childishrevolutionary

[childishrevolutionary]

Last Call Before Rehab

The walls of this Michigan sports bar are lined with the jerseys and newspaper headlines of teams well past their primes that haven’t accomplished anything in decades. The usual clientele fit the same description. Blue collar, salt of the earth people, who for the last six hours of their shift building this country, couldn’t think of anything but taking that first sip of the same light beer they fell in love with at 17. The closest thing we get to anything new going on around here is when the General Motors guys bring in a new hire to join them in their after-work ritual. The new guy doesn’t usually come around too much at first, until one day when he realizes there’s nothing else to do in the city of Pontiac but bust your ass for $19,000 a year and call some decrepit sports bar home. Here I go thinking nothing out of the ordinary’s gonna happen today until I see two new faces walk in: a middle-aged woman and a younger looking guy, the former coming to sit at the bar, and the latter slinking off to a booth way by the door. 

She says to me, “Hey pal, how ‘bout a pint of Miller. And hell, one for the guy over there,” gesturing towards the guy she came in with. 

There’s about fifteen things here that strike me as odd, and I let her know right away. “Ok ma’am—”

“Hey I’m not that old.”

“Right. What I was saying—lady—is there’s clearly something fishy going on here. First, I get two newbies in here out of the blue, haven’t had a newbie in weeks, one of ‘em looks like a high schooler, and you’re trying to buy the two of you a round?”

“Uhhh,” she stammers nervously, “we just happened to be on our way in when we both stopped for a cigarette and struck up a conversation. And I’m feeling generous today so I figure why not get the first one on me.”

“Must’ve been some kind of conversation if you’re sitting here and he’s way the hell over there. Plus, from what I can see, he hardly looks of age. I forget, did you say you met him in the parking lot, or at a Chuck E. Cheese?”

“Alright fine, just get me my own damn pint,” she demands.

I still can’t shake the feeling that something ain’t right here. At this point, I can serve her, hoping she becomes a regular, netting me an extra ten to fifteen bucks a night. Or I could be nosy in hopes she gives me a good story to tell when the boys come in later. Hell, the boys would love a good story, and I would too. “Who’s the kid, lady?” I ask her. “You two clearly know each other from somewhere. Was he sitting outside waiting to ask someone to buy him booze? I told those kids once already I ain’t servin’ ‘em.”

She sighs for a moment, and hanging her head, she mutters “He’s my son. 19.” 

“Come on lady, you know I’m not serving a minor.”

“You don’t have to keep calling me lady. Name’s Shelley.”

The name sounds familiar, I’m not sure why at first, but then it clicks. “Hey, I might’ve heard about you. I’ve heard about a blondie that’s a regular over at Dean’s. I think he’s told me about you, you’re supposed to be pretty handy with a pool stick ain’t you?”

“Yep that’s me. Word sure does get around this town doesn’t it?” She’s still staring at her feet for a good ten seconds until she yells out “God dammit!” so loud and unexpected that even her kid perks his head up. 

I can definitely see there’s a story here. I would say this is something you don’t see everyday, but I don’t think that does it justice. This is something you don’t see anyday. The boys are gonna love this one. “Alright Shelley, how ‘bout this. I get you your pint, on me, and you tell me what’s troubling you. You seem to be in a bad way.”

“That’s kind of you, but I always pay my own tab. Don’t need any of the men in this town thinkin’ I owe ‘em something.”

“Have it your way,” I say, pouring her drink. “What’s the issue? How ‘bout we start with why you’re trying to buy beer for your underage son.”

She takes a long, hard exhale out of her nostrils, looking off in the distance, before she replies “I gotta take him into rehab. But I have to get him drunk first.”

I look at her thinking either she’s got dementia, or I gotta get my ears checked. “Shelley, if I heard you correctly, I think it should go without saying that that’s quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Your kid that’s not even old enough to drink has to go to rehab, and you decide to take him to a bar?”

“You think that’s dumb, well let me tell you this: most rehab facilites don’t accept patients unless they’re currently drunk or had a recent drinking spell. Even a guy who drinks himself blind 7 days a week can go sober for 4 days, enough to get himself into detox, and the facility won’t take him, even though there’s almost a 100% chance he goes back to his old ways sooner or later.”

“Ok, I’ll admit, that’s kinda crazy, borderline fucked up. But did you think you’d really get away with getting him a drink here? And by the way, you’re gonna need a lot more than a pint to get him drunk.”

“Only reason I didn’t go to Dean’s is ‘cause everyone knows me around there, meaning they know my Joey’s only 19. I thought I’d try here ‘cause I never been.”

“I guess I can see the logic in that, but one beer? Surely that ain’t gonna be enough to get the kid— ”

“I don’t wanna get my own son piss ass drunk,” she announces loud enough that if anyone else were in the bar they probably would’ve done a spit-take. “I don’t wanna see him like that. I was thinking if he could just show he has little bit of something in his system, then they’d take him.”

“Jesus, Shelley, I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry about all that.”

“Thanks,” she says in a pissed off tone, not pissed at me of course, but at the situation. 

“But I mean, if he’s got a drinking problem you’ve probably seen him drunk before. What’s wrong with seeing it this time if it’s for the sake of getting him helped?”

“That’s the thing. I only just now found out. I’ve only seen him drunk once.”

“C’mon, if he belongs in rehab there’s no way you only—”

“I only. Just. Now. Found out,” she asserts, clearly meaning business.

“Sheesh, alright. But before you cut me off again, let me just make a few educated guesses here, alright? You probably work real hard at some job that doesn’t pay you nearly what you deserve. And after that, you spend the rest of your night at Dean’s, drinking Millers and crushing those guys at pool. So with all that time spent on your own, his dad’s probably not in the picture, is he?

“Deadbeat took off a day after I told him I was pregnant. Sometimes I think the only way he could’ve disappeared that fast was by joining the army and getting shipped off to fight straight away. If that was the case, I like to think karma caught up with him and he got his ass shot on day one.”

“Alright, so no dad. But the kid’s 19 and still living at home? From what I hear, you’re a no nonsense kind of woman. You don’t seem like you’d let a kid stay home after high school without pulling his weight.”

“Right again. He wasn’t anything special in the classroom at the start, but I told him as soon as he’s done with school, diploma or not, he’s gonna have to work if he wants to stay with me. So he finished up school instead of dropping out, and work, he did. He had a steady job since right before graduation, his friend Scott picked him up each morning and they worked at Bass Pro Shop over at the mall. Never had an issue paying his share.”

“Until…”

“Until one day two weeks ago my boss gives everyone a half day, so I head down to the mall to get some new shoes. On my way out I decide to pop in to Bass Pro to say hi to Joey, ‘cause I never got to see him at work on account of us always working at the same times. I don’t find him so I ask the manager if Joey’s on break, that I’m his mother and I’d like say a quick hello, to which he replies that he doesn’t know a single Joey that’s ever worked there.”

“Oh shit. So he was in for it, huh?”

“Big time. So I skip going to Dean’s for the night just to wait for him to come home so I can chew him out and find out where the hell the money was coming from. That’s when he drunkenly stumbles in, surprised to see that I’m home, and through slurred words tries to explain it’s not what it looked like. Poor idiot thought I was upset with him being drunk, he had no idea I knew about the job. So I came up with a good idea. I told him sleep it off, that I wasn’t mad. But the next morning I told him, ‘hey, how ‘bout I take you into work today instead of your buddy.’ He tried to explain that I didn’t have to do that, that Scott would be there any second to pick him up, but I insisted that he get his ass in the car so I can drive him to the mall. Halfway there, his phone is blowing up and, still acting oblivious, I say ‘boy, you seem popular today, who’s texting you.’ He tried to say ‘oh, it’s no one,’ but I snatched the phone out of his hands and saw it was Scott sending texts like ‘HEY MAN WHERE ARE YOU WE JUST GOT THIS BIG BATCH OF DOPE TO SELL!!!’ and ‘DUDE YOU’RE FUCKING UP OUR BUSINESS!!’ and a bunch of crap like that.”

“Wow, so he was selling dope?”

“Yup, selling it to the rich kids in Bloomfield Hills. You know the type, private school kids driving BMWs and Range Rovers, not knowing that $30 for a gram is nowhere close to a good deal. But it turns out Joey was using some of his profits to pay people to buy him alcohol, or he got it in exchange for weed from some rich college grad asshole that went back to live at home off daddy’s money. Apparently he was hitting the bottle pretty hard for a year now, so that’s how we ended up here, at this shitty bar.”

Now, I could take offense to the comment about this being a shitty bar, but she wasn’t wrong because I call the place shitty 20 times a day. “Ok, I see, but if he’s moving enough weed to make rent and drink the rest of the money away, don’t you think maybe he needs more than rehab? Like a scared straight program or something?”

“Oh he’s done with that weed crap for sure. I told him if I even get a whiff of that smell on him, or the slightest scent of alcohol on his breath, his ass is out on the street. And I told his buddy Scott that I’ll shove my foot up his ass if he ever contacts Joey again. I don’t care how old he is, if I have to babysit him for the next five years I’ll do it. Anything to keep him from being anything like that bastard father of his or the other lowlife men in this town.”

“Well, that sounds like some A+ parenting, and a hell of a story. But can I give you a piece of advice? I’m no therapist, but when you’re a bartender in this neck of the woods, you play therapist to about a dozen people a week.”

“Go ahead, lay it on me.”

“If you really wanna help your son, go to a nearby liquor store, leave him in the car, and buy a pint. I’m not talking a pint of beer, I’m talking a pint of hard liquor. And spare the cashier your life story. It’s a good one, well, tragic I mean. But if you wanna help this kid—”

“His name’s Joey,” she interjects. “My son’s name is Joey. I’ve told it to you about a hundred times.”

“If you wanna help Joey, tell him to down that bottle and take him to the nearest rehab facility, if that’s what it takes to get him admitted. And I don’t think you should be spending so much time at Dean’s.”

“Hey I don’t need a lecture from you, you watch people drink their lives away every single day and you probably don’t say shit to ‘em,” she retorts, real hostile. “That being said, I actually am done with the booze. This was real eye opening, it’s like everyone in this city’s got some vice or addiction.”

“Ain’t that the truth, but it’s not just this city, it’s everywhere. Compare me and Joey. Like you said, I make a living watching people slowly kill themselves. He was making a living making sure rich white kids could get stoned in their dad’s mansion. We’re both two guys hustling to make a dollar no matter what, because around here, your main concern is paying the next bill. I know you know what I mean.”

“True.”

“And compare the users. Those rich kids drink and smoke to have a good time and party because they’re spoiled brats whose actions have no consequences. People ‘round here drink and smoke ‘cause their boss is riding them, or they can’t make rent, or once you start taking a good look around, you realize we live in a community of hopelessness and despair.”

“I see what you’re saying, but doesn’t it ever occur to you that we’re in despair because everyone’s got an unhealthy coping mechanism? Think about this: someone gets a DUI, but they can’t afford to have a criminal record, can’t afford court fees, can’t pay bills, and can’t keep a job because they’re spending half of the work week in mandated counseling and court appearances. Half of ‘em feel they have no option but turn to the bottle even though the bottle is what got ‘em there in the first place.”

“As sad as it sounds, those are my best customers.”

“And doesn’t that weigh on you? Actively participating in the death and destruction of your community?”

“Sure it does, but like you said, everyone’s got their own vices and coping mechanisms, and I’m no different. Which leads me back to the subject of Dean’s. I said you shouldn’t go there because I think you should start spending more time here.

“And why in the hell would I do that? I told you I’m done drinking.”

“Because my coping mechanism is about six blunts a day, and the price of weed just went up around here in the last two weeks—now I know why. We all gotta hustle, and I could use the extra cash.”

[childishrevolutionary]

I made this video poem right before my 20th birthday. Wrote it, shot it on my phone and put it all together in only a few hours. Something a little more on the fun side.

[childishrevolutionary]

Klan Ribs

Just so we’re clear, I’m not racist, the klan just makes really good ribs. And believe it or not, some of the klansmen are halfway decent people. Aside from the whole ‘racism’ and ‘white supremacy’ thing of course. But you have to believe me, I’m not racist. About two years ago my work buddy comes in gleaming about a meeting he attended the night before.

“What are you in such a good mood for?” I ask.

“Dude you’re gonna think I’m crazy if I tell you this.”

“Try me.”

“I went to a KKK rally last night.”

“The fuck!?”

“Ok first of all, I didn’t know what it was. I only went on accident.”

“How the fuck do you go to a meeting full of dudes in white hoods on accident?”

“See that’s the thing. I joined this motorcycle club that meets at one of those halls at the Sheraton. I walked into the wrong room but I didn’t even know it until I was halfway through the meeting. I walk in and ask the first guy I see ‘hey you’re the guys with the bikes out front right?’ And I mean he’s a klansman so there’s already a 50/50 chance he rides a motorcycle, so he says yes. And I’m like, sweet, and I see there’s a nice spread of food, a bunch of barbecue and soul food type stuff. And I’m starving, so I make myself a fat plate and this stuff is absolutely delicious, it got me thinking maybe the most racist thing the klan does is keep their barbecue recipes a secret from the rest of the world.”

“Hold up hold up hold up, the white hoods didn’t set you off?”

“Dude, the meeting is at a fucking Sheraton, they can’t book that place if they all show up in hoods. So anyway the first half of this meeting, everyone is just chilling, talking about whatever, I’m chatting with that guy about my Harley. Then we all sit down and a guy gets up on stage, and even at this point I still don’t know what I’m in for. He’s looking around the room, saying he sees a couple new faces, and he singles me out. He’s like ‘I see we have a new brother, and I see you’re enjoying the food.’ And I’m like, yea totally, shit’s amazing. That’s when shit gets real. He starts talking about white power and everyone is saying amen and all that like it’s fucking church. That’s when I knew I was in too deep.”

“So just leave the goddam place.”

“Nah man, cause I mean it, I had a LOT of food. Even had a to-go plate ready. I couldn’t just leave, that’d be rude.”

“Oh of course, you have to fake being racist to avoid being rude. Makes sense.”

“Please, just shut the fuck up and listen. So I gotta sit through thirty minutes of these racist ramblings because the last thing I need is to be on the klan’s bad side. But with that barbecue they had, it was bearable. You should come next time.”

“Next time! Motherfucker are you telling me you’re gonna go BACK to a klan meeting?”

“I don’t think you’re understanding—not comprehending—how great this food is. Plus if you think about it, the more we eat, the less food there is for the klan, so we’re kinda doing the world a favor.”

“Dude, even if I was depraved enough to go with you, I don’t think I’m gonna fit in too well, you know, cause I’m fucking Jewish.”

“See that just makes it all the more beautiful. You’ll be pulling one over on them and they don’t even have to know. As long as you’re not black, you can hide every other thing those fuckers hate. No one has to know you’re Jewish or Catholic or if you suck twenty dicks a day. Just don’t wear the damn yarmulka and eat the Kosher options.”

“Ok first of all, you’re an asshole, I just hope you know that. Second, I don’t practice being Kosher, only the strict Jews do that. My sect of Judaism is pretty chill but I’m still Jewish.”

“Dude, I’m pretty sure the owner of that hotel is a black dude too. The klan doesn’t even realize that every time they book that place, they’re putting money in a black man’s pockets. What harm is it gonna do to come with me and increase the irony just a bit?”

So anyway he convinces me to go with him the next week just because I thought it’d be funny, and the man was not lying. Those ribs and that brisket were ON POINT. And he had already made a ‘friend’ there and they just talked about their common interests, bikes, football, regular coworker kind of talk. Every time the guy brings up racist shit we kinda just danced around the subject and brought it back to normal conversation. And I know what you’re thinking, how do we make it through the rest of the meeting. Well it’s easy when you can’t even hear what they’re saying over the sound of you munching on the best, most racist plate of down home cooking. And yea, they meet up outside of the Sheraton for other stuff where they actually have the burning cross and hoods and all that shit, but it’s not like they know whether I’m there or not because you can’t tell who’s under those robes. So yes, I’m technically in the klan because I’ve been attending their meetings religiously just to demolish their short ribs and bratwurst and country fried steak. But I’m not racist.