The Dog That Ruined My LifeAnd Other Stories From the Road.

By Joe Guse

2 Crown Publishing, Copyright 2007

Introduction
Growing up we all accumulate our share of funny stories. I can remember as a teenager, standing in my backyard looking longingly into the sky and wondering if anything was ever going to happen to me. Now looking back, I realize things were happening to me, but it was just that I was too wrapped up in my own angst to understand. A couple of the stories in this book are about my early life with my family, and took place in these same years I was sure nothing happened. Looking back I would love to return to that time and place of my youth, as it has now become a rich tapestry of funny memories and stories.

Sometimes it just takes time and reflection to come to understand that you dont recognize the most significant moments of your life when they are happening.

3 So it was after High School when I took to the road, desperately wanting to make something happen in my life, and some of those things are included in this book. My travels took me to 5 of our National parks, where I worked as a busboy, waiter, bartender, and pretty much every job in between. I can remember at one point vividly standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon when I was 22, again gazing longingly into the summer sky, wondering why the hell I was working as a waiter when I should be in school learning something. Again I had failed to recognize that while I was sure nothing was happening to me, significant and life-shaping experiences were occurring all the time, but that again, in the midst of my own angst, I had failed to recognize this. In writing this book, I have therefore attempted to acknowledge and appreciate some of these

experiences, and take a moment to celebreate some of the great characters from my past. If there is a personal

4 lesson to be learned here, it is to take notice in the here and now of the hysterical events and marvelous characters that constantly exist all around us. My life has certainly taught me that these events and people are all too real. Now, when I feel that old familiar angst, I remind myself to take a look around and observe the world. More often than not I find that there is always something and someone worth paying attention to.

The Dog That Ruined My Life

The dog followed me home when I was in 6th grade and I should have known it was a bad omen when he bit my hand when I attempted to pet him for the first time. He looked harmless enough and resembled a million other run of the mill Bengi-looking mutts around the world, but looks can be deceiving, and this dog eventually became the bane of my existence. After he bit me I took an almost immediate dislike towards him, but my sister and brothers liked him, so I uneasily accepted having to share a home with this scraggly-looking mongrel. Things went bad almost immediately. The dog showed no aptitude towards being housebroken, and a particular favorite activity became urinating on my clothes which were normally piled in a corner in the room I shared with my brothers. Strangely the dog chose only my clothing for this

6 activity, and the rest of the family found this process adorable and therefore made no special efforts to assist in training him to urinate and defecate outside. Aside from his digestive habits, the dog also showed amazing virility and sexual prowess, and would sleep with any dog no matter how big or small, and also showed no ability to discriminate between male and female dogs for his sexual conquests. I should make clear that I was not opposed to homosexuality per se, but, in the eyes of the other kids in the neighborhood, my dogs homosexuality also reflected directly on my own, and soon, through no fault of my own, I was called faggot by the other kids based solely on the fact that my dog had such an overactive libido. On one particularly memorable occasion my dog impregnated a purebred German Shepard down the street, (the logistics of this escaped me) and I was presented with a bill for an abortion by a particularly

7 snooty neighbor. This put me in an awkward position, as I disliked both the neighbor and the dog, and therefore did not want to get personally involved in the situation. In the end I paid for his sins anyway though, as my mom insisted I walk the dog on a leash on a daily basis so he could get his daily dose of fresh air without siring any more potentially Bisexual heirs. These walks upset me very much, as they extended my time with the dog by nearly an hour a day, and simply walking with my gay dog opened me to even more stinging commentary by the various bullies around the neighborhood. Because of this I would often deliberately leave the neighborhood, and on one such occasion I hatched a plan. After getting a couple of miles from my house I saw a place with a monstrous backyard that appeared to be a kind of makeshift shelter for wayward animals, and what better candidate could there be than my own hated animal. I quickly took his identification tags off

8 and tied him to a nearby tree, thinking this would be the end of my time with this beastly creature, but again I was sadly mistaken. The first night following the incident I slept like a baby, dreaming peacefully of living without urinesoaked clothes and regular beatings suffered for having a bisexual dog. Soon my peace was disrupted however, as my mother, who had grown rather fond of the dog, organized a massive sweep of the neighborhood complete with signs and door-to door searches to bring the hated beast to his rightful home. We even took a family vote on offering a reward, (I was the lone neigh vote) and soon my allowance was 25 dollars lighter as a result of this decision. I did my best to steer these searches away from the neighborhood I had abandoned him at, but eventually my mothers diligence paid off, and she received a call one day describing her adorable family pet. My mother made me accompany her to pick the dog up, and when

9 we got close to the house I felt like a criminal who was forced to return to the scene of the crime. When the owner of the shelter explained to my mom that she found the dog tied to a tree, she immediately cast an accusatory gaze my way, and, although I denied my involvement profusely, it was clear she strongly suspected me. The ride home was especially uncomfortable, as I was forced to sit in the back while the dog got to ride in the spacious and comfortable front seat. On the way home my mom stopped at McDonalds, and I was forced to eat a dreaded filet-o-fish, while my dog sat in the front seat enjoying a cheeseburger and fries my mom had purchased for him as a treat for having been found. On the ride I swore I saw the dog look back at me and smile, and I looked away and thought to myself, youve won this round while disgustingly choking down my crusty fried fish.

10 After that my relationship with my dog, which was already miserable, worsened considerably. Now in addition to urinating on my clothing, the dog began leaving little piles of shit on my possessions, including my bed, and I was virtually powerless to retaliate with the cloud of suspicion that hung over my head following the missing dog incident. The following summer a near miracle occurred, and, against all odds I had attracted the interest of one of the neighborhood lolitas in spite of my less than stellar reputation as a loverboy. She was a year younger than me, but already miles ahead in experience and street-smarts, and soon our relationship progressed to the next level. After much negotiation and discussion and despite my intense fear and agitation, we agreed that we would consummate our relationship in my backyard on Friday of the following week. Looking back this was not the most romantic of choices, but at the age of 15 these

11 things are not a strong priority. Prior to the big event my anxiety continued to increase, and, despite my anticipation I was utterly terrified when the big day finally arrived. My date, however, was not so scared, as she had considerably more experience in these matters than I had. With a great deal of fumbling around and her gentle guidance we did eventually begin to do it correctly however, and the huge significance of the event began to occur to me. I had done it! I was having sex! And these thoughts continued to flood my mind, until I was brought crashing back down to earth by a rather unpleasant odor, and soon a horrible realization began to occur to me. I looked down at my white teeshirt and saw it was covered by several long, flowing stains of dog feces, and then I knew it was true. I had just had my first sexual experience in a steaming hot pile of dog shit, and as this awful truth came over me, I looked into my bedroom window and saw two small

12 paws on the windowsill. Looking up I saw my dog looking out at me, and again I saw the familiar smirking smile I had began to hate so much. He had won. He had beaten me, and I slowly nodded my head towards the window to acknowledge his victory, and as I did the shade closed, and my dog drifted off to what Im sure was a very pleasant nights sleep.

My Brother Eats Diseased Fish

13 Every family has a member who is considered the Black sheep. Unfortunately my family consisted of only Black Sheep, but even amongst this wayward flock, my brother Ricky stood out. He was a year younger than me, and, although we fought often as brothers are prone to do, we were like-minded in many ways, and over the years formed a kind of unusual bond. One summer after his first year of college, Ricky had returned to our hometown to live, and because he chose to find his own place, we didnt see much of each other. Therefore I was taken by surprise when I was driving around town one day and in a scene reminiscent of The Andy Griffith Show saw him walking down the street whistling happily to himself while holding an enormous fish that was slung over his shoulder. Several things puzzled me about this scene, the first being that there was no fishing pole in site, and as I did

14 a quick U-Turn in my car to investigate the situation, I was startled to see that the fish he was carrying had clearly been dead for some time. Before continuing I should mention that we lived very close to a Nuclear power plant that routinely emptied waste materials into the nearby Colombia River. Needless to say this had an adverse affect on the fish, and in particular the fish my brother was now holding. As I got closer I saw the fish was missing an eye, and had large green growths coming out of the socket where the eye used to hang. There were several visible open sores on the body of the fish, and it was clear to me from looking at this creature that it had not, in fact died of natural causes. To say that I was puzzled would be an understatement. Surely he didnt intend to eat this animal? When I inquired further my worst fears were nonetheless confirmed, and he informed me that he did indeed intend to barbecue the fish that very evening,

15 and that I was welcome to come by for the party. Further probing clarified the story even further. He had apparently been walking on the shore of the river, to, in his words, clear his head when he stumbled across the gold mine that he now carried in his hands. Not believing this incredible stroke of fortune, he quickly swept the fish up, and raced home to indulge in a feast, and that brought us up to the point where our paths had crossed. Several options crossed my mind upon hearing this story, but first and foremost it was clear that I couldnt let him actually eat what was left of this diseased seacreature. With this in mind I opened my wallet and saw I had seven lonely dollars in there, but this was money I was happy to relinquish if it would say my brother from the repercussions of going through with his planned barbecue. When I first told him to give me the fish an immediate look of hurt and disappointment flashed

16 across his face. He couldnt understand my disgust, and so when I reluctantly offered my seven dollars in exchange for the fish, I also explained how eating this thing would most likely make him violently ill, and possibly even kill him. He dismissed this as paranoia, and, although I heard him mumble the word pussy softly under his breath, he reluctantly took my money and handed over the gnarled animal. Although I was loathe to touch the fish, I knew I had to get rid of it so know one else would have to come in contact with it. With that in mind I took it, and with a running start hurled it over a fence into a weeded area where it looked like no one had been for quite some time. As the fish hit the ground it kicked up a flash of dirt, and its other eyeball rolled slowly out of its head. Resisting a gag, I felt satisfied with the exchange, and drove off, telling my brother it was good to see him and that we would get together soon.

17 Although I would like to say that was the end of the story, it unfortunately wasnt. I had driven no more than a half block down the street when I turned and looked in my rearview mirror and saw something I hadnt expected. There was brother shimmying his way up the fence, jumping over to retrieve his glorious find. 7 dollars richer and happy that Gods good fortune had smiled on him on such a wonderful afternoon.

Dirty Dishes in the Bathtub

18 Miraculously my brother survived eating the diseased fish, but after that we took a little break from each other, so when he called me up and invited me to live with him where he attending college, I knew it might not be the best idea. Still, living at home was an equally unattractive option, and so, with great trepidation I packed up my old Volkswagen bus and made the trip to live with my crazy brother. Arriving at his home, I saw that had decorated his walls with beer boxes, and this made for a most unusual dcor. All the same it was a new adventure, and seeing as I was now a guest in his home, I really had little room to complain. We settled into an easy routine, drinking beer, playing pool, and sitting on is couch talking about how we should probably get jobs, but these discussions never seem to produce too many results, and time continued to pass. With no parental supervision, and no dishwasher or shower in the house, hygiene began to become an

19 issue. Not wanting to take baths and not having jobs to go to, we slowly began to forget about personal hygiene as the smell of cheap beer in the apartment continued to intensify. I finally had enough of the sweaty beer smell that was emitting off me however, and soon began to shower at the local YMCA where I played Basketball during the day with other shiftless types including several ex-cons, which was still preferable to bathing in our mold-infested facilities at home. Aside from personal hygiene, general cleanliness around the house had also fallen by the wayside, and as our humble abode came without a dishwasher, dishes soon began to pile sky high in the sink. At first this was amusing as the Jenga tower in the sink continued to rise, but soon there simply became no way to stack the dishes any higher, and the pile began to take on a life of its own as it expanded beyond the boundaries of the sink.

20 This was a problem insomuch as neither of us wanted to do the dishes, but also having the pesky problem of needing utensils to eat off of. The dishes soon became a source of tension in the house, and we avoided eye contact while in the kitchen for fear of the 3,000 pound Gorilla in the room rearing its ugly head. Eventually we began to eat off of paper plates, but even that was a problem as the utensils needed to eat off the paper plates were often buried under the neverending pile of filth, and messing with the tower meant disputing the equilibrium that delicately balanced the dishes together. One day, after a heated game of basketball at the YMCA where I swore I heard one of the convicts mutter bitch in my direction as I got out of the shower, I knew things had to change. Although our house was old, it was still capable of being cleaned, and I realized as a guest in my brothers house it should be me that made the first move to rectify the

21 enormous problems that was growing in the sink. Like Joe Buck in the movie, Midnight Cowboy, I took a long look in the mirror, and knew what I had to do, and began the walk home determined to attack the horrific filth that was growing inside of our home. Before I describe the horror of what I saw that day, let me back up for just a moment. Although I had the luxury of the YMCA to shower in, my brother had no such outlet, and it was not implausible to think it might have been several weeks since he had properly cleaned himself. This fact would soon become highly apparent to me, but in the meantime I soldiered on bravely towards the house to meet my destiny. Upon arrival, I knew that something had changed. Somehow there had been a disturbance in the force of our humble home, but it took me a couple minutes to take stock and begin to comprehend what had happened. When I wandered into the kitchen and saw the tower had completely disappeared, I immediately

22 felt a pang of guilt realizing that my brother had taken it upon himself to do the unspeakable deed of cleaning the dishes. When I looked into the cupboard these feelings of guilt gave way to bewilderment however, as there did not appear to be a single dish in sight. Then, as this mystery continued to befuddle me, I heard a splash of water, and the horrible idea began to crystallize in my mind. It couldnt be, could it? I dismissed these thoughts form my mind, but when I heard a metallic clanging coming from the room next door, I knew, deep down in my heart of hearts what had happened, and the grim reality began to sink in. Opening the door to the bathroom, I knew what I was going to find, but still nothing could have prepared me for the sight I was about to see. There in the bathtub was my very filthy brother soaking in a pool of old food and dishes in the bathtub without a care in the world. He smiled at me smugly as he saw my face,

23 sure that I would be happy that he had taken such initiative, and killed two birds with one stone as he put it, but for once in my life I was truly beyond words. Seeing the little beans of chili and spaghetti noodles floating across the top of the tub, was too much, and slowly the bile began to warm in the corners of my mouth, and I went to the yard and violently retched at the horrific things I had witnessed. Its been many years since I lived in that apartment with my brother, but even now when I catch a whiff of cheap beer in a tavern, I think about that smell emitting from the bathtub and the sight I had seen that fateful day. Now a grown man, I still have a great deal of difficulty eating off unfamiliar dishes, as the memories of that day rush back into my mind and I feel that warm bile again rushing to the corners of my mouth. Often when Im at a cocktail party or some other social event, someone will tell me about a crazy

24 member of their family, and I simply smile and nod my head, but always my mind is elsewhere. Thinking about my brother and the bizarre drumbeat he marches to and the times we used to have.

The Funniest Day of My Life

He was about 50, but could have been much older or younger and it was really impossible to tell. His face had been scarred from years of heavy drinking, and most of the time his speech was unintelligible, so he couldnt even really tell you with any certainty how

25 old he was if you asked him. He had moments though when he said something truly funny, but often it was hard to tell if this was by design or not. He became known simply as Pappy to the kids he worked with, and he seemed satisfied to answer to that. I met Pappy when I was a waiter at the Grand Canyon and he was a stock clerk at the gift shop next door. I was 22 and in a very adventurous period of my life, and meeting people like Pappy was precisely the reason I had dropped out of school to see the world. When hed had enough to drink he would often start speaking clearly, and during these moments of clarity some very amusing anecdotes would pour from his lips like fine wine. He regaled us with stories of hanging out with Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead in the 60s, but also told us he had to quit hanging out with them because they were simply too lame. To hear him tell it he kept company with a great many celebrities in his time,

26 including the Rolling Stones, who he briefly worked security for back in the day, before the pussy Hells Angels butted in and ruined his close personal friendship with Mick Jagger. How Pappy and I came to go to Las Vegas together was an interesting story, and began with him getting suspended from his job as a stockboy. As the story was related to me, Pappy had called in sick that morning, and, sobering up and realizing he had a whole day to do nothing, promptly put on his patented corduroy smoking jacket and began drinking. There were several bars in the Grand Canyon area, and it would seem to be a logical decision not to drink at the bar adjoining the store you just called off to work from, but Pappy was not a man ruled by logic. He might even have gotten away with it if he hadnt felt a pang of remorse after half a dozen Jack and Cokes and gone in and starting stocking the shelves. In any case Pappy was suspended from work after knocking down several

27 items from the shelves, and found himself with another glorious week with which to enjoy his leisure time. As fortune would have it I also had the day off that day, and it was around noon when I encountered Pappy who was now loudly bragging about his suspension and talking of going to Vegas. What would possess a person to get into a car with someone like Pappy you might ask? Morbid curiosity? A lifetime of material? To this day I cant rightly say, but the fates had collided, and a half-hour later I was driving the pick-up truck of a deranged man en route to a city where a man like that could get into some truly serious trouble. I insisted on driving, Pappy being already highly inebriated and barely able to walk. An hour into the trip across the blazing hot Arizona desert I was glad I had made the journey. Pappy had told me about his affair with Janis Joplin, (she was getting too clingy), his time with the Doors, and many other experiences which I was quite sure had no basis in fact. We had

28 begun drinking beer, and Pappy, having already had at least a dozen drinks that morning, began insisting I pull over roughly every ten minutes or so. After the third such incident I refused, and Pappy began to pout and mumble out the window, which was nearly as amusing as having an actual conversation with him. When we pulled into a gas station I wandered into the store, and when I came back Pappy had befriended a muscular looking man who was drinking our beer and by the looks of it, already getting irritated with his new friend. Were going to give this Turkey a ride to Vegas, Pappy informed me, and, as it was his truck I really had no call to refuse. The seating arrangements were a different matter however, and when Paul tried to squeeze in next to Pappy, he promptly informed him that he aint no queer and insisted Paul get in the back of the pick-up. Paul did not take kindly to this, and immediately the

29 mood of our little threesome had begun to sour. Paul reluctantly got in the back, and we slid the window of the truck open so we all could chat. Paul, already angry at being banished to the back of the truck, and highly suspicious of Pappys stories, began muttering epitaphs under his breath as we continued to drive. Pappy, used to a captive audience, was not pleased with this, and announcing he wanted to take a little break from this Turkey, slowly slid the window shut, much to Pauls chagrin, and he was now casting a menacing stare at Pappy through the window. Pappy fell back into his storytelling rhythm as he consumed beer after beer, and soon we were back into a comfortable conversation. I would occasionally glance back at Paul, who was continuing to burn holes into the back of the oblivious Pappys head as he told tall tale after tall tale. As amused as I was at these stories, after several hours I had begun to think about the reality of spending a weekend with this strange

30 creature. Questions began to run through my mind like bullets; should I drop Pappy at a shelter? Was this even his car? In the midst of answering these questions I looked over and saw a truly horrific sight. I looked over and saw an image that will be indelibly etched into my mind forever. There, to my horror, was Pappys shriveled penis urinating into a 64 ounce cup that he had filled nearly to the brim. The next few moments happened very quickly, and looking back I dont remember what actually happened first. Paul, who had not taken his eyes off Pappy for a couple of hours, had anticipated the situation well before I had, and began frantically pounding on the window, shouting simply no! over and over again. I didnt get it until it was too late. For Pappy, who was unable or unwilling to understand that anything he threw out the window would directly affect Paul, had rolled down his window, and as he hoisted the cup full of piss, the terrible reality hit me. Paul, who was now

31 in a frenzy, began to cover his head, but it was too late. In a gesture of pure grace, Pappy hurled his jug of urine out the window, which of course instantly began to blow directly backwards. Paul looked like a soldier in a movie who had just been hit by a reign of the enemys bullets. As Pappys bucket of piss drenched him, he let out a guttural cry, that, much like the image of Pappys gnarled member, will also be forever burned into my head. Paul, who upon his recovery, wanted badly to pummel Pappy with every fiber of his very angry being, began beating on the back of the car, shouting pull this fucking car over now over and over while punching the glass at the front of the pickup. Pappy, whose nervous system was on a 5 second delay, did not understand what this Turkey was so upset about, and through a nearly unquenchable laughter I explained to him what he had just done. Pappy took a quick look back as if remembering Paul for the first

32 time, and upon seeing a beat red Paul pounding his fist into his hands, finally informed me nonchalantly that, He didnt think it would be such a good idea if we pull over right now. To this day I have never heard anything, anywhere, anytime, that brought me such a great deal of joy. It was the single best delivery of a line I had ever heard, and one that Ill never forget. Although the rest of the trip to Vegas was very eventful, (Pappy tried to convince the theatre manager that he was a friend of Wayne Newton), nothing could ever duplicate that ride. Shortly after our return to the Grand Canyon Pappy continued his wanton ways, and after we got back he was eventually fired for eating bottles of Jelly and then putting them back on the shelves. Although Pappy is almost certainly dead by now, he will always be immortal to me for that one fateful afternoon.

33

Dying Laughing (The Plane)

The title of this story implies something being so funny that a person laughs to extreme excess, but in this case it took on a nearly literal meaning, Although Pappy was not the most reliable tour guide to see Las Vegas with, visiting that city infected me with the bug to return and since Pappy had mysteriously disappeared I found myself with no reliable means of transportation to return.

34 Making some inquiries I found that the local airline at the Grand Canyon flew employees of the hotels to Vegas for 15 dollars on a space available basis, and soon I took full advantage of this promotion and hitched a ride whenever I got the chance. As anyone who has ever ridden on a small plane can attest, they can be quite terrifying, and I usually remedied this by having several Bloody Marys prior to takeoff. Although I didnt know it at the time, the particular airline I flew on had had two of their small planes crash over the years, and in retrospect I was very close to being on the third. So it was on one particularly fateful trip back from Vegas that this story picks up, where I had just won 1,000 dollars playing Blackjack but was now cutting it very close to making it back to work on time. There wasnt a cloud in the sky in Vegas, and it was a balmy 103 degrees as I hurriedly readied myself to return to work.

35 Lining up to board the plane I saw that there were six Japanese tourists in line in front of me, and one utterly terrified looking man pacing back and forth talking to himself and muttering foul language under his breath. Although he looked very disturbed, I chalked it up to a case of nerves, and patiently waited for my turn at the ticket window with the rest of my fellow travelers. As the line continued to move a man of about 22 in an airline uniform came and introduced himself as the pilot, and asked me if I wanted to sit in the co-pilots seat with him, as the plane only held 8 seats and 7 of them had already been filled. I looked him up and down carefully? This was the pilot? Did he go through a two-week certificate program to get his license? I tried not to be too judgmental however, and firmly took his hand and told him Id love to sit up front with him on the way back, as he seemed a much better conversational option than

36 the Japanese tourists and the now nearly green man I had spotted pacing around before. As we boarded the plane I noticed the terrified man had taken the seat directly behind the pilot, which in a plane that size meant I was extremely close to him. I stifled a laugh to myself when I heard him mutter Holy Fucking Jesus under his breath, and looked over at the pilot who was also hiding a grin. Despite his young age he seemed like he knew his way around the controls, and I slowly relaxed and settled in for the 4 hour flight which I knew would go by rather quickly. As we took off the Japanese tourists applauded as the pilot hoisted the plane into the air, which seemed kind of weird but something I also found pretty amusing. The chorus of Holy Fucking Jesus coming from behind the pilot was getting slightly louder now however, and the Japanese had also taken notice of the man, and were now talking amongst themselves in their native tongue about this strange man, and

37 although they were concerned, they settled into an easy patter as the man continued to grip his hands together in prayer. The first hour of the flight was very smooth sailing, and, although the man was still terrified, he slowly leaned up to the pilot and asked in the highest pitched whimper you could imagine, How much longer do we have. The tone conveyed such a pleading for reassurance and sympathy that it was hard to continue to laugh at the man, and when the pilot told him 3 more hours his face became twisted into the most pathetic ball, that the only real emotion you could feel for him was pity. I looked over at the pilot and he rolled his eyes, emanating the world-weary wisdom his 6 months of flying had undoubtedly taught him. 45 minutes later the plane felt like it had been hit by a thunderbolt and quite unexpectedly the whole plane shook so hard that people were nearly thrown out

38 of their seats. Although I was quite concerned in my own right, I couldnt help but sneak a glance back to the man behind me, who now had a single tear rolling down his cheek, as he turned a new shade of green. For the first time the pilot also looked concerned, but he had enough poise to get on the radio and explain that how on particularly hot and humid days, changes in the air pressure could cause turbulence which affected these smaller planes much more than the big jets. HOLY, FUCKING, JESUS was however the only response he got in exchange for this announcement, and the man behind him took the opportunity to deposit the contents of his lunch into his barf bag, which he filled to capacity in a series of awful guttural retching noises. I couldnt help but laugh now, despite the seriousness of the situation around me, as I looked back and all of the Japanese had simultaneously

39 stopped talking and were now silently looking at their feet. It was clear from their behavior that they now perceived the man as a threat, and looking at his terrified face and overflowing barf bag I wasnt so sure they were wrong. I took this opportunity to check in with my friend the pilot, and saw that he too had assumed another level of concentration as the plane continued to shake and rattle as we moved slowly towards out destination. Without warning a very loud boom shook the sky, and I looked out the window and saw lightning, literally, right outside my window. It began to pour rain, as if on cue, and I looked back and the chorus of Holy Fucking Jesus had resumed, this time in a pitch so high it might have resembled a dog whistle as he continued to repeat this mantra over and over. I looked back at my Japanese friends and saw that they too were now fearful of this recent turn of events. They began speaking in hushed tones, and it looked to

40 me if they were debating if death would come at the hands of the weather or at the hands of our fellow traveler, who, as I looked had now grabbed the pilot by the back of the neck as he tried to continue to steer the plane. Holy Fucking Jesus, how much longer he repeated several times, and the pilot looked at me as if to suggest it may come down to me physically restraining this man as he continued to yell in absolute panic. I realize your scared sir, the pilot tried to say as calmly as possible, but our friend was no longer in his seat as he ran down the isle collecting the barf bags from the seat pockets of the Japanese, who now covered their faces in terror. Is this how Im going to die? I wondered to myself. If so its pretty fucking funny, I thought, and one day, if I do survive Im going to tell this story.

41 But in the meantime the weather was getting worse, and I watched the pilots shaking hands again grab the microphone, Were going to be going down a few hundred feat folks to avoid this turbulence, he announced, but the only words my friend heard were were going down and he soon emitted another high-pitched squeal as he simultaneously filled up yet another barf bag. I suppose the appropriate emotion in a circumstance like this would have been fear, or perhaps dread, or a sense of pending doom, but all I could do personally was laugh, and I mean from the stomach laugh. I looked over at the pilot, who between stifling a laugh of his own raised a finger to his mouth to shush me, wise beyond his 22 years and sure, I think that laughing was not the correct solution in dealing with this increasingly deranged man. As the plane descended the lightening continued to roar outside the plane, and now the wind had picked up

42 significantly, and between filling up barf bags our friend had now curled up into the fetal position and continued to pray to his holy fucking Jesus as we continued into the night. When one particularly strong gust of wind turned the plane nearly sideways, I really did think I was going to die, but philosophically was grateful I had at least experienced such a funny demise. My friend the pilot righted the ship however, and, although he was now clearly terrified himself, he had managed to steer us into clearer weather and for a few minutes the plane maintained a perfectly smooth equilibrium. I took this opportunity to look back and get a little state of the union on the inhabitants in the back of the plane, and saw that for the first time in at least an hour the Japanese had lifted their heads, and seemed to be considering that they may in fact survive this ordeal.

43 My friend however was now openly weeping, and I listened intently and noticed he was now bargaining with his lord, and making a number of promises to live a better life, if Sweet Fucking Jesus would just see him through this experience. Miraculously the weather did eventually pass us, and for the first time everyones body language began to loosen as we collectively took stock of our predicament. It looked as if our pilot had heroically gotten us through this exorcise, and now, just one hour from the Grand Canyon, it seemed that we would indeed live to tell this tale. But it was not that simple. About a half-hour from the Grand Canyon, I saw my friends hand again seize the back of the pilots neck, and this time the pilot, who had regained his composure, now yelled firmly Please do not touch me sir

44 My friend immediately retracted his hand however, and began slowly blubbering again as he again in his high-pitched squeal asked the pilot, Sir, how much longer? he asked, but before the pilot had a chance to answer he continued on his own blubbery way, Because the thing is, a, Im most afraid during the landing, so if I happen to get loud, please dont hate me sir. He said, and it was truly amazing he was able to get this many words out, as he slowly curled up again in a ball. And so with this new warning, the pilot again shot me a glance to let me know we werent quite out of the woods just yet, and moments later I could tell it was with great trepidation that he announced that we would soon be making our final decent into the tiny Grand Canyon airport. This news invigorated the man, and like an old friend, the chorus of Holy Fucking Jesus began

45 again, this time in an even higher and more desperate tone that conveyed he was absolutely certain that he was in fact about to die. So as we crept closer the cries got louder and louder, and soon the mans mantra was echoing in my own head as we sank down into the night. During the final moments he got out of his seat, and once again the Japanese winced in horror, sure now that this man would attack the pilot at the last moment and crash our tiny plane into the ground. This crossed my mind as well, and I unbuckled my seatbelt and prepared for this possibility although my gut instincts told me that the man would not actually physically attack the pilot. HOLY FUCKING JESUS, HOLY FIUCKING JESUS, HOLY FUCKING JESUS, the man was now yelling at the top of his lungs, and again, although it was highly inappropriate, I began to laugh. As the pilot touched the plane down to the ground, the

46 Japanese, having rallied together in solidarity, again erupted in thunderous applause as the pilot touched the plane to the ground. As we taxied towards the gate I looked over and smiled at the pilot, who smiled back as he gave me a knowing glance. When the doors to the plane were finally opened I looked back towards my friend, who was now leaping out the door, leaving his bag behind and sprinting into the night, screaming one more Holy Fucking Jesus as he went. He continued to run into a field, and into the darkness, and as far as I know was never seen or heard from again. Looking over at the pilot I pulled a flask of Jack Daniels out of my bag and asked him what was what on my mind. Just how close did we come to dying? He looked at me while taking the flask from my hand and taking a big swig of whiskey to calm his nerves. Very fucking close, he replied,

47 Very fucking close, and as he took a swig and handed it to me we both began to laugh at the utter absurdity we had just experienced. We sat that for quite some time laughing like that, and the next time I returned to the airport and inquired about his whereabouts I was told he had chosen to seek another career path. Later I would always wonder about those two men. One who had saved my life and another who had shown me what pure, unadulterated terror looked like up close and personally. At the time I went back to work and chalked it up to just another funny story to tell, but now looking back I realize my life had almost certainly been spared that evening by some force more powerful than myself. Years later, in the presence of my always cantankerous grandfather who had just been told one of his friends had died, I heard the term Holy fucking Jesus again, and the memory of that day rolled back into my mind like a favorite horror movie.

48 To this day that term has special meaning for me, and in moments of true shock and surprise, Ill

occasionally utter Holy Fucking Jesus aloud in memory of my friends that fateful evening.

The Worlds Worst Waiter

Many of the most adventuresome college students take to the road during their formative years, and I was no exception. During one such summer in my 3rd or 4th sophomore year I took to the wilds of Montana, and while there I met undoubtedly and unequivocally the

49 worlds worst waiter, who also happened to be my roommate, an Irish kid by the name of Wendell. Many people think waiting tables is an easy way to make a few extra dollars for the summer, and for those with a fair amount of organizational skills, this is the truth. Wendell not only had no such organizational skills, but he also had a very short temper, and, as if this wasnt enough, he was also prone to panic attacks. Wendell was not without his charms however, and one of his favorite pastimes was putting a cigarette in the mouth of the large Moose who hung over the dining room in all of his splendor. Although this was a small and somewhat insignificant gesture, this was Wendells little way of sticking it to the man that summer, and seeing the Moose with the cigarette in his mouth never failed to enrage the task-oriented manager. Most waiters who have any kind of experience will become comfortable serving roughly four tables at the

50 same time, but for Wendell this number was closer to two, and even this made him extremely nervous and uncomfortable. When things got particularly stressful Wendell would turn beat red, begin sweating profusely, and often go into a pure state of panic over even the slightest of difficulties. Despite his limitations as a waiter, Wendell became very upset when tables complained about him, and would often take his revenge by a measure known as crop dusting which consisted of passing gas near a particularly difficult table, and then letting the dust settle as he went to the back and congratulated himself on his accomplishment. As the summer progressed and the restaurant got busier and busier, Wendell continued to fall out of favor with the manager, as he continued to place the cigarette in the Mooses mouth, (often getting up in the middle of the night to do this), and generally showing a

51 daily inability to put even the slightest effort into improving himself as a waiter. One particularly heated conversation occurred when a large group of elderly tourists had visited the restaurant, and as usual Wendell was nowhere to be found. In a fit of absolute fury the manager scoured the Lodge looking for her wayward waiter, when she stepped into the lobby and saw a most unusual site. There was Wendell, driving an elderly womans electric wheelchair around the lobby, circling in and out of tourists in his waiters uniform while his tables in the dining room got more and more impatient. This did not obviously go over well, and the manager punished Wendell by giving him even more tables the next night, which was a situation that would come back to haunt her. As fortune would have it I was also working the night of Wendells punishment, and on this particular night he was particularly agitated as he fell further and

52 further behind. Wendell made several blunders that night, including spilling a bowl of soup down an old ladys back, bringing people their salads after they were half way through with their meals, and serving an 8 year old boy a glass of scotch when he brought him a Rob Roy instead of a Roy Rogers, which was the childrens drink that the boy had ordered. So it was in a highly agitated state that Wendell and I crossed paths that evening, and a small explanation is needed to fully understand the incident that occured that evening. In a fine dining restaurant, the food is covered by a lid to keep the heat in and balance the entrees, and this, on that fateful night, was Wendells undoing. This particular night happened to be the Fourth of July, which in the summer in Montana is the absolute height of tourist season. As luck would have it I happened to be working directly next to Wendell that evening, and had been summoned over several times by one particularly impatient table that

53 was absolutely furious with the quality of their service that particular evening. So when Wendell grabbed me and pleaded with me in an extremely high-pitched voice to, Dude, pleeeeeasssse bring the food out to that table!! I felt it was the right thing to do to help my buddy out. But then I had another thought, and told Wendell I would bring his food out to the table with the hot lids on them, but it was up to him to actually pass the food out once I set it down. Wendell thanked me profusely and proceeded to take a couple of panicked laps around the dining room as he was prone to do, and when I set his covered food down at a trey stand near his already furious table, I knew I would have to get out of there quickly. I heard the words, about fucking time as I quickly walked off, and Wendell, in a pure panic reply back, better late than never.

54 Seconds later I heard the single loudest most blood curdling cry of

FUUUUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I had ever heard echo loudly through the dining room, and I knew my prank had succeeded. As Wendell had lifted up the plates that covered his food, a single cherry rested at the center of each plate, and this was the straw that truly broke Wendells back. His scream carried through the dining room, into the lodge, out to the picnic area, and lasted for a count of at least ten seconds before Wendell sprinted out of the room, a man possessed with such pure unadulterated panic and frustration that he went springing towards the lake outside, where he proceeded to bury his head in the water, much to the horrified chagrin of the children who were playing nearby. The entire dining room fell into a stunned silence, and it seemed an eternity before the first brave table begin to quietly make small talk

55 following this incident. Wendell and I would go on to have many adventures that summer, but it was that moment that I most remember as I look back onto that glorious Montana summer.

Incarceration
On one occasion I had the misfortune of being arrested. I was 24, and this story ends in a bathroom outside of a San Francisco gas station, but before you jump to conclusions, I urge you to read on.

56 That winter was a fateful one for me, as I had done very little in the way of work, had landed back home after several cruel turns of fate, and passed my time playing Nintendo and drinking beer with the other shiftless characters in my hometown. One afternoon I received a fateful call from an ex-girlfriend who Id never really gotten over and who invited me to come to Georgia for a visit, which was a bit of logistical problem considering I was over 3,000 miles away in Washington State. Still, I was undaunted, and as I packed my 72 Karma Ghia up for the long ride, I felt like Jack Kerouac about to tackle the road for a great adventure. I had nearly 4,000 dollars to my name, which I thought at the time was all the money in the world, and with my spirits high I took off. The trip down was relatively uneventful save for a short, unexpected detour into Mexico (I was terrible at reading maps) which was in retrospect the beginning of the end. I

57 spent three days down there drinking bathtub tequila and trying to communicate with the locals, (I spoke no Spanish) and I was therefore three days behind where I said I would be, which seemed to greatly aggravate my increasingly impatient ex-girlfriend. When I finally arrived in Georgia, things were therefore pretty tense, and quickly went from bad to worse. On my first night there I saw her making out with another guy at a bar we went to, and although I had no claims on her virtue, it seemed like it might have been relevant to mention this prior to sending me on a 3,000 mile wild gooses chase. With this in mind, I turned my car back around, and headed home, this time detouring into New Orleans which quickly depleted my rapidly dwindling stash of 4,000 down to less than 1,000, and, calculating that I still had to get back across the country, I left that wonderful city three weeks later with nothing to show for it but a very large collection of Hurricane glasses.

58 Now 1,000 dollars, budgeted correctly was still plenty of money to get back home, except for the very large problem that Las Vegas lay squarely between me and where I had to go. Looking back I remember trying desperately to pull my car away from veering into Vegas, but alas, the force was too strong, and 6 hours later my stash of 1,000 dollars was now 400 dollars, still plenty of money to make it home with my tail between my legs and my pride all but annihilated, but I knew my mom would take me back in, (again) and I could regroup and eventually figure something out. When I cruised into San Francisco, my spirits were therefore once again intact, and seeing that beautiful city stretching out over the horizon, I figured it couldnt hurt to stop downtown and have a drink, which was a decision that I would seriously come to regret. It started out as one of the truly great afternoons of my life. It was one of those perfect San Francisco

59 spring days, and settling onto a patio in Nob Hill, I again felt it was a world of possibilities. And things only got better, when a beautiful older woman sat down at the table next to mine and almost immediately struck up a conversation. I looked her over very closely, and deciding she probably wasnt a prostitute, invited her over to my table, and soon we were involved in a wonderful conversation about travel, literature, and music, and for one shining moment it seemed for me the world had turned, but this feelings was also soon to pass. As day gave way to night, we moved from the patio to the inside of the bar, and, forgetting that I was down to my last 400 dollars, I began to celebrate my reversal of fortune by buying rounds of drink for the bar. A large part of me knew this was a very bad idea, but the large part of me that thought rarely won in those days, and soon I bought another round of drinks for the bar and then another.

60 From the title of this story you might have guessed that this didnt end well. When I finally got my tab for 375 dollars, I was having such a good time that I had completely forgotten the money I had blown in New Orleans and then Las Vegas, and looking up at the very wary bartender and my new expectant lady friend, and knew I was in a bit of a bind. Not thinking very clearly, I rolled a 100 dollar bill around a bunch of singles, which totaled 375 dollars even, (a tip was out of the question) and told my new girlfriend I had to run to my car and I would be back in just a second, but this was not to be. Getting back to my car the slow and horrible realization of what I had done began to occur to me, and rather than give it too much thought I drifted off to sleep in an alcoholic haze. When I heard a banging on the passenger side window and saw a rather large police man wrapping my car with a nightstick, I suddenly remembered an old trick I had heard that

61 throwing pennies in your mouth would kill the smell of alcohol. There were several things wrong with this plan. The first of these was that the officer could clearly see me doing this, but the second thing wrong proved to be far worse. Having shoved roughly 100 pennies in my mouth, I immediately swallowed several, and this was not a pleasant sensation. I began gagging uncontrollably, and soon a large white froth formed around my mouth, and to the onlooking police officer Im sure I looked like a raving lunatic. When the dust finally cleared and I got done explaining everything to him, he was clearly not satisfied, and soon I was in the back of a police car, en route to the San Francisco jail on a charge of public drunkenness. I had seen a great deal of prison movies in my life, and immediately sobered up and began to consider the potential implications of this latest course of developments. These thoughts were not necessarily helped by the fact we were in downtown San Francisco

62 and soon visions of gang rape and forced sodomy occupied my troubled mind. With this in mine I politely asked the officer what I had to look forward to, and he told me. A few hours and a small fine and youll be on your way, which to be were the sweetest words I could imagine. A few hours!! I could certainly do that. And then I remembered the small fine part of his statement and thought about the 25 dollars I had to my name. My cellmate was named George, and when he entered my darkly lit room and began shouting to himself, I was fairly sure I was in for a sleepless night. I had been informed by the officer that since I couldnt pay my fine and since it was a Friday that it would be at least Monday before I would actually see a judge and be released. Although George did eventually stop shouting that night, I didnt feel we would have a lot in common and therefore reserved the introductions until a later date. Later that night I felt an intense, sharp,

63 rumbling in my bowels and the horror of this bodily signal began to come over me. I was going to have to go in front of George, (and possibly others) and this was something my already worried mind couldnt accept. For three solid days I stayed huddled in that horrified fetal ball, and only rose for the obligatory meal times, which I barely touched, not wanting to generate any more possible waste products prior to my release. When that fateful Monday finally came I needed a bathroom so badly my stomach was in knots, but as fate would have it was so early nothing was open. I jumped in my car and began driving as quickly as possible in search of the nearest gas station, and when I finally did find one many miles north of the Golden gate bridge, it was in a rural area in a very dingy looking gas station. Getting the key from the suspicious looking manager was yet another hurdle, an,

64 after buying 3 bags of cashews to earn my passage, he reluctantly passed it over. Entering the bathroom, I saw that it was possibly the single dirtiest facility I had ever seen, and the stall in fact had no door, (the same setup as the jail incidentally) but to me it truly didnt mater, and I ran towards the stall in anticipation of my ultimate relief. But I had made a fatal mistake by not locking the door behind me, and this was a decision that would haunt me forever. Seconds after I had sat down, I heard someone grasping for the doorknob, but it was too late, as soon the bathroom was filled with an entire family of migrant workers, including women, children, grandmothers, etc. who all simultaneously entered the bathroom to use the sink and the rest of the facilities as I sat there in stunned silence. Torn between holding my stomach for three days and needing to go to the bathroom worse than I ever had in my life, and the sheer humiliation and embarrassment of watching this

65 entire family stand not 4 feet away from me go through their rituals. Nature gave way however, and soon I began to emit some of the foulest and awful noises and smells I had ever produced, and the family took pause and looked at each other in uncomfortable silence as if I was the one who had barged in on them. They looked at me and one of them muttered "mui loco gringo" as he finished washing his face, insulted that I had dared to interrupt his morning ritual. Slowly they began to filter out of the bathroom, but the damage had been done. The last shred of pride and dignity I had left had been stripped from me and soon I began to weep at the horror of what I had just experienced. The tears eventually gave way to laughter however, and soon, I was back on the road on my way home. 23 dollars in my pocket and an embarrassing story that I was quite sure I could never top.

66

Skynard
My last summer working in the National Parks was kind of anti-climatic. Now pushing into my late twenties, I had seen and done a lot, and felt it might be time to think about putting together a new game plan. My last summer at Jackson Hole was spent at a lodge in the middle of the Grand Teton Mountain Range.

67 Jackson Hole Wyoming is one of those unique summer towns in the Western United States with a truly odd mix of people. On one hand women with small dogs in mink coats stroll through the shops mindlessly spending money on useless trinkets, and on the other locals in cowboy boots and 10 gallon hats ruled the night, drinking cheap beer and line dancing into the wee hours of the morning. I had very little in common with either group, and in fact had had multiple run ins with representatives from each. I actually made my debut as a comic that summer in Jackson Hole, where my obscure literary references, rapid speech, and odd appearance was met with reactions from confused looks to outright booing. So it was with my hopes for being a performer temporarily dashed that I returned to work as a bartender that summer, thinking that perhaps I could take up a career in small engine repair or perhaps

68 become a legal secretary like the adds on TV promised I could in just a few short weeks. Late that summer the owner of the lodge, a 60ish man with a penchant for throwing around money and chasing teenage girls, (I admired him a great deal), made a major announcement. He mentioned a few friends of his from the music business would be coming to the lodge to record an album, and that a few of us would be chosen to take care of them and see that they had everything they needed. Looking at this towering redneck of a man in cowboy boots and wranglers, I couldnt imagine what kind of friends he might have in the music business, but, as you may have guessed from the title of this story, it was in fact none other than the legendary Lynard Skynard. To back up a second, I was very familiar with this band, and had actually thoroughly enjoyed Sweet Home Alabama a great deal as a teenager, until I found

69 from a friend of mine that the lyrics may contain some racial overtones. Researching this a bit, I found I

agreed with him, and soon denounced the band as rednecks as I moved on to more sophisticated bands like the Beatles. They were certainly rednecks. Even still I volunteered to be one of the people attending to the band that week, and soon I found myself nearly carrying the drunken base player up the stairs, as he yelled out mama and continued to swig Vodka out of a cheap plastic bottle. It was then I knew it was going to be an interesting week, and I vowed to get to know these guys as much as possible as I was sure many adventures lay ahead. I was the only guy that had been assigned to the band, and my fellow helpers were a number of pretty girls handpicked by the owner to ominously take care of the band that week, and I knew that this would also provide some interesting developments.

70 Soon this dynamic greatly upset my personal applecart. I was one of the only guys working at the lodge that summer, and because we were somewhat isolated on the mountain, many of the girls begrudgingly hooked up with me as there was often, literally, no other options. So when a band of famous rock stars came breezing into town, suddenly I clearly became door #2. This was familiar ground for me, and was something I took as a matter of course for all of the girls except for one. This particular girl was the kind of young, sweet, innocent thing that was just gullible enough to believe the things I said, and immediately I knew she was a keeper. We had gotten to know each other late that summer, when she announced to her parents she was taking some time off from school, a concept that I was also quite familiar with. For her it was different however, as she was a Mormon girl from a small town in Utah, who truly

71 came to Jackson Hole to sow some wild oats and test the waters of an alternate reality. My life was nothing but alternate reality, and I was more than happy to introduce her to this side of life, but soon when she was introduced to the band I knew immediately her wild eyes were now seeing farther than me. The band truly was a grizzly looking bunch. In addition to the band itself, several roadies followed close behind, and my thoughts immediately harkened back to the terrifying men at carnivals my mom had told me were known as Carnies. Once I had seen an aunt of mine kissing one of these guys, and this category of man became a scary remembrance of my youth. Even amongst the band itself years of hard drinking and drugs had certainly taken its toll. Could they even still perform, I wondered? But soon I was startled to realize they actually sounded great, and we settled into an uneasy relationship.

72 The service positions the band required were little things like running up to the lodge for more Whiskey, and these positions were quickly filled by all of the young and pretty girls. By process of elimination I therefore became a roadie, the culmination of a lifes dream. What was worse was I was to report to the head roadie, the very man who had made me revisit the traumatic Carny memory from my youth. He was a very selfimportant man, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy lecturing me on the cost and usage of each individual piece of equipment. I disliked him immediately, but helped him load the instruments in and out of the studio as he continued to lecture me about the fine points of the music business. That night in the bar, the base player Leon who I had carried up the stairs, was again clutching his Vodka bottle, and attempting to hold a conversation with a group of socialites who undoubtedly thought he

73 was some kind of mountain man that came down from the hills. I gently ushered him away from the women when he spied a piano and I witnessed an amazing thing. This man, who could literally not spit out a sentence, sat down at the piano, and before my very eyes turned into Cole Porter. Soon a crowd had gathered around the piano and even the socialites wandered over to join in the fun. Before retiring fro the evening I stared at this amazing autistic man in wonderment, he had all but lost the ability to speak, but could still entertain like no one Id ever seen, and the events of that evening left me scratching my head in wonder. Meanwhile back to work the next morning and my temporary roadie boss had come in wearing a honk if you love pussy tee-shirt, which I found absurd but actually contained a kind of dark foreshadowing. He had apparently changed his mind about me being his helper and now appointed himself my full-time

74 supervisor as he absolved himself of any further responsibilities. Finally about mid-day I took stock of the situation and said fuck it, as I put my feet up in the back of the truck and took a nap, knowing there was nothing my shitkicking Carny boss could really do to me except kick me off this project which had totally lost its luster anyway. When he finally did find me sleeping in the back of the truck he was nonetheless enraged, and soon we were in a heated discussion about my duties and responsibilities of that week. When I called him a Carny motherfucker it seemed to truly push him over the edge and soon we were about to come to blows. I took full measure of him and evaluated my chances. It seemed a good possibility that he was carrying some kind of knife or throwing star, and this was something I was well aware of. On the other hand his skinny body was sickly and weak from so many years of hard living, and I was sure I could overpower

75 him if it came down to it. Right as we were about to engage, I heard a Hold the Fuck on! come from behind us, and was amazed to find that my friend the base player had chosen to speak. He quickly came over and told the roadie to stop fucking with his buddy and soon he shoed him away while throwing his arm around me and letting me know Id be his personal assistant for the week from now on. What did this mean? Some rumors of hookups between the waitresses and band members had begun to circulate, and I was hoping in his drunken stupor he hadnt mistaken me for one of them. As it turns out he was simply happy to have someone to help him around and back to his beloved piano, where his little shows had become a nightly occurrence. I was certainly grateful for the reprieve from my assignment as a roadie however, and found my new role to be a nice

76 break from the previous assignment of lugging around 1000 pound drum sets. So as the week progressed I got to know all of the band members fairly well, and soon found that they were actually very nice guys. Hearing the stories from years on the road, and hearing them do all of their classics hits was fun, and eventually I was doing no work whatsoever as I continued to hang out with my new friends. Fate has a cruel way of getting even however, and the next night a very embarrassing event occurred. It was the final day of recording, and that night a wrap party for everyone involved in the project had been planned, and I also hoped it would be a special night for me and my friend the Mormon turned Hedonist waitress, who I had miraculously been able to keep from the band members the entire week. As the party progressed a strange thing started to happen. I looked around and suddenly this party of

77 nearly a hundred people had dwindled to 30, and then 10, and then I looked around, and I was literally the only person in the room. Even my friend Leon had managed to heroically walk without me, and also my girl, and in that moment I felt totally alone. My new friends had abandoned me, and in the midst of taking stock of the situation I began to look around and soon I hatched a plan. If these motherfuckers were going to desert me I would show them, and soon I began to collect everything I possible could that said Lynard Skynard around the room. Collectign armloads of valuable memoribila that I would immediately put on ebay for thousands of dollars. As I collected their stuff and hurriedly rushed to the door, I ran smack dab into the lead singer Johnny, who looked at me with uncomfortable concern. What the fuck you doin? he asked

78 Well, I was just ahhh, bringing everyone their stuff, I replied awkwardly, and he informed me that everyone had been asking for me and that the party had been moved to one of the suites. I was horribly embarrassed, but I seemed to have gotten away with it for the time being, and sheepishly made my way up to the suite with Johnny. Opening the door, I saw that the party had indeed been moved to a better place, as I saw girls decadently dancing, people chugging all kinds of intoxicants and many other sites that confirmed I has arrived at a real rock and roll party. As my eyes scanned the room however I saw something that truly rocked my belief system to its very foundation. There was my little Mormon flower, straddling none other than the hated Carny/Roadie who had been the bane of my existence early in the week. It was more than I could take, and I quickly fled from the room in shock and returned to

79 my own humble quarters in horrified disgust, trying to whitewash that appalling site from my mind. I wish I could say the story ended there, but there was one final indignity that I had yet to suffer. That next morning as I said my goodbyes to Leon, Johnny, and the rest of the guys, I prayed I wouldnt run into my sworn enemy the roadie as I couldnt get the site of he and my girl out of my mind. Right as all of the cars started pulling away however, an old beat up truck came swinging around, and in it was the roadie and my girl. He let out a long honkkkkkkkkkk on his horn, and I realized in that fateful moment, he was in fact honking if he loved pussy just as his shirt had implied. So that was my signal to retire from working in the National parks. Much like a home-run hitter who finds hes lost a step who hangs up his cleats, I realized it was time for me to hang up my aprons. It was shortly after this I moved to Chicago, but to this day when I

80 hear a Lynard Skynard song I am filled with a sense of longing regret mixed with a feeling that I was glad I retired when I did. A few more years and perhaps I would have been the one wearing the honk if you love pussy shirt, and in that sense, I feel fortunate to have retired when I did.

Nightrain Bob Laine

81 During my time in Chicago I eventually landed a job managing a large nightclub in the downtown area. While there I met a number of memorable characters, but none more so than a gentleman named Nightrain Bob Laine. To back up for a moment, the bar I inherited was a failing sports bar past its prime, which still did well due to its location. Bob was a customer for many years before I began my management duties at the club, and preferred it when no one was in the establishment so the bartenders would be forced to listen to his endlessly repetitive stories and opinions. Bib was a physical specimen unlike any I had ever seen. He wore coke bottle glasses at least an inch thick, a brown fedora, and a long black matrix jacket that he never took off regardless of the time of year. He smoked cheap cigarettes constantly, and if you got too close the smell of Old Style beer and generic cigarettes that emitted from his gnarled mouth could be quite

82 overwhelming. When he tried to engage me in conversation I normally looked straight at the ground and continued walking, not wanting to be sucked into his stories which the long-suffering bartenders had heard over and over again. Under orders to make the bar more profitable, I began playing dance music on a nightly basis, which immediately increased business and brought a new crowd into the bar which displeased Bob very much. Used to being the only person at the bar and receiving the attention from the bartenders by default, Bob now had to struggle to even get a drink, and he voiced his displeasure about this to anyone who would listen. Eventually Bob came to accept the changes at the bar, until one fateful afternoon when the bars owner stumbled in and announced he was tearing out the grill behind the bar and replacing it with stripper poles. Bob was livid at this new development, as the greasy hamburgers and cold French fries we served

83 were likely the only nourishment his sickly body took in on a consistent basis, and he was truly incensed at this latest news. For Bob, who had probably never seen a woman nude before, stripper poles were the last straw, and when construction began he stormed out, remarking you wont have Bob Laine to kick around any more, two days later he was back. When the poles were finally in place it was a nightly occurrence to have people climb over Bob to get to the stage and strut their stuff. Both men and women were allowed on the stage, and no actual nudity occurred except the occasional flash, which even an asexual gentleman like Bob appeared to begrudgingly enjoy. Bob was however especially irritated when men would take the stage, and during these performances he would look down at his newspaper in anger. So it was during a particularly busy Thursday night when the perform storm occurred, and the bar

84 was filled with several groups of guys, including a bachelor party, a 21st birthday party, and a group of kids celebrating their recent college graduation. Bob, who had been highly agitated the entire night, came up to me at one point and ominously warned me to keep those guys away from me not, to my knowledge, referring to anyone in particular. As was my usual custom, I walked away quickly, pretending I had an urgent matter to attend to. In retrospect I saw the entire scene happening several moments before it actually occurred, and to this day it is a memory that still makes me laugh like few other things I have witnessed. The group of 21 year olds, a particularly rowdy group from the suburbs had taken the stage after requesting Sir Mix A Lots Baby Got Back, and Bob was at his usual place directly in front of the stage, furiously reading his paper and dreaming about the old bar he used to love and cherish so much.

85 The whole thing happened in slow motion. The kid who was celebrating his 21st birthday that evening had grabbed one of the stripper poles and begun swinging furiously in a circle, highly inebriated and filled with the glory of finally reaching his milestone birthday. Once he swung around, and he nearly lost his grip, but miraculously recovered. Now a second time, much faster, which led right into his third spin, which was the one that struck the fatal blow. As he completed his third spin his hands slipped from the pole and he took flight, sailing right over the bar and up into the air. This is the part I remember so well. Seeing that young kid in the air and seeing that he was on a direct collision course with none other than Nightrain Bob Laine, who continued to read his paper in oblivious anger. As the kid sailed through the air I began running over to get a better look, and I arrived just in time for impact. The kid had scored a direct hit on Bobs head, which sent both his cherished fedora and horn-rimmed

86 glasses into the air and Bob himself tumbling to the floor. Bob was in a pure state of panic, as no one had ever seen his balding head without the fedora which he was clearly furious about, but he was also now completely blind without his glasses. He scrambled about like a crab, alternatively screaming MY FUCKING HAT, MY FUCKING GLASSES, as he crawled around looking to salvage a last little bit of dignity. A crowd had now gathered around Bob in a circle, all laughing heartily at this rather unfortunate scene. When Bob finally found his glasses he stood up in a furious, murderous rage, surveying the crowd for an outlet for his venom. Sizing up the men in the room, Bob took stock, but eventually he ran right towards a girl who was laughing heartily and wrapped his frail arms around her neck and began choking her. The crowd quickly intervened and pulled Bob off, but the damage had been done. Bob sprinted out into the night, through

87 two taxi cabs, and into an alley, leaving a group of people in near hysterics. I never saw Bob after that, but cant help bit wonder if that one incident may have pushed him over the edge. I spent several years managing nightclubs and met thousands of interesting and beautiful people, but it is the image of Bob Laine that remains most firmly implanted in my head. To this day when I hear Baby Got Back I turn my head to the west and daydream of Bob Laine hurtling to the ground. I truly wonder what happened to him, and every time I enter a new bar I look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the brown fedora and thick, black glasses that let me know that Bob survived the crash on that fateful evening.

Herpes

88 She was a very pretty girl, but as the title of this story might suggest, there was a slight problem. After toiling for a couple of years as a comedian and actor in Chicago, I eventually drifted into bar management almost by default, and, despite not being particularly good at this job, managed to secure several different fairly lucrative gigs in this profession. This job, perhaps more than any other I have had, (and Ive had dozens) truly sucked the life out of me, and I retired from this profession several times, but much like Michael Corleone, every time I thought I was out, the profession seemed to pull me back in. On my last incarnation as a Bar manager I settled into a cozy Irish Pub where life moved a little slower, and, despite this I still managed to perform the job rather incompetently. One of the charms of the local Irish Pub in Chicago is that you get to know the customers rather intimately, and this place was no exception. More than any city

89 Ive ever lived in, Chicago seem to embrace the consumption of alcohol like no place anywhere, and, on nearly every day of the week there is some occasion somewhere that brings the citys inhabitants out to celebrate. I eventually returned to the life with full vigor, and soon I was back to the late-night lifestyle that included chasing women, drinking beer, and telling outrageous stories, all of which I had had a great deal of often unsuccessful experience doing. One facet of this life that remains constant, is that if you hang around a bar long enough, eventually you are going to pair off with someone as a natural course of the late nights and lowered inhibitions, both of which I was counting on to break a particularly dry spell in my floundering romantic life. Much like a High School locker room, gossip flies rather steadily around a bar, and one particularly obnoxious friend related a story to me regarding him

90 and one of the attractive female regulars. It seems they had ended up together after a long night of drinking, and right at the moment of consummation, she stopped him rather unexpectedly and told him she had Herpes, but that she was not currently contagious and that it was nothing that he should worry about. Herpes is always something to worry about. Despite commercials that show happy Herpes couples walking hand and hand along the beach, real life doesnt always work like this, and my friend resisted the urge to continue this liaison, and lived to tell the story at the bar which made the rounds rather quickly. When you work in a bar, the information you retain is selective and rather arbitrary. Although you have to pretend to give each and every story you full attention, the sheer presence of the alcohol immediately designates roughly 50 percent of what you hear as bullshit, and this story was, I thought, no exception and

91 soon I returned to my normal routine unmoved by the story and on to the next one. Many weeks later I would regret not retaining this information, as it proved to contain a kind of ironic foreshadowing, the depths of which I had no way of knowing. As luck would have it I was at a late night party one evening several weeks later, and the very same girl from my friends story appeared like some kind of late-night angel, and soon we were immersed in the kind of inane, boozy after-hours conversation which usually made no sense and at which I was especially adept at. After a couple of hours of this banter I was shocked when she reached over and kissed me, and immediately looked around to see if this was some kind of joke that everyone was in on but me. This was not the best plan of attack. Although in our modern age it is certainly not unheard of for a woman to make the first move, I was much more

92 comfortable with my standard play, which was to dive in reeking of jagermeister and have the girl awkwardly turn her cheek to the side, followed by a moment of uncomfortable silence. This was terra firma for me, so when she kissed me again, I knew that perhaps it was no accident, and like one of those nerds in the movies who inexplicably ends up with the beautiful woman, that perhaps it was just my time. We continued to make out on the porch at this party, and when she suggested we go back to my house, once again my self-destructive instincts kicked in and I looked around to make sure she wasnt talking to someone else. Despite my best attempts to sabotage this evening, it truly looked like finally the Gods had smiled on me, and we began the short walk back to my house, hand-in-hand and enjoying each others company. When we arrived at my place I quickly ran in ahead to do some last minute reconnaissance, and,

93 because I had no air freshener, heroically sprayed a bottle of Fabreze into the air several times hoping it would disseminate the pleasing odor around the room and prevent my new beautiful friend from exercising her option to change her mind at this late hour in the game. But this was the kind of night nothing could go wrong, and we continued into the house, and quickly landed on my couch, where we picked up our earlier momentum and continued to progress into what I was now nearly positive would be an evening I would not soon forget. When she took my hand and began to lead me towards my bedroom, I knew that we were now truly at the point of no turning back. Lou Gehrigs Today, I consider myself the luckiest man, on the face of the Earth speech ran through my mind, and I continued to my bed feeling as good as I had in quite some time.

94 Although Id like to think my bedroom prowess was at its finest that night, excessive alcohol and a lack of recent practice were both working against me, but still I managed to remove several articles of her clothing with only minimal interference. We continued to kiss and roll around like teenagers, and I knew now that we were only perhaps seconds away from the final approach into the promised land. So it was with great trepidation that I listened to a very small voice in the back of my head that shouted an ominous warning signal to me during my moment of greatest triumph, and I tried to shut it out but it simply played again. I temporally quieted my worried mind and retuned to my beautiful willing partner, but once again I heard the voice, and now my partner had begun to grow concerned. Whats wrong, she asked with a hint of agitation in her voice.

95 Oh, a, nothing, I replied eloquently, making a very unconvincing case as I tried to kiss her again. We resumed the position, and started up again, but now the voice was getting louder and louder, and the word had now changed from warning to Herpes and this was a word I knew I had to take a little more seriously. Shit. Herpes!!! Why would this be popping into my head right now? And then it slowly began to dawn on me like a horrible thundercloud moving into my mind, my friends story!! This was the girl from the story!! Fuck!! What to do? To reiterate it had been a long time since I had been with a woman, but despite this the small part of me that was still thinking rationally also wanted to have his say. Now I have always been a man of science, so it occurred to me that there might be options in this situation that hadnt previously occurred to me. The actual time that passed as all this occurred

96 to me was less than thirty seconds, but in the heat of passion and soooo close to the big moment, it seemed like an eternity, and so when I politely told my new friend that I had to run to the bathroom she was clearly annoyed, but by my own calculations I still had not completely blown the deal. I tiptoed to the living room and as quietly as possible turned on my laptop, hoping to scour the internet in search of information that might guide me in this troubled situation. Meanwhile the clock was ticking. I knew I couldnt simply leave her lying in that room forever, and that I would have to get the information I needed quickly and efficiently so I could return with an informed decision. I typed in Herpes contagious and waited for the results, and clicked on the first available website which proved to be a gold mine. The site had a plethora of information about the disease, including periods of

97 dormancy, new medications, etc. all of which I became engrossed in as I continued to navigate the page. Through my fascination with this reading, I was unable to notice that the room had suddenly turned colder as a dark shadow fell across the computer as I continued to read. There behind me was me new friend, looking over my shoulder examining the Herpes website as closely as I was, and as I turned around I felt a hard slap across my face as she belted me across the jaw. So many conflicting emotions rushed through my brain at this moment I was unable to stop and process them all. Guilt, fear, arousal, regret, surprise, all flooded my nervous system, and as I ran to the room to try and explain, my friend was already fully dressed and on her way to the door, a stream of expletives following her as it slammed. I never did find out if she had Herpes, and to this day I wonder if she was the one who got away or if

98 that little interlude on the laptop actually saved my life. Shortly after this I quit my job at the bar and returned to school, convinced that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere as I approached the age of 30 and was still getting tangled up in these situations. Although I often miss those days, I still look over my shoulder occasionally when I think of her, and every time I hear my name in a crowd I wonder if another slap will follow shortly afterwards.