SWAT Team Alarm Clock

As I mentioned in my previous story, I don’t live in a great neighborhood. There are obvious disadvantages to this (also mentioned in my previous story) but there are benefits as well. Here is an example of one of those (well, sort of)…

I went to bed happy the night before, because I knew I was flying home in the morning. I would be leaving this swamp (a swamp that I do love very much, but still a swamp nonetheless) and heading to the redwood mountains that I loved as a child. It was this image of nostalgic warmth that lulled me to sleep. And there I stayed, until…

BANG BANG BANG!

I woke up with a yelp of fright (I mean this literally, I have this weird thing where if I’m awoken unexpectedly by loud noises I unleash a pitiful yelp for help), and scanned the area for danger.

BANG BANG BANG!

No danger in my room. I realized I was okay. Then I checked the time. 6:20 am. Shit. My alarm clock was supposed to wake me up twenty minutes ago. I proceeded to fumble with my stupid clock, cursing its incompetence while trying to find the reason why it didn’t go off. 

BANG BANG BANG!

Fuck. I had set my alarm clock for PM not AM. The classic blunder!  I thanked God for whoever was making that infernal banging noise. If it wasn’t for that, I might have slept right through my flight.

BANG BANG BANG!

Who the hell was making that noise though, I wondered. Perhaps it was my roommate, locked out possibly, trying to get me to hear his knocking from all the way in my room.

Figuring that was exactly what it was, I go to the door in just my boxers, so I could surprise him with the sight of my hairy, pale/red body.

BANG BANG BANG!

I opened the door to find a team of SWAT police facing me. Guns at their sides, bullet proof vests on, the whole bit. And judging by their facial reactions I could tell they were just as surprised at the sight of me as I was of them. “What the hell is this white boy doing living in this ghetto, and why is he so hairy and pale and red?” they seemed to be asking.

After this initial awkwardness passed, the leader of this pack, a square-jawed, fit man who slightly resembled an older version of Deputy Junior from Reno 911, stepped forward and threw a picture in my face and asked me if I recognized the man in it. The picture was incredibly grainy, but despite that, I could still clearly see that this was a picture of my next door neighbor Emil. I could even make out the tattoo tear drop on his left cheek, a tattoo that always made me wonder about him. He seemed like a nice enough dude, but wasn’t that tear drop tattoo strictly for those who had killed someone? Is that why they were here? To arrest a murderer??

           

The SWAT LEADER repeated his question, had I seen this man? But all I could do was think back to the past encounters I had with Emil. He was always good to me. I recalled this one time when my brother was in town and he gave both of us a beer as we were heading into a taxi. I also remembered that he was usually a very horny young man. Whenever a girl came to the house, he would pretty much interrogate me later about if she liked to get down and if she had any friends. That always made me feel uncomfortable.

Now I was getting interrogated by this SWAT leader and felt even more uncomfortable. If I identified the man in the picture, would that make me a narc? Or even worse, a snitch? Wait, is a snitch worse than a narc, I wondered? I wasn’t sure… I knew that snitches get stitches, but what do narcs get...

“Hey man,” Deputy Junior interrupted my thought process. “if you know this guy and you want to do the right thing, just tell us.” He was using the good cop strategy on me, and it was working. Why shouldn’t I be honest with this cop, he’s just trying to do his job. On the other hand, I didn't want to die... with one foot firmly over each side of the fence, I responded: “Well, he might be this guy that lives next door, maybe you should knock on his door and see if he’s there…”

           

 I needed to hurry. My wake up call and interaction with the New Orleans’ Finest had left me with just 15 minutes to pack before my cab was going to pick me up from the airport.  I grabbed my suitcase from my closet, opened it up and then pulled out my list of things to pack.

As I looked at my list, I could hear the SWAT Team playing bad cop with the apartment next door. 

            -A week’s worth of socks.

            “Where is your brother, asshole?!”

            Check.

-Sunscreen/hat

“Fuck you, I want my lawyer!”

Check.

- T-shirts, casual. And a few dress shirts.

            “Where is your brother? Just tell us where he is!!”

            Check.

            -  Hiking boots, Chapstick

            “I’m not telling you anything!”

I’m not sure exactly when, but at a certain point I no longer felt like I was packing for a vacation home, it felt more like I was fleeing for my safety. I had pointed the finger at the neighborhood criminal element, and now I was going into the witness protection program.

           

As I threw in my good pair of jeans on top of the haphazard mess that filled my suitcase, another worry hit me. What if they hadn’t found Emil. I knew Emil lived with his brother next door. Was that his brother they were talking to, or was it Emil himself. What if it was just his brother, and Emil wasn’t at home? If his brother wasn’t the one they wanted, would they just leave him at his house, unarrested? If so, would he see his brother later that day? If he saw his brother would he tell him that he thinks someone put the finger on him? That someone in the building pegged him as the outlaw they were looking for? Would they put me in that group of suspects? If so, would they want to talk to me, maybe give some much earned stitching for snitching?

I zipped up my suitcase and waited for the honk of my cab, trying to ignore the escalating anger occur just beyond my thin wall.

“Do you want to be in a world of shit?! Because if you don’t tell us where you’re brother is, you will be in a world of shit!!”

Two minutes later I was throwing my suitcase in the back of cab, trying with all my might to use my peripherals to see if it was Emil they had in handcuffs, as I dare not look directly at the situation, that might have been enough to convince Emil or his brother of my guilt.   

The cab sped away to the airport without me ever confirming whether the cops had found their man or not. As we drove out of my bad neighborhood, the driver looked back at me in the mirror and asked:

“So where you going, buddy?”

“anywhere but here man, this place is just too hot right now.”

I Am Not a Mosquito

Mental insanity is no laughing matter. Neither is drug addiction. Nor is losing your keys. And yet, when you combine two, possibly three, of those things together, I think you’ll find that they make for quite an amusing story. But I’ll let you guys be the judge of that. Here is my story of getting in all sorts of trouble in a dangerous area that I like to call home. Enjoy!

My troubles began when I was jogging. Or rather, when I had just finished jogging. For that was when I discovered that the keys that I had put in my mailbox at the beginning of my jog were no longer there.  To say this was disconcerting would be putting it mildly. You see, as I eluded to above, I live in a bad neighborhood, the kind of neighborhood where many of its residents would be deeply interested in someone else’s apartment and car keys.

Now you might be wondering at this point why I would leave keys in my mailbox if I live in a bad neighborhood. To that I ask you, have you ever ran with keys in your pocket? It’s very annoying.  They weigh you down and brush up against your leg. Ugh. Why go through all that when you can just take a huge risk that could totally fuck up your life? 

Anyway, once I realized my predicament, my first hope was that my roommate had come home early from work, checked the mailbox, found the keys, and took them inside with him. But this hope was dashed when I scanned the area and realized his car was nowhere in sight.

Around this time, I could feel the strong sensation of panic crawling around in my belly.

No, I said to myself. You will not panic. You must remain logical. Your keys are missing. That sucks. But be logical about it. Start by inspecting the area. 

So I did. My inspection involved checking my mailbox again, then looking at the gravely ground directly below it. While I did find a good deal of broken glass and various litter amidst the gravel, I found no keys. Then I checked my mailbox once again, and then five more times after that. But still, I found no keys.

 I could feel the tips of panic tickling my belly again.  

Knock it off! Remain logical. Finish  your investigation. Look around for witnesses, perhaps someone saw something.  

But witnesses were in short supply. To the left of me was an empty street decorated with potholes and the occasional stray cat. To the right of me was the filthy intersection just in front of my apartment building. At first it appeared this intersection was empty too, until I noticed a figure that appeared to be female standing in the near corner, facing away from me.  

That’s a potential witness. Go to her.

I began to do just that, when I noticed something that gave me pause. This person appeared to be swaying from side to side, as if listening to music. But I was close enough to see that she had no earphones in. Remember, I live in a bad neighborhood, so this kind of odd behavior could mean a lot of things.

What choice do you have? Do you want to be a keyless son of a bitch for the rest of your days? It’s time to take action! Go to her!

“Excuse me.” I called out to her in a genial but determined tone.  She did not respond to this. She just continued to sway, as if lost in her non-existent music. I took a few steps closer and repeated myself.

“Excuse me.” 

This time she did react, but not in the way I had hoped. She pivoted away from me, literally giving me the cold shoulder.

Ooh, she doesn’t want to talk to you. That’s suspicious. Get the truth from her!  

 “Excuse me!” I said again, this time while courageously tapping her on the shoulder. “ I had some keys in that mailbox and-“

But that’s as far as I got. Because she suddenly whipped around and stared down at me with eyes that haunt me to this day.  They were wide, fiery eyes that burned hate into my skull.

“FUCK YOU!” She roared. “YOU KICKED MY DOG DOWN!!”

Now of all the responses I had anticipated at this moment, being accused of kicking her pet was near the very bottom of the list. I mean, I have never kicked a dog ever, why would she say that?

“YOU KICKED MY DOG DOWN, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” She repeated with hot anger, this time taking a step towards me.

At this point, that panic that I had been trying to keep down in my stomach was now clawing it’s way to my heart.

 Stay strong. Clearly this lady is crazy and hates you for what you did to her imaginary dog, but at least we have a motive for the crime now. Get the truth from her!

“Listen, all I want-“

“YOU KICKED MY DOG DOWN AND CUT THE WIRE!”  She said again, this time adding more details to my alleged crime, suggesting that not only did I kick her dog down but that I then cut its wire.  

What the hell is a dog’s wire? Is that a thing? Be careful she might stab you…

“Look…” I said, trying my best not to stammer. “If you took my keys just give them back, and we’ll forget the whole thing?”  Yes, good, let her plea bargain.  

“I’M GONNA CALL THE COPS!! YOU GONNA BE IN JAIL TONIGHT!!!”

Here’s a fun fact, I live about two blocks away from the city jail, and it was actually in my line of sight as I was talking with this woman. I couldn’t help but stare at the jail and imagining myself inside it, explaining to the other inmates that I was in there for cutting a dog’s wire. What would they have made of that, I wonder?

YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I-“

“Look!” I finally erupted. “I don’t have to take this! I’m done with you! Forever! Goodbye!” And then I walked away in a huff, thankfully she did not follow.

Wait, you’re leaving? Where are you going to go? You have no phone, no keys, no wallet, and you don’t know anyone in the area. And you have work in less than an hour.

I stopped walking at this point. Shit. I was screwed. What the hell was I gonna do?

As I pondered my next action, I heard the vile thief shout from behind me:

“KEEP WALKING YOU MOSQUITO LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER!”

Now I’m sure if somebody told me I looked like a misquito today, it wouldn’t affect me much. But after everything I had just been through, losing my keys, getting accused of being an animal abuser, and just generally feeling like I was going crazy, the last thing I needed to hear was that I resembled a misquito. And so, I kinda lost it.

“I DO NOT LOOK LIKE A MOSQUITO! YOU’RE JUST A CRAZY BITCH! AND I KNOW YOU TOOK MY KEYS!”

 And here we come to the point in the story where I participated in one of the most inane debates in the history of the world. In this debate, I argued my two points ferociously. The first being that I don’t look like a mosquito, and the second being that she took my keys. And of course, she argued her two main points as well, the first being that I do look like a mosquito, and the second being that I kicked her dog down and cut the wire.

I stayed in this seventh ring of nonsensical hell for far too long, feeling more crazy and desperate with each passing moment. But then, just as things looked its darkest, I saw my apartment door open and my roommate pop out.

Run to him. Run to him and be normal again.

And so I did.

Once inside the apartment, my roommate handed me my keys that he had found in the mailbox and pressed me to explain what on earth had happened outside. But I was far too busy on my laptop, google image searching mosquitoes. Sometimes you just have to be sure about these things. And after an extensive investigation, I am happy to report that I definitely do not look like a mosquito. Case closed!

POST SCRIPT TO STORY

A few days later, I regaled my upstairs neighbor with this story. After I had told her the whole thing, we had the following conversation:

 Her: Oh man, that’s why you don’t argue with a crackhead.

Me: Yeah, I suspected she was on drugs too.

Her: No, I know for a fact she was on crack. Her sister came and told me. They both live down the street. Apparently she has crack problem and relapsed recently. Her sister says it’s just better not to talk to her when she’s on that shit.

Me: Oh. Huh. Well, I still wonder what the hell she meant when she accused me of kicking her dog down and cutting the wire.

Her: Are you sure she wasn’t saying door, not dog, and you just misheard her?

Me: I don’t know… maybe. But that still doesn’t make any sense.

Her: Well, it kinda does, because, do you know Danny, that boy with the sleeve tattoos that I sleep with sometimes?

Me: Yes…

Her: Well, he let her borrow twenty bucks a week ago, and she never paid him back. So he broke down her door when she was gone and cut the wire to her cable.

Me: Oh…

Her: Anyway, you really shouldn’t be leaving your keys in the mailbox anyway, this is a bad neighborhood, ya know.

Me: Yeah. I know….

Hey! Here's A Story I Wrote For Another Publication!

Hey there, people.


I wrote this story for this publication site called Neutrons Protons. It's a New Orleans based publication and it's awesome! Check it out, and check out my story about me dealing with turning 30 and going to a beachhouse and having teenagers laugh at how old I am. It's a good read! So you should read it!

RIGHT NOW!

BEACHHOUSE

Called Out at the Library For Being a Poop Monster

For a long time now, I have accepted the fact that there are monsters in this world.  Monsters that roam around freely for one of two reasons. One, because they are very skilled at not being detected; and two, because people blind themselves from what they don’t want to see. This is just the world we live in, and I’ve accepted that.

What I didn’t realize until recently, however, is that sometimes the monsters themselves don’t realize they’re monsters. I might have gone my whole life without learning this, until a rather brutal run-in at the library.

This story takes place on an idle Tuesday not too long ago after a day’s work. I was reading a terrific book about a jewel thief in Manhattan and I was just enjoying the hell out of life. It was one of those rare moments where I was completely in my element and didn’t have a single complaint about anything or anyone.

Unfortunately, my bowels couldn’t say the same thing. For, about an hour into my reading time, my bowels pulled the red lever. You all know about the red lever, right? As any doctor can tell you, there are three levers in your bowels that are directly connected to your brain. The first is the green lever. This is an innocent lever that is attached to your brain by a nice silk rope. When your bowels pull this lever, they do so in a calm manner to politely inform you that that turkey sandwich you digested for lunch is ready to make its exit in the near future.

Then there is the brown lever. This lever is attached to your brain by a metal chain. When this is pulled, it is done so with a determined but professional ummph, to make you aware that the situation is coming to a head faster than originally anticipated, so it needs to be dealt with speedily but professionally.

The third lever, as you know, is the red lever. This lever is attached to your brain by rusty razor wire which is also wrapped around your stomach, and this lever is only pulled when your bowels are dealing with a situation that has caught them completely off guard and is forcing them to contemplate hara-kiri.

Suffice to say, there are few public places you want to be when that red lever gets pulled, and the public library is hardly one of them. And yet, that’s exactly where I was when I felt the razor wire cut into my brain and tear through my stomach.

Obviously, with that razor wire searing through your body, you have no time to think. So I didn’t. I jumped out of my seat and rushed towards the restroom and prayed I would find it’s one stall available.

Upon pushing open the heavy wooden door of the bathroom, I found my prayers were answered, the stall was empty, hope was within reach!

I slammed open the toilet lid and saw something that made me hesitate for just half a second. Apparently someone else had done their business in the stall before me, and hadn’t bothered to flush. At this moment of crisis, even taking the pause to flush the preceding waste seemed too risky, so instead I jumped on the throne and added to the nastiness.    

           

Once I had finished my business, I rose from the throne, and turned to flush it all down.

But that’s where I stopped. Because it was quite evident that the waste I had created, coupled with the waste that was already in the bowl, had created a  Frankenstein mud monster of unfortunate proportions. Suffice to say, it was obvious there was no way this monster was going down the pipes without a fight, a fight it would most likely win.

This left me with a moral dilemma. If I can’t flush it down, what do I do? The right thing to do would be to retrieve a librarian and confess my sins. But if that was the right thing to do, why did it seem so wrong? Did I really want to broadcast my foulness to outsiders…

At that moment, another option hit me. I could simply lie. I would still be doing the right thing, notifying the right people about the monster in the bowl, but I wouldn’t necessarily be confessing my crime. Perhaps I would even add a statement like: “I just walked in and found what some jerk face had left…”.

After giving it some thought, I didn’t like this option much either, not because of the deceitful aspect to it, but because I didn’t think I would get away with it. The librarian would take one look at my guilty face and cry out: “Don’t lie to me, you nasty sprayer of poops! It was you who has released this demon into our house!” Because librarians talk like that in my mind.

So I considered my two options, but just couldn’t come to a decision. So I washed my hands, hoping the answer would come to me there. But it didn’t. So I decided to exit the bathroom, hoping that entering the outside world would force the answer to present itself.

But no answer came. So I returned to my table and continued reading my book, figuring that maybe an answer would come when I wasn’t thinking about it.

Two minutes later, I had forgotten all about the mess I had made. I was in my element again. Life was good, and I didn’t have a complaint about anyone or anything…

And then it came. Directly behind me. A voice, a shrill, angry voice that I will never forget.

“Excuse me, did you just use the bathroom?”

           

Cue panic mode. Good God, someone found me. I don’t know how but they found me.   

           

 I looked up from my book and realized the other four people at the table were looking at me with wide, curious eyes.  The eyes rose up, above me, when the angry voice spoke again.

           

“Excuse me sir, I asked if you just used the bathroom.”

           

I put my book down slowly and turned to face my accuser. When I set my eyes upon him, I was a little taken aback. For one thing, he was small in stature. Despite the fact that I was sitting and he was standing he was no more than 4 inches taller than me, with an unfortunate hump on his slouched back. But his stature and hump were nothing compared to his face. His was a worn, angry, beaten face. As if life had been picking on him mercilessly since he was born, sucker punching him at every turn. His eyes told the same story, but they had a depth of anger that told me something else as well. They told me that I had been the final straw. He had to deal with a lot of shit in his life, but mine was the one that broke the camel’s back.

           

“Well.” He said, practically spitting the word at me. “Didja?”

           

It seemed pointless to lie, as his tone suggested he knew for a certainty that I had used the facilities.   

           

“Yes.” I said in an innocent tone, hoping that would suggest I had nothing to hide.

           

This answer prompted him to throw up his hands in the air with abandon, I looked back to the people at my table, who were still watching me, more curious than ever as to what exactly I had done in the bathroom.

           

‘You… don’t, um. understand,” I stammered out. “I just used the urinal.”

           

I could see the small man’s face twist up at this answer, and I was certain the next thing to follow was a series of expletives and accusations. But instead, he simply looked down to the floor, shook his head and muttered something unintelligible before disappearing down an aisle of books.

           

At first, I was relieved that the confrontation was over and that I had won, relatively. And then I felt anger towards that small man. What kind of person publicly interrogates a man’s bathroom actions? And then, finally, I felt what only could be described as a hard truth. This man was a hero. He had done what I had fantasized about oh-so-many times after walking in to an unholy mess in a public stall. How many times had I dreamed about finding the person that committed this outrage and rubbing their nose in it like they were a misbehaving pet? Too many to count, that’s for sure.

And yet I had never had the gumption to actually carry out this task, unlike this man. This man was a hero. A hero who had confronted his monster,  who was me. I was a monster.

           

All of this made me sad and confused at the same time, and I contemplated the unfairness of life. But that contemplation ended the moment I felt a certain lever in my body being pulled again. And then I felt razors being dragged across my stomach and through my brain. And then I couldn’t think anymore. I simply ran. I jumped up and ran right out of the library, I ran in search of a place where a monster would be welcomed, or at least, ignored.

            The End.

Trouble in Texas: How I Almost Became A Lone Star Prison Inmate

I’m zipping down the 10 East Interstate, my car is stuffed to the gills with everything I own, and I’m munching on a mcdonald’s double cheeseburger that tastes better than it should. Life is good. Life is close to great. I was unhappy in Los Angeles so I decided to make a change. And somewhere between then and now, this road trip has morphed into a three day exhibition of me patting myself on the back. I am the master of my own destiny. The captain of my own ship. The singer of my own song.  Life is great.

            I’m halfway through my cheeseburger and Texas when I run into my first problem. A great line of cars appears on the road in front of me, all of them in a dead stop in the middle of the vast Texas desert. As I apply the brakes, I notice a sign on the side of the road that tells me I’ve come to a security check point.  Nuts. This is only a minor annoyance, but I’ve never been a patient person, especially when I still have another fifteen hours of driving ahead of me. I take a bite of my burger and stare out at the dry abyss and admire the view. The sun is still at least an hour away from setting, but the way the light hits the land makes the sand look orange, the cacti brown, and the rocks yellow. I feel like I’m on a different world. 

            As I’m admiring the view, something out of the corner of my eye catches my interest. There is a cop on the side of the road, on foot, running against the line of cars. Well, not running, but jogging. And he’s not alone. With him, on a sturdy black leash, is a giant German Shepard, who matches his bipedal partner’s consistent, patient stride.

            The curious thing is that neither one seems to be paying any attention to the cars next to them. I can only assume the dog is of the drug sniffing variety, and yet neither him nor the officer has so much as glanced at a single car. They just keep on jogging down the road, down the line of cars.

            Psh, what a waste, I think. Taxpayers’ dollars are being used for this kind of security? Any one of these random vehicles could be sneaking off with ungodly amounts of nefarious drugs and these bozos wouldn’t have a clue.

            As the dog and his officer get within a few cars of me I am allowed a better look at the two of them.  The thing I find the most fascinating about them is that they  seem to be sharing the exact same facial expression. It’s that no-nonsense, we-are-the-law-and-you-aren’t look that I’ve seen on a thousand other cops, but this is the first time I’ve seen it on an animal before. For some reason, I can’t tear myself away from this very serious Shepard. I’m compelled to watch him as he and his partner strut up beside me, ignoring the cars along the way. 

            But then something happens.

            As the six-legged cop crew comes to my car, as I am enjoying a close up view of this serious dog, I see the animal’s nose lift up, his ears prick forward, and his head swivel towards my direction. And suddenly his eyes are on me.

            Then things kind of go in slow motion.

 I watch as the dog’s huge mouth opens. I half expect him to shout something like “There he is! That’s the criminal!”

            He doesn’t do this, but he might as well have. Because instead he lets out a ferocious bark, and then launches himself at my driver side window. Two meaty paws attack the glass that’s inches away from my face. What the hell is going on?

            “Pull over!” orders the officer as he pulls his partner off my car.

            I do as I’m told while I try to get a handle on what has just transpired in the last five seconds. Why has this dog taken a sudden interest in me? I look around the piles of belongings stacked around me. Nothing but clothes, notebooks and other personal, non-illegal items. I am completely dumbfounded. Then I realize what’s in my hand, my delicious cheeseburger. The old girl must have been hungry, I figure. I mean that’s the only aroma in my car that would be attractive to a dog, so it’s gotta be that, right?

 The officer approaches my car, he's a big man, in his late-thirties, with a grey mustache. He asks me why his dog would be so interested in me. I confide in him my double cheeseburger theory. He is not impressed.

            “Your cheeseburger?” He lets the word drip from his lips in disgust. “You think my partner picked you out because of your cheeseburger?”

            I open my mouth to argue my case but he cuts me off.

            “Listen kid. This dog is trained to detect only two things: Smuggled people and smuggled drugs. Now, which one do you have?”

            The absurd image of a small Mexican man hiding at the bottom of my stack of laundry and suitcases, whispering silent Spanish prayers to himself, pops up in my mind and I do a poor job of hiding the smile that comes with it.

            “Are you smiling at me, kid? You think this is funny?”

            “Absolutely not, officer.” I say, trying to convey complete sincerity.

            “Well, why don’t you step out of the car and we’ll see just how funny this all is.”

            I step out of my car and follow the officer as he takes me a good ten yards away from the road. I try to focus my attention on him, but it’s hard to ignore his partner, who’s behind him, back at my car, his nose inches away from my door, whimpering with desire to explore inside. What the hell do you smell in there anyway?

            “Look at me son.” He says as he puts up a hand, partially blocking my view of the scene at my car. “This is important for you to hear." I look him in the eyes, the intensity contained in those pearly blues of his are disconcerting to say the least.
             "Now, what’s gonna happen next is you're either going to tell me right now what you have in your car... or my partners, who are on their way,” he uses his other hand to point down the road where I see a group of three more officers jogging towards us, “are gonna let the dog into your car. He’s gonna search through your stuff, and if he finds anything, anything, then me and you are through. Do you understand?”

             We’re through? You’re going to break up with me if you find people or drugs in my vehicle? The smart ass in me yearns to utter these words, but my maturity, and survival instincts, know better. 

 “Yes, officer, but I promise, there is nothing illegal in my car.”

            “Oh no?” He smiles a disconcerting smile behind his grey mustache. “Well, let’s just found out for sure. And while we wait for my partners, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself. Where you coming from and where you goin’?”

            “I’m from Los Angeles, and I’m going to New Orleans.” I see a twitch of excitement on his face after I say this, as if the towns of New Orleans and Los Angeles have reputations for illicit activities or something. 

            “I see,” He replies. “And exactly why you goin’ to New Orleans?”

            “I’m moving there.”

            “Why?” He asks again.

            “I don’t know, to get a fresh start, I guess.”

            “Why?”

            This third why catches me off guard. Am I expected to explain the falls and failures that have led me to my current state of being?

            “…because I was unhappy with where I was and the person I had become, and I’m hoping to change that with a new beginning.”

            “I see.” He says with zero inflection.

 His partners arrive at the scene. They call him over and he motions for me to stay put and goes to them. As they confer, I continue to rack my brain, trying to figure out what the dog might be smelling. Did I have anything in my suitcases or luggage that I shouldn’t? Nothing comes to mind. I barely use my two suitcases for anything, my hamper is just filled with clothes, I don’t have a backpack…

   A cold bolt of lightning hits my spine.

  I do have a backpack, I realize. I remember because I randomly found it as I was packing. I thought I had lost it the last time I used it, when I went to the Music festival Outside Lands, but there it was under my bed. Did I check the backpack before I packed it in my car… I don’t think so. I actually remember it was one of the first things I threw into the back footwell of the car. I was in such a hurry to get everything in. But what could be in there? I don’t remember putting anything incriminating in there…

Oh damn, I think, and another cold bolt of lightning strikes me. I remember a certain glass instrument, about two inches long, given to me by some music loving hippy at the festival. The clear memory of me putting it in the outer pocket of my Jansport backpack crawls over my eyes. Did I ever take it out? Is it still inside my backpack?

            “OK, son,” The Grey Mustache returns. “So Officer Daniels here,” He tilts his head to the scowling officer standing next to him. “he’s gonna stay with you while I, personally, go with the canine and see what’s what.” He gives me a smirk as he says this. As if to say he knows what’s going on, and he’s gonna be right there when the shit hits the fan.

            I watch Grey Mustache walk to my car, pats his dog one time on the head, then looks back at me and smiles. Then, he opens my driver door. I watch as his furry partner eagerly hops onto the seat, stepping directly on the burger without so much as an afterthought, immediately destroying my theory, and then positions himself so he’s facing the mound of crap in my back and seat, and immediately dives his head and front legs into the barrage of my belongs, digging furiously down towards the bottom. I watch his head momentarily disappear into my stuff. I feel my balls lurch up into my stomach.

Seconds later, I watch the head reappear, this time with a black Jansport backpack hanging from his mouth. I watch as he leaps out of my car and hands the backpack to his partner. And finally, I watch in disbelief as he puts his nose against the outer pocket.

            “ Officer, there might be a pipe in there.”

            “A pipe?” Officer Daniels replies, gravely. “Is there anything in it.”

            “No.” I tell him, “I’m sure of it.”

            “Not even ash, residue or resin?”

            “Well… maybe some of that.”  

            He shakes his head a bit. “Well, son, Texas is a zero tolerance state. So even a trace of marijuana is a felony.”

            I hear the words, but they don’t make sense. I feel numb in a way. Like I’ve been dropped in the North Atlantic and slowly freezing over.

            Zero tolerance? Felony? I try to make sense of these terms.

My God, my attempt at a fresh start has led me to a prison cell in Texas. What the hell am I going to do? I don’t have money for a lawyer. My only chance would be to call my parents… my parents. The image of calling them and telling them what has happened makes me physically sick.  

            “Alright, where’s the rest of it?” Grey Mustache is holding the pipe out in front of him with a beautiful smirk all over his cop face.

            “I don’t have anything else,” I tell him. “I didn’t even realize I was carrying that.”

            I can tell by the steely look in his eyes that this remark has does nothing to dissuade him. “Don’t give me that. I know you got more. Now tell me where it is, cause if I send my dog back in there and he finds something else… me and you are through.” This is his second threat of breaking up with me, but I can tell this time he really means it. Luckily for me, I know I don’t have anything else.

            “Officer I promise you, I don’t have anything else.”

            “I don’t believe you.” He says immediately. “I can tell just by looking at you that you’re high right now.”

            It’s funny that he says this because I feel high right now. But not a good, happy weed high, it’s more like I-took-way-too-much-acid-and-the-world-is-crashing-around-me high.

“Why would I get high during a thirty hour road trip?” I try to reason with him. Apparently this was the wrong tactic to use. I see his smile turn into an ugly sneer.

            “Because this is what kids like you love to do." He says as he leans in closer to me. "I see it every day.”

            “Officer, I swear, that is not who I am, that is not what I did.”

            “So I’m a liar, is that it? You callin me a liar?”

            This response confuses me. Isn’t he the one calling me the liar? How can I be calling him a liar when he is the one accusing me of something that I’m denying? Clearly he’s playing some sort of Texas Ranger mind game on me, and it’s almost working. 

            “No.” I state adamantly. “I am not calling you a liar.”

            ‘So where are the drugs then?”
            “I don’t have any drugs!”

            The two officers look at each other and murmur back and forth, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. Even if I could, I’m far too distracted with my mounting legal woes to care. I can’t believe one drive through Texas has caused so much carnage in my life. I try to imagine my life after time served. How would I be changed as a person? Who would give me a job? Would my buddies even recognize their former friend, now hardened criminal? I could feel my head spinning.   

            “OK, Mr. Walker, you’re free to go.”

            At this point, I’m almost convinced he’s talking to someone else, either that, or this is another Texas Ranger mind game.

            “What?”

            “I said, you’re free to go. Pick up all the stuff that we took out of your car and get out of here.”

            These next two minutes, as I throw everything back in my car and disappear down the desert, are probably the closest I’ll ever come to participating in a prison break. Yes, it’s not quite the same, as most prison breaks don’t include the granted permission from the police, but by God, it's just as terrifying to me. Even once I am safely away from the check point and the prying eyes of Texas Law, I still constantly check my rear view mirror. Just to make sure the desert is free of any grey mustaches and jogging dogs.

I Watched the Alabama-Auburn game in a Alabama Bar With My Uncle

I don’t think anyone would deny that the State of Alabama has a certain reputation. I mean, the state’s motto is: Dare To Defend Our Rights, after all, which I think just about sums people’s misgivings of the state.

Anyway, this Thanksgiving I visited my uncle and his family who live in a small town outside of Birmingham. Obviously I was excited to see them, but I was also interested in experiencing Alabama, to see if the Yellowhammer State matched it’s reputation (also, Yellowhammer? Dare to defend our rights? You know your state is hardcore when it could easily fit in as a noble family of Westeros .)

Anyway, after telling my uncle my desire to experience some authentic Alabama living, he suggested we go watch the Alabama-Auburn game at a local bar.  Admittedly, I don’t know much about or care for college football, but I was aware that it was taken quite serious in these parts, so I agree to his proposal.

So, on Saturday, my uncle and I drive down to the local bar, which turns out to be the restaurant/bar chain Buffalo Wild Wings. I ask my uncle if there isn’t another bar we could go to, one maybe a bit more authentic to the area. He explains that this isn’t New Orleans, and that places of ill-repute aren’t highly thought of around here, and anything that isn’t a church is considered ill-repute (OK so I made that last part up, but given the amount of churches in the area, I feel this is kinda true). So when it came to the bar scene, Buffalo Wild Wings is about as authentic as it got for this area. 

And so we enter the Wild Wings establishment, and one thing becomes immediately clear: we should have come earlier. The place is beyond packed and the hostess literally laughs at us when we ask what are chances are of getting a table. Through chuckles, she points towards the bar and wishes us luck.

As we make our way through the crowd to the bar, I find myself slightly disappointed. I know this is horrible to say, but it’s my blog so I can say it, I was kinda half-hoping to find a rowdy red neck crowd here. Kinda like that redneck bar in Blues Brothers where they throw beer bottles at Jake and Elmwood who hide behind chicken wire. But there is no chicken wire here, no missing teeth, or any other silly stereotype I had been maybe sort of hoping for. Instead, I find a lot of families, people of all different ages, pretty women (Alabama seems to have a surplus of pretty women, I had no idea… southern girls man…), and a blinding sea of crimson red and passionate faces. I feel a bit overwhelmed by all of it, but I keep it cool. 

We arrived at the bar to find yet another row of crimson red jerseys occupying every stool. We realize that the next four hours would be standing only. Now keep in mind that my uncle is a man in his fifties, and I am a younger man who loathes standing. But in that moment we glance at each other and nod. It’s understood, we are staying put, we are in this for the long haul.

1st QUARTER

We manage to get our first drinks just as the opening kick is underway. Everybody goes quiet except for these two Auburn fans that appear out of nowhere at the end of the bar and start heckling the crowd. At first I think they are gonna get jumped, but everybody just ignores them and focus on the game.  Someone yells Roll Tide. I consider asking my uncle what that means, but decide against it, don’t wanna look stupid.

On the first drive, the Bama kicker misses an easy field goal, and that pisses people off.

“Roll tide?” I suggest out loud, but that doesn’t go over well.  

"Randy!" My uncle scolds me. 

The orange jerseys grow even more vocal when Auburn manages to score the first touchdown of the game. I look around the room, expecting distraught faces amongst the crowd, but for the most part everyone seems quite calm. I ask this rather large older man with a white goatee (no lie) if he thought we were in trouble.

“Nah,” He says with a cool southern accent. “Alabama gonna be just fine.”

For whatever reason, the way he pronounced Alabama, with that southern twang, sticks in my head. I repeat it to myself quietly, it’s a lot of fun to say.

 The quarterback for Bama completes a thirty yard pass.   

“Alabama!” I shout in celebration.

“Randy, don’t say it like that.” My uncle warns me. “People are going to think you’re mocking them.”

“OK.” I say.

A few plays later the qb makes another completion.

“Alabama!”

“Randy!”

I apologize once more, and remind myself not to say it like that. And then the QB throws a touchdown and the whole place goes crazy. People who were strangers before are now eager to slap hands with me.  It seems making friends is easy here when you roll with the tide.

2^nd  Quarter

Auburn fumbles the ball to start the new quarter. Everybody cheers and slap hands again, and I order another beer from the bar.  “There’s no way we lose this game. Third championship here we come. Roll tide.” I hear an excited gentlemen announce next to me.  

As I’m half way through my second beer I start to feel a little loose, so I decide to ask my uncle a few questions about the team.

“So, what does this roll tide thing mean anyway?” I ask.

“Randy!” My uncle exasperates.   

“What?”

“Come on son, use your head. It’s our cheering cry.”

“Oh OK. So, where are is Alabama ranked in the league?”

“Randy! Stop saying it like that. And you can’t just go around asking those questions in public. That’s like asking who’s the president. Bama is ranked number one. Everybody knows that.”

“Oh, wow.” I say, thinking to myself that I shouldn’t ask any more questions. “So who is their coach?”

“Randy!”   

“What?”

“Nick Saban is their coach. He is the coach of college football. Now stop asking these questions before someone overhears you and kicks us out.”  You should know, my uncle isn't seriously angry with me, he's only half serious.

Alabama scores another touchdown and the score is now 21-7. Things are looking good for the home team. I share this sentiment with my new friend with the white goatee. He responds. “Roll tide.” It’s a special moment.

During the last drive of the half, Auburn manages to go down the whole length of the field and score a touchdown. The two pesky Auburn fans go crazy over it, and I feel the urge to remind them of the score. But I decide against it and instead head outside to find a place to sit for a little bit. I hate standing still.

HALFTIME

As I go outside, I foolishly try to take my beer with me, forgetting I’m not in New Orleans any more. The hostess immediately reminds me though, and admonishes me. I apologize with a sly “roll tide” and all is forgiven. Then I sit down on a curb and look up at the sky and wonder about stuff, the way we all do after a few beers. It’s a nice, quiet break from the madness from inside. I enjoy it.

And then I hear cheering from inside and realize the second half has begun so I run inside and find the hostess that has my beer.

3^RD Quarter

In the third quarter, things get better for my uncle but worse for Alabama, and pretty much stay the same for me. My uncle has managed to procure a seat from one of the tables near the bar. Alabama has allowed Auburn to score another touchdown while missing another very makeable field goal, and I remain standing, with a fresh beer in my hand, getting smiles from wandering women who are forced to go around me because I am standing in the walkway, my temporary home.

At the end of the third, the score is tied at 21-21 and a worried fog has settled in at Buffalo’s Wild Wings.

4th Quarter

There’s less than a minute left in regulation and the score is 28-28. Alabama has the ball. The camera switches to Nick Saban, the coach of college football, and a few more chants of “Roll Tide” come from the crowd as they pray their genius coach knows what he’s doing.

 The Bama QB slings it to a receiver at the first down marker, he catches it, and gets out of bounds. One second left in regulation, they are near the 30 yard line.

“Hail mary!” Someone in the crowd yells. But Saban never hears them. Instead, he decides to go for a kick. But this time, because his kicker has forgotten how to do his job, Saban wants to use a kicker who has never kicked before in college football. Bold move, now we had to see how it would pay off.

The ball is snapped, the placeholder gets the ball in position. The kicker crushes the pigskin with his foot and it heads towards the uprights. It’s got the direction, but not the power, and the ball falls to the back of the endzone, just five yards shy of the uprights, where it is caught by an Auburn player.  

I only wish I had a camera with me at Buffalo Wild Wings so I could replay what happens next. Two hundred jaws hit the floor at the same time as they watch the impossible unfold. This Auburn player takes the ball 109 yards down the field and scores a touchdown.

 Bama loses. The crowd is stunned, for the most part. However, oddly enough, a large group of Auburn fans emerge from the rest of the crowd, cheering loudly when once they were silent. Cowards.

“That is one of the craziest endings I have ever seen in a game.” My uncle says after a long, long period of silence.

I nod my head in agreement. Then I add: “And not too mention, a real authentic experience of Alabama.”

“Randy!”

  

  

  

  

A Day at Bonnaroo, Part 3: Pre-partying with the Snark Sisters

Click here for part 2 

They say that sometimes rest can be the answer to all problems.

In my case, that certainly seems to be true. Not long after my battle with runners and bowl movements, I find the way back to my group’s campsite and collapse under the shade of our tarp. I rest there for hours. Sometimes sleeping, sometimes not. Occasionally I scavenge the cooler for remaining water bottles. But mostly I just lie still, hibernating, While I hibernate, I listen to the sounds around me. Our campsite is rather far away from Centeroo (the name of where the actual music festival took place) so for the most part, the sounds of excitement, cheering, celebrating, all seems very distant right now. This frustrates me, I feel like I’m missing out on the action. Part of me is fearful too that my exhaustion and weariness is not simply due to going partying too hard last night but rather, because of my age. I’m not twenty two anymore, perhaps I don’t belong here...   

Sometime in the afternoon, as I go back and forth from sleeping to self-evaluating, I become aware of some humorous squabbling going on nearby and I can’t help but listen. 

“Oh by the way Becky, thanks for almost killing me last night while we were sleeping.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you rolling over on top of me in the middle of the night. I thought I was under a god damn avalanche.”   

“ Hey bitch you know I move around in my sleep. If you don’t like it you can always sleep outside. In fact, I wish you would, your damn snoring sounds like a goat being slaughtered.”

 “At least my snoring doesn’t endanger people’s lives, you monster.”

Both voices are female, and each statement made is thick with good-natured snark and underlined with hearty laughter. It’s obvious that these girls are long time friends who have been giving each other a hard time for many years.   

“You sure about that? I think some of the neighbors might have killed themselves to escape your caterwauling.”

 Despite myself, I crack up at this comment, and then immediately regret it as the girls suddenly stop speaking. Even with my eyes closed, and my body facing the opposite direction, I can feel the awkward tension in the air, they are aware some stranger is listening in on their conversation. I make a quick decision to try to kill the awkwardness. 

“Um, hello there, ladies.” I say after I lift my head out from the grass and turn to face them.

There is a brief pause that follows, and then one of them turns to the other.

“Oh look, Sharon, the ginger kid isn’t dead after all.”  

“Oh what a relief. We’ve been watching you lie there motionless for the last two hours. We thought you died of sunstroke. Red heads don’t fare well out here, ya know kid.”

I find myself looking at two women in their early-to-mid thirties, one heavy set, one skinny, sitting on tailgating chairs in front of a nearby tent, both wearing large sunglasses, drinking bud light while wearing bored or unimpressed expressions on their faces. I imagine this is their default expression most of the time.

“Yeah I know, I almost died last night…because I wanted to kill myself when some chick wouldn’t stop snoring.” This gets a laugh. Not a huge one, but enough for them to throw caution to the wind and invite me over for a beer.

The next hour or so is spent relaxing in a tailgating chair, exchanging jokes and sharing stories with my two neighbors Becky and Sharon who I affectionately, and secretly, refer to as the Snark Sisters.  They actually aren’t sisters, I learn, but rather friends who’ve known each other this they were little, back when they grew up in the suburbs of Chicago.

At one point I ask them why they decided to come to Bonnaroo.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sharon replies. “ we don’t get to see each other very much since we don’t live in the same city anymore, so we figured since we both had vacation time coming up, why not do something crazy.”

“Yeah, plus, we really enjoy being around hippies.” Becky adds. “They have such realistic views of the world, and they always smell great.”

“Oh like you can talk, you smell like a bum’s nut sack right now.”

“Fuck you, slut, I do not. I smell like a petite delicate female…who’s been pissed on by a homeless man.”

They both let out a cackle, and so do I. I start to feel better about everything. I share my misadventures of the morning with the girls which they seem to enjoy.

“If a bunch of runners tried to block me from the bathroom I’d just take a shit on their heads.” Sharon tells me. Becky and I agree that that would be the proper action to take.

So there we are, lounging at the campsite, sipping beer and ignoring the heat as best we can, when I feel a familiar sensation wash over me. It’s that special feeling I get when I can feel the initial traces of the magic returning. That’s the thing about Bonnaroo, the place is full of magic, if only at certain times.   

Eventually either Becky or Sharon suggests that we should make their way to the festival.  I invite myself along, as my group has already entered Centeroo hours ago.

Before we head out we each lather ourselves in sunscreen once more, and then grab a beer for the road ( I grab two. You’re not allowed to bring any beer into the festival, but anything before that is fair game.).

 We walk down the dirt path that splits the numerous camping sections. For the most part, the Snark Sisters talk to themselves while I drink my beer and observe the various campsites we pass by. I notice that each site is virtually the same. One or two tents on the perimeter, some fold out chairs in front of them, maybe a grill in the center, and above all of it is an overhead tarp to provide shade. Occasionally a flag will be tied to the top of the tarp, waving in the air as in expression of that particular campsite’s individuality.

It’s a long walk to the entrance of the festival, and the closer we get the more people we find at their campsites, pre-partying. This causes a shiver of excitement to drip down my spine, I have always been very fond pre-partying, hell, most of the time I enjoy the pre-party more than the actual event itself.

Anyway, after passing by numerous pre-party stations, I can’t remain silent any more, so I very coyly bring up the idea of crashing one of them to the Snark Sisters. As I would have guessed, they don’t take kindly to this suggestion. A raised eyebrow and an incredulous look is all I need to know that these girls don’t think much of bombarding strangers’ campsites. Clearly we are different people, but I’m ok with that for the time being.

We come to a large group playing cornhole on the side of the path, and that’s enough to tip me over the edge. If these girls aren’t going to participate in party crashing, I might have to part ways with them. But before I finish weighing my options, an opportunity drops in my lap.  I bump into a young Hispanic man as he is leaving the portapotties.

“Oh sorry my bad, bro.” He says with genuine remorse. Without even thinking about it, I hand him one of my beers and say “I won’t forgive you unless you drink this now.”  

The girls hear this and look at me like I’m a wild man, but to my delight, the young man looks at me like he just found a new friend, he grabs the beer out of my hand and slurps it down. I give him a broad smile and introduce myself. 

“Name’s Gonzales, bro.” he says. I like Gonzales, he’s one of the good guys. “You guys are cool,” he says, as if concurring with my internal thought, “you should come over to my campsite, we got the place pimped out.”

I look over my shoulders to the Snark Sisters, and the unimpressed/uninterested look has returned to their faces, as if there was nothing they wanted to do less than check out his “pimped out” place.  But I ask him where it is, all the same.

“It’s just over there,” he says, pointing in the direction we are heading already, “follow me.”

When we arrive at Gonzales campsite, I completely understand his choice of words in describing it. His campsite is in fact, pimped out. I mean, it appears to be actually five campsites combined as one; just one long row of connecting tarps. It looks more like a small scale circus than a campsite. Gonzales enters the circus first, and ushers us in. I look over at Becky and Sharon, they seem wary about the whole thing but they’re following just the same.

 Once we enter, we are treated to quite a sight. It’s clear these guys have been planning this for quite some time. Bean bags and make-shift couches decorate the area, as well as about ten large coolers that I later discover are filled with both beer and apple juice containers filled with Hennessey (no glass bottles allowed in the ‘roo). Gonzales group consists of about fifteen people, all Hispanic males, who I secretly refer to as The Gonzales Boys. As a whole, they seem to be like your classic group of fun loving, rowdy partiers. Exactly what I look for in my pre-party crowd. Things are getting better and better right now. I can feel the magic of the Bonnaroo day seeping back into my soul.

I look back at Becky and Sharon, they don’t seem to be feeling the exact same way, but they do accept the beers that the Gonzales boys offers, so that’s promising.

So the three of us take a seat and we all start to get to know one another. This lasts a few minutes until I spot a beer pong table at the far end of their site and instinctively make the claim that I will kick anyone’s ass at beer pong.

“Aw, hell no, homie, you are fucking going down!” is the response I get, in ten different variations, all at the same time.

The challenge has been made and accepted.

In no time at all, I find myself playing some classic beer pong with the Gonzales Boys, while the Snark Sisters watch from the side and make, well, snarky comments to one another about the stupidity of beer pong. But you can tell they’re enjoying the moment. We all are. It’s a beautiful moment.

 You know, people think that pre-partying is just about drinking and having fun, but I don’t think that’s entirely true. Yes, those two things are definitely involved, but I feel the real power in the pre-party is soaking up the anticipation. There’s no better high in the world than anticipation. Take this moment right now, for instance. If you isolated this moment, no future, no past, it will still be a fun moment. But the fact that we have so much to look forward to, so much mystery that’s yet to be solved, that’s what makes all of us so giddy right now.

As we play beerpong, I can hear the sounds of the festival much more clearly than when I was back at the site. We’re so much closer to the moment at hand. In a short amount of time we will have entered the fray and the real story will begin, but right now, I’ll I have to do is focus on my next shot while I soak up the anticipation that we’re all swimming in.