delivery boy for good food at a good price. To be truthful, the food is great and the price is more than reasonable.

            It didn’t take me long before I started recognizing the regular customers and building a regular customer base myself. Also; it didn’t take me long to discover the unspoken fact of waiting tables… All waiters know who tips well and who doesn’t. We all struggle to give the same quality service to the known shitty tippers as we do the good tippers.

            Where does all this information come into play… standby.

            It was maybe three or four years ago when a teacher from a local university located across the river from where I live and wait tables, let’s call her Bessie, came into the restaurant and I had the pleasure of waiting on her. I gave her the best service I could, made sure she had plenty of sweet tea, her drink of choice, and that her food was served hot and the way she wanted. Her check wasn’t large, but she left no tip. I didn’t think much of it. I’d been stiffed before and I’m sure I’d be stiffed again. It’s not uncommon for this sort of thing to happen but as a waiter, you quickly become immune to that sort of behavior. It is something you learn to not take personal.

            Besides, if you take that sort of behavior personally or if your skin doesn’t thicken up, then you are doomed to spend many hours on some therapists couch questioning yourself and how others view you. To be truthful, after Bessie left, I hoped she’d never come back. If she didn’t like her food, which a waiter has no control over, or if she thought I didn’t give her good service, then why would she come back? Good question, I know.

            However, two weeks later, she darkened our doorstep again and I waited on her again, and, I got stiffed again. To be honest, when I was waiting on her, I thought, fuck it, I’m not going to give her good service. But that sort of behavior is not in me. I can’t hold a grudge. I wish I could but I can’t.

            When she left, I once again hoped she would never come back.

            But she did.

            Only this time, she brought a woman who I assumed was her daughter, a woman I’ll call, Tameka.

            Tameka had a baby boy with her. Both women ate, the baby made a mess of some crackers on and off the table. They also made a huge mess with their appetizer, ordered extra napkins, ordered extra sauces, extra napkins, extra silverware, extra drink glasses, extra plates, extra napkins, extra bread, extra butter, extra napkins and well, anything and everything they could order extra of.

            The next time they came in, there was a young girl with them, maybe eight, maybe nine. They ordered her a child’s meal. Now, to be honest, our children’s menu is for kid’s age six and under. However; we sometimes make an exception. Once again, they wanted extra everything, we in the food service industry call this “Being Run”. The table of these women and one toddler boy basically wanted me to stand by their table and get anything and everything they want or think they need all the while ignoring my other customers. Also, they don’t want to pay me for my service.

            Which brings me to a conclusion of my first encounter with Bessie, if she didn’t like the food, she wouldn’t have kept coming. If she didn’t like my service, she would have requested a different waiter. No, her continued patronage of our restaurant and her lack of tipping told me one of two things, either she didn’t know how to tip, or she knew she was supposed to tip but was just cheap. I believe now, she is just cheap.

            Which brings me to tonight.

            She came in with her niece, who is now fourteen years old. I know this because I overheard her tell another table I was waiting on the child’s age. This is of course after Bessie told me the girl was only twelve and would be ordering off the child’s menu. When I told her that the cut off for the child’s menu was six, she looked at me like I was a slug.

            When Tameka arrived, she ordered a kids meal for her young son who is four maybe five. She ordered for herself the same meal her mother ordered. The twelve/fourteen year old wanted a kid’s meal. I couldn’t sell her one. Why? Because one of the owners had told me not to. Also, how many times do you have to cater to someone before it becomes abuse? Whether in the service industry or in life itself?

            Now, I feel it is in my best interest to say that I am not the only waiter to have waited on Bessie and Tamika over the years. No, they are well known in our restaurant and I assume in most restaurants they frequent. I’m also pretty sure that most servers don’t care for them. After all, how can you like someone who doesn’t tip or if they do, it is always just a couple bucks on a check that when the math is done should be in the double digits? It’s difficult to say the least. And when the owners or managers discover this fact, they lose any and all respect for the customer. I can’t say I blame them. After all, if someone treats an employee badly, how can you respect them?

            Needless to say, Bessie and Tamika didn’t like the fact that they had to pay full price for a meal for a fourteen year old, or that they were charged for everything extra they asked for, except for the napkins. They also, on this occasion split the check. Between the four of them, they drank two soda pops, nine glasses of tea and one glass of apple juice. I made sure I was as attentive as I could be and when they complained about the price of the food or the portion size of the food, I informed them I was just a waiter, that I had no control over portions or how the food was prepared.

            They were quite unhappy. Especially when the bills were placed in front of them.

            They paid, they complained, they left.

            I didn’t expect a tip. I never do with them.

            I wasn’t disappointed.

            And this is where things get interesting.

            Two of my other tables had witnessed everything these women had done to me and heard every question they had posted to me. They also heard all my answers. One table, a couple and regulars to boot, started to question me about Bessie and Tamika. I just put on my best fake smile and nodded or shook my head to answer their questions.

            Which is when the man lowered his voice, placed his hand on my left forearm and said “You can tell us.”

            Which I did. I told them a bit of the history of the table, when they come in, what they order and how they don’t tip or on the rare occasions they do, the it is a mere pittance of what they should be tipping. The woman laughed a bit and then said “Bessie said “God Bless You. To me. Yet she treats waiters like garbage? That makes no sense.”

            I just smiled and nodded. After all, what else could I do?

            When I dropped the check off to them the woman touched my right arm and said “I’m going to tip you what they should have tipped you. How much was their bill?”

            I shook my head “No, you don’t have to do that. It is not your place to do that.”

            “I want to. Besides, you have no control over what you should be tipped. Now, how much was their bill? Thirty? Forty?”

            “I can’t tell you what their bill was.”

            “Forty it is.” She said as she pulled out her wallet and placed a pile of money in the bill holder.

            Then they got up and left.

            When I delivered the check to the other table that had been sitting near Tamika and Bessie, the man just smiled at me, nodded and said “I heard what that table did to you.”

            “Don’t worry about it Sir. Happens all the time.”

            “It shouldn’t.” he said. The woman seated across from him nodded in affirmation.

            He picked up the check, pulled out a wad of cash and said “No change. Have a great night.”

            I took the money. After all, what else could I do? It’s not like I could chase them down and hand them their change that they didn’t want. That would be awkward to say the least.

            To wrap the night up, the owners both expressed opinions that they hoped customers like Bessie and Tamika would never return. After all, what sort of precedent does it set for customers and waiters alike when they get treated like garbage by those depending on them for their sustenance?

            After all, what does it really say about a person when they treat not just strangers like trash but strangers they are asking to do things for them like trash?

            It tells me they are small minded and have no real respect for their fellow humans. That they think they are the most important person in the world and that their own hubris will undoubtedly be their downfall.

            Which is why I always try to be as nice as I can be when I meet new people. It’s when I begin to know a person when I become a jerk to them. So, if I’ve ever been a jerk to you, it’s because I know you and like you.

            Have a great week. And don’t forget to be nice to the people who bring you things

Ad Hoc Restart

My phone rang, well, it vibrated, and I couldn’t answer the small electronic device. I was at my part time gig, serving food to customers and the general rule is “Never answer your phone as a waiter during shift.” I let the maddening, vibrating piece of plastic continue on its persistent journey to fruitlessness. After all, if it were an important call the person on the other end would leave a message.

            Moments later I locked myself in the bathroom, dug the phone out of my pocket and checked the number of the missed call. There was no name, no blocked caller, just a bunch of digits I didn’t recognize. Also, the little red 1 was flashing above the message icon. I clicked on the icon, put the phone to my ear and it was one of the board members of the theatre company informing me that we were in fact going to open and perform on the already scheduled dates. However; since we had missed over two weeks of rehearsal, we were not going to do the play. Nope, instead we would be doing readings of the Bard’s sonnets or specific monologues which we could pick out ourselves. Lastly; if we were comfortable, we could perform scenes from “The Merry Wives of Windsor” if we wished.

            This has all transpired in the past week. Our opening is tomorrow. Most of us can’t make it simply because we all told our respected boss’s that we were available to work and our boss’s put us right back on their schedules.

            We have four performances the company has commuted too and there may be five people performing on any given day. So we went from a cast of fifteen and a full production to a hodge-podge, rag tag troupe of performers trying to memorize sonnets and monologues.

            I am only available for two of these performances and instead of volunteering to do a monologue or sonnet, I am sticking to what I know. My character and what I’ve memorized and practiced. When I talked to the other actors in the scenes I wanted to do, they agreed.

            Tonight, we practiced those scenes. Then a bomb was dropped on me. The board member who is doing all this work said she had several modern pop songs that were rewritten in the voice of the “Bard”. I looked over the list and found one I wanted to do. I snatched the paper and began reading it aloud on stage in the parameter of Ol’ Bill.

            I loved it, but I didn’t finish it.

            I stopped cold in the second stanza before the chorus and put the paper back down on the stage and stepped away. I didn’t do this out of fear or nervousness. No, I did this because I knew that in the end, when all was said and done, I would be asked to do more. Because I felt the passion flowing through my veins as the words flowed from my mouth and I felt the adolescent excitement of joy coursing through my body.

            That is one of my fears, my foibles, and my “step on the brakes” points in life. Maybe you’ve experienced it, or maybe not. I don’t know and I can’t speak for you.

            You see, as my spouse told me not so long ago “Your greatest fear is becoming a success. Of having people look up to you and you being who you are, are afraid of letting them down.” Which is true. I don’t seek out the spotlight. I do like performing and I like the process of creating but I don’t like the accolades or attention. Never had, and I don’t think I ever will. That sort of things makes me uncomfortable and I always feel like I’ll say something stupid. Which I really shouldn’t worry about since I say stupid stuff all the time.

            Sometimes I do it just to get a person’s reaction and judge what type of person they are and where they will fit in my life. When I do this, most people fail and we part ways amicably. No harm, no foul. Just a parting of ways by people who are not compatible. Yet, when I do meet like-minded folks whose tender feelings aren’t bruised or abused by my off-handed comments or actions, we get along like long lost brothers and sisters. It’s a good feeling.

            But, I digress.

            The fact is, while I like being creative, I don’t like all the craziness that may come with success. Not that I will ever be successful. Or, that I am all that talented. No, I just like to have some fun at what interests me or helps me become a better person. Personally, not professionally.

            Some have accused me of arrogant humility maybe that is true, maybe not. All I know is that I have heard plenty of horror stories of success and its trappings that I really don’t want any part of it. Well, that’s not true, to be honest, I’d like to have some of the money the “successful” folks have. Hell, to just pick up the phone as it rings and say “Sure, I’ll be there for 10 grand.” Is quite liberating. But is it worth it?

            I don’t know. And I don’t know if I want to find out.

            After all, what is a person’s privacy worth?

            A ten thousand dollar appearance fee? Five thousand? A million?

            We all have our price, I know we do. I know I do. But what is the fallout? The collateral damage we have to pay? I’ve no clue.

            Until then though, I’ll stick to being who and what I am. I’ll be the “Bottom Feeder” that Mr. Joe Landsdale so eloquently called me. He didn’t say it in anger, rudeness or out of spite or just to be mean. No, he used it as a simple description of how he saw me and many others like me. I will wear that label as a badge of honor. Especially in a couple of days when I’m donning my fat suit, my fifteenth century trousers and overcoat to perform on stage. I’ll also wear that title with distinction in a couple of weeks when I stand in front of an audience and read aloud to them one of my own original stories.

            After all, learning theatrical skills can only help one improve themselves when they are standing in front of a bunch of strangers and telling an original story. Right? After all, William Shakespeare did say “All the world is a stage and all the men and women are merely players; they have their exits and entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his act being seven stages. At first the infant mewling and puking in the nurses arms.”

            Have a great week.