#it's a high energy dog in a small-ish house with a small-ish yard and they rarely take him on walks

[xoxoemynn]

if I completely lose my mind it's going to be due to my neighbor's dog

[fulldreamsahead]

Cold Feet Cold Body

So we have our players, 3 girls and two boys. In my dream they did not have names so I will just retroactively give them names that I think fit them. My name is Maria. My female friends’ names are Tina and Janine. Tina is a dyed blond with her roots showing, she likes to do smokey eyes but never really washes away the rest of her makeup correctly and it always ends up looking a bit too smudged. Janine is a yes girl with a big mop of curly black hair on her head and warm-toned skin, she is always beautiful and on point. I never get to see myself but in snippits of movement I can see I have dark-ish skin and thick dark colored hair. Our men are Travis, a man who looks like Adam Devine in a Anders Holm-style hat, and Jared his associate, a man that is tall and jacked.

Our plot begins with me being invited to be a bridesmaid at Tina's wedding. We’re living in a relatively metropolitan area that is skirted on all sides by farmland (much like DFW) and her dream, even though she has NO REALATION WHATSOEVER to the country, is to have the ultimate country wedding. She has always liked the idea of barn raisings and such. In her wedding preparations she has become a 'country girl' and even adopted a slight southern twang even though she is from California born and raised. I find this detestable but am very polite and smile through the fields of fake. I want to believe Janine is my guiding light, I try to take her aside to talk about it but in dipping my toe into the water I realize that she cannot even tell the difference and is just elated to be maid of honor. I am at a loss. While preparing for the wedding realize the most perplexing thing; I have not met or heard of the groom, a man by the name of Timothy. For some reason I find it weird that no one is allowed to slang it to Tim, his visage seems too elegant and I am suspicious. Timothy is apparently loaded and rents us out a mansion-like air bnb in the middle-of-nowhere farm country to do our wedding preparations. The wedding itself will be held at a neighboring farm, ONLY 20 miles out and the preparations there are going smoothly. The groom and the groomsmen will be staying at that location, but it is not as updated as our location, and he wanted us to be pampered and have a girls spa weekend prior to the Sunday wedding.

  On Friday morning we arrive, I park and find mysterious Timothy helping his beloved move all her things into the air bnb. It turns out he is actually my high school boyfriend TIM who dumped me after cheating on me with some 'skank' at a party. I found out via an old friend Bernice, who had been at the party and showed me photos of him macking on some blond chick in a skimpy pink tube top and then taking her into one of the bedrooms. We do a flashback of the scene and me dumping him while pouring an entire route 44 over his head. Back in the present I make pleasantries with him. He doesn't seem to remember me but I am not surprised. It's been about 11 years since then and we only dated a few months in freshman year. Tina giddily grabs his arm to officially introduce us and of course Janine asks the stereotypical question of “how did you guys meet?” It turns out that Tina was the 'skank' at the party and we have another flashback revealing so. She refers to the 'me' in the story as 'some bitch' that she gladly stole this hunk away from. She says they lost touch after their one night stand but then by fate they met up again about 6 months ago and the sex was 'just as good'. I am furious, I have been friends with Tina since high school. I know for a fact she knows what I went through, she was with me while I was ugly crying in the high school bathrooms. I am already on edge when she brings out a dog. A big fluffy husky who turns happily at the sight of his owners (Tina and Timothy). My fists clench. That is my dog. This is where it gets really strange, apparently. I lost my dog earlier that year having a bad time (maybe there can be a bad year montage at the beginning of the movie) and Tina offered to help me look. She was the one who insisted that I finally give up after about a month, but I was heartbroken nonetheless. I mention that out loud that he looks just like my Archduke Ferdinand. I can see the cracks in her glass smile as she says “oh hun, not this again, I just loved your sweet pooch so much I had to get one of my own! Is it too soon?” She turns to Timothy to ask him to take the dog with him and I insist it's ok. I have a sure fire way of figuring it out, I just need a moment alone with the dog. After hauling in the rest of the belongings, I say goodbye to TIM much to his discharge.

  We spend the rest of the morning setting up the house and taking stock. There are some farm animals in the house and, while from the outside it looks like a regular old fashioned country two story, on the inside it is a totally decked out fully modern gorgeous property. The backyard has endless greenery rolling up to a crashing wave of cedar forest lining the property. There is a gnarly hundred-year-old oak tree on the eastern half of the property. As Tina is setting up her expansive makeup collection in the bathroom and Janine has decided to lay down on the couch and take advantage of cable, I met up with 'Fluffykins' in the yard. When I had Archduke Ferdinand, I had him micro-chipped. Out here in the middle of nowhere I can't actually get it checked to see if he’s mine but I do remember that he was mistakenly micro-chipped in his butt instead of his back due to his eagerness. I doubt anyone else would make a similar mistake. He follows me eagerly (remembering me?) and I go to investigate a local shed on the property. Opening the door looks like a scene out of a horror move; you see my silhouette power stance in the doorway of the dark and cobwebbed palace of yard instruments. While a stud finder can't identify any microchip information, it can ping you to its location in the dog. A quick swipe over the butt and I hear the ping. I drop to my knees and shed a few tears and hug my dog. He struggles and licks my face in confusion. After I am able to recollect myself I am furious, the rages of Satan burn in my eyes and we have a montage of some stupid things that Tina has done to me over the years. “Oh yeah, those bangs totally suit you!” “No girl that dress does not make you look fat.” “Oh honey, there is no way a man can resist a girl with frosted tips.”

  Oh why did I let her go with me to the salon more than once. This 'bitch' has been ruining my life for years and I am done. I breath in, sigh, and Ferdinand follows me out of the shed and I lock up shop. I go inside and put on my customer service smile and greet Tina who whines at me and asks me where I have been. I tell her that I was just getting some fresh air and she makes a note about how she doesn't want the humidity to throw off my hair because we all have to look in sync. The corner of my mouth twitches but I stay focused.  I ask about food options and she sighs haughtily saying she couldn't get the host to feed us so we are going to have to send someone to go get food. I offer quickly and she thanks me with a fake sickly sweet sound. Everything about her looks like a cracked up doll: the eyes too big, the smile too painted on, and I can't take it. I go down to a local 'grocery store' or shall I say dollar mart and pick up what can be turned into meals for us for the weekend. This is where we meet Travis and Jared. They are bumming it in the back of a pickup in the parking lot, drinking monster energy drinks and doing chew. I put my bags in the car and approach them. They begin to puff out their chests like birds to hit on me and I stop them right in their tracks. “Hey fellas I have a fucked up idea, want in?” They deflate immediately and seem a bit scared of how abrasive I am. I tell them the gist of what is going on and Jared is particularly passionate about taking another person’s dog. I thank him and I ask him if they could pull a little Texas Chainsaw Massacre and come over to scare the shit out of the girls tonight. That will teach Tina to be in a place she doesn't understand and crack her fake-ass exterior. They seem reluctant so I offer them each 50$ and they are in. The plan is they go at the house Strangers style, with no intention of actually entering the house and we will disconnect the phone lines prior. I make a mental note to unplug the girls’ phones and tamper with the lock screens to keep the brightness on so they lose battery and we are 'trapped'. They understand their limits and not to hurt anyone and we are golden. I give them the address and we are set. 

I return with the food and Tina nitpicks my choices while Janine makes the best of it. The rest of the evening is uneventful, while Tina complains that she wishes she had catered a sushi platter to us instead of the burgers we were forced to eat because the meat goes straight to her non existent flat ass. As it gets dark I put my phone plan into action and convince the girls to watch a horror movie to really set the mood. We watch Friday the 13th and at 11 p.m. the fun begins. I hear the boys shit truck putter by on the highway, they honk just driving past the house to alert me that they will be parking down the road and on their way. The movie still has 15 minutes and this could not have been planned better. As the movie winds down the boys make it to the property. First they disconnect the power. The girls scream in the dark and I follow suit, I’m a pretty good actor after years of putting up with Tina's bullshit. As we head as a group for the breaker box outside the house, a light hung just above the small scary shed to make it even more erie is still on and tall Jared is standing under it in a mask. Tina is terrified and runs back inside the house, Janine pulls on my should and screams we need our phones. We run back in, lock the door, and the girls run for their cells phones finding them all to be drained and dead. They also cannot seem to find the cords to their chargers. Tina immediately blames me for my shitty unpacking for some reason and I snap at her in the heat of the moment that her dumb-ass fiancee must have misplaced them! Janine is crying, poor girl, she does not deserve this but she is an innocent bystander in what must be done. Ferdinand is pacing by the back glass door whimpering. Tina asks him what's wrong. He barks and a sickle shines just right and scratches down the glass. The girls freak out and run around the house. Tina makes a beeline for a neighboring bedroom instead of the master for some reason. Meanwhile the boys are laughing outside about what a good job they are doing, they are over in the barn with the other animals laughing about why a sickle is even on the property. “Are they harvesting wheat like the slavery ages?” Travis has a great idea to let the animals out and Jared is skeptical, he doesn't want them to get hurt. Travis says “Why would they? It’s a closed property. They'll probably just run amok.” So Jared agrees and they open the barn and all the cages. The horse runs out first and they snicker about which windows they should harass next. 

Back in the house shit gets real when Tina pulls out a fucking gun from the top of the extra bedroom closet on the second floor. Both Janine and I are twice as on edge. “When the fuck did you get that?!” Janine asks (a huge anti-gun person). Tina says “Shut the fuck up Janine, you know they could have stopped Sandy Hook if the teacher would have been armed.” Janine is furious and Tina loads the gun and holds it loosely in her hand, the two of them bicker and I am panicking. I have to tell the boys to get out as soon as possible this has gone tits up and that is when I here a smash of glass downstairs. Tina takes front position and we all get dead silent. I panic realizing we never set up a safe-word and knock over a decorative vase in the hallway. Tina pivots the gun at me and I shout a little too loudly for her to GET THAT FUCKING GUN AWAY FROM ME, hoping to alert the boys and also scolding myself remembering that I told them specifically not to come inside the house. We reach the bottom of the stairs and we hear some non-specific crashing in an adjacent room, we move around the corner and see nothing and then, jump-scare, it’s the fucking horse, his eyes illuminated red with the flashlight we found in an upstairs bathroom sink cabinet. Tina fires the gun instantly, missing the horse and the thing goes fucking nuts, kicking and neighing destroying everything. We collectively lose our minds and scatter. The boys are on the east of the house and contemplate if that was a gunshot. Jared says “This shit is too much” and that they should bail. Travis agrees and as they pass the gnarled oak they hear a sound and turn. It’s a mother raccoon. Jared punches Travis for scaring him and comments on how cute it is. Travis tells him to fuck off and screams at the animal hoping to scare it off for scaring him. It full on attacks him and he runs careening around the corner of the house with Jared cursing under his breath to help him.

A lot of other high-jinks ensue over the night and in the morning we are all wrecked. Especially Tina whose hair is a rats nest and her smokey eye has become a smokey face. We trapped the boys at some point and somehow by the grace of god they do not blame me, they just say they were trying to have some fun with city girls and something about gentrification of air bnb in the area, surprising everyone with their wit. I took the gun away from Tina and am rubbing my temples with it in my hand. She was too trigger happy anyway. I end up sighing and saying fuck it and come clean about everything, going from screaming to tears, Tina is sympathetic and right when we are about to make up there is a crackle in the tree line and something gray comes running at us in full speed. In total automatic reflex Tina grabs the gun an fires at it thinking its the raccoon, but its Ferdinand, he is hit. Everyone goes into fast motion at that point, we bring him to the vets office and in the waiting room Tina and I have a screaming match and everything comes out.  

Unfortunately like most dreams there is no real ending... Though I wish there was... 

[maskydoo-old]

Nightmare Neighbors 2

(I’m writing out scripts for upcoming storytime style youtube videos, and posting what I have here. Note that this is a true story. Feedback is welcome.)

When my boyfriend and I first bought our house, we thought did pretty well for ourselves.

It was everything we wanted at the time. Plenty of space for us, our pets, and our guests. It had a large yard, a two-car garage, and was in pretty nice area. It even came with a hot top. A leaky hot tub that the house’s wiring couldn’t properly handle, but still a hot tub.

So it needed a little work in some places. What new home doesn’t?

We assumed minor disrepair of the house was why we paid relatively little for it compared to other nearby houses.

For a first house for a young couple, yeah, not so bad. Things were going well.

Ours was the corner house, leaving us with just one neighboring family, a middle-aged-ish couple, and school-age boy.

At first I worried that the kid might be a problem. See my previous video for why I wasn’t thrilled to live near children.

But to my surprise, the neighbor boy turned out to actually be no trouble.

In fact, it was a little weird. I never heard him at all. Heck, I rarely even saw him. He was hardly ever in his yard and didn’t play with the other neighborhood kids. I’m not sure he even had any friends.

Looking back now, I wonder what home life was like for him, and I just hope he is OK. He deserves better than the parents he’s stuck with.

No, the ones who caused the problems were his parents.

It started with small things. Almost justifiable things. Things that even made me question my own perceptions of events, wondering if I was making things a bigger deal than they were, and if I was really the one at fault.

I was basically trying to rationalize their escalating hostility. Because people just do not act they do without cause – right?

That’s what I thought…

But eventually the madness got to a pitch that my patient chill level and willingness to give people the benefit of the doubt was strained to the breaking point.

Since these two will be the focus of this story, I should give them names. I won’t be using their real names, despite how satisfying it might be to absolutely DRAG them, and it’s not like they could do anything about it legally as I have plenty of evidence including court records to prove everything.

But no, I’m just using fake names here, if to avoid giving internet detectives any help finding out where I live. Not that I think anyone would bother.

(tumbleweed)

So. Loony and Toony Feckwad it is.

I tried to make nice with the neighbors.

I happened to go to get the mail one day at the same time as Loony. We had a shared mailbox post, one 4X4 sticking out of the ground with both of our mailboxes on it. It would have been awkward to not at least greet her.

I introduced myself, as you do with new neighbors. She didn’t say anything… particularly impolite at this first meeting. She really didn’t really say much at all. Just seemed a bit… standoffish.

I took it as disinterest and put it out of my mind.

I was actually happy to slink away from that particular social situation. There was something about that look in her eyes…

Ugh- those eyes! She had those eyes were always wide and intense, yet glassy and unfocused. The Amy Bouzaglo eyes. The Michelle Bachman eyes. Crazy eyes. Cliché as it seems, she really had them. Toony did too.

If she stared at me any harder it might break the skin.

I don’t expect neighbors to be built-in friends or to have any kind of obligations to each other. Some people like to keep to themselves and that’s fine. I was happy to keep to myself as well.

If only these people really did just keep to themselves.

I went on my business without much thought of my neighbors after that. I almost forgot these people even existed at all by the time the trouble started.

One day, I found a handwritten note in my mailbox.

As far as I know, it’s actually illegal to go putting things in people’s mailboxes when you’re not an authorized mail carrier, but whatever

Oh, it’s from the neighbor lady… I already forgot her name. Weird, she never speaks to me. What does she want?

I wish I kept this note so I could relay what this it said accurately, or even just post it, and certainly would have been useful as evidence when I eventually took these people to court (spoiler) buuut I didn’t. I didn’t realize then it would get so out of hand as that.

So. Here it is, from my flawed human memory:

First, she wrote “To Molly’s Mom.”

Yeah, she addressed me as “Molly’s mom.” Molly is my dog.

Maybe she forgot my name? Fair enough, I already forgot hers.

Or, maybe it was some light hearted thing and the note would be friendly. Maybe an invitation to a dog party!

I am the optimist.

Ah… Nope. Nope. It was definitely a nastygram.

Basically, Loony thinks my dog is pooping in her front yard.

Well, she wasn’t. Molly stays in the fenced back yard. Loony’s front yard has no fence, just like mine doesn’t, and we both get visitors from various animals: loose dogs, cats, coyotes, deer, all more likely culprits.

But hey, honest mistake, right? No big deal. We’ll laugh about this later.

A normal note would have ended there. But not hers. There was more. Lots more.

… Then I… noticed something. Loony was standing in her driveway, stock still, just… staring at me, watching me read her note. I guess she wanted confirmation that I read her note. Well, fine, now she has it.

Me: ‘You can stop staring at me like that now…’

I kept reading, mostly so I could pretend I didn’t see her staring. The note grew increasingly accusatory and now openly insulting.

Among other unkind things I won’t repeat, she called me “entitled” and seemed to believe I was somehow instructing dogs to poop in her yard. Like. I didn’t just let my dog poop on her yard, I was having the dog do it on purpose… for… reasons.

Then her note went on a tangent about how awful dogs and how much she hates them and how I shouldn’t assume everyone likes them.

Me: ‘Uh, Ok.’

The more I read, the more unhinged Loony got, both in the note and out.  I watched her in my peripheral vision. She got into her SUV and backed out of her driveway. I thought she was leaving and the staring was finally over, but nope she just drove over and stopped on the curb directly behind me.

Why? Did she want to talk? Maybe she had second thoughts about her letter. She probably wrote it when she wasn’t thinking clearly and it came out all wrong. Maybe she regretted it and was going out to my mailbox to take it back before I could see it, Only to see me opening it just then. How awkward! She must be so embarrassed, so she came over to explain herself. Yeah. That must be it.

Well, I didn’t hear any apology coming. She just idled there not saying anything.

I learned to stop being an optimist about these people after this.

I could feel her staring.

I pretended not to notice her, which left me nothing to do but keep reading the note. I wish I’d just got the mail and took it all inside before reading anything.

At this point, the note went on a nonsense tirade about the previous people to live in my home and how much Loony hated them, as if that has anything to do with me. Loony’s note called me “another Deb,” which I guess referred to the lady who used to live here. I could see why they sold their home in such a hurry.  

Then the note concluded in odd insults and what read to me like implied threats about her ‘giving me what’s coming to me.’ I think the note only ended at all because she ran out of space on the page to rant any more.

Me ‘As out of line as this note is, think this is the most this woman has had to say to me in the whole time I’ve lived here. And why is it was addressed specifically to me, “Molly’s Mom,” and not my boyfriend “Molly’s Dad?” Come to think of it, how did she even know I’d be the one home today to get the mail?’

Loony was still idling behind me. I wasn’t interested in speaking to her after reading all that. And idling behind me like that was just creepy. Why do that? It definitely didn’t seem like waiting for a chance to apologize.

What more could Loony want, anyway. She saw me read the note, which said all there was to say and then some. Shouldn’t that satisfy her enough?

I decided to just take the high road and ignore her. I’d go back to my house without acknowledging her weird behavior. Seemed polite to let her save face a little. I’d let her off the hook without further embarrassment.

At least, that’s what I wanted to do. But she wouldn’t have that.

Loony “ARE YOU PLAYING A GAME?!”

She actually yelled out her SUV window.

I was out of patience.

“Are you nuts?!”

Me: ‘What does that even mean? What in the world does she think I’ve done that’s playing a game?’

She acted indignant, as if I was the one out of line. Maybe she took me as someone who could be pushed around and like any Karen was shocked anyone had the nerve to not let her.  

She threw a number of insults, called me this and that. It wasn’t PG. Whatever.

I ordered her to move her vehicle, which was now blocking my driveway, or I’d call the cops. She yelled some more, but finally sped off when I pulled out my phone.

Looking back, I know I shouldn’t engage in back-and-fourths with crazy, aggressive people, I know I should use that phone to record, and I know I should just get into my house. It’s not about being a doormat and letting them get away with things, it’s about getting a record when one person is undeniably in the wrong. Give them enough rope to hang themselves.

But I didn’t know that at the time. And I was so taken off guard. I’d never seen a problem like this before in my life, and didn’t know how to handle it except to refuse to put up with it.  

I started to write a note in reply, basically refuting the claims and telling her how inappropriate acted… but in the end, I abandoned it. I never delivered it. Never even finished it. She wasn’t worth my time or emotional energy to be so concerned about.

When my boyfriend got home, he had a chat with Loony and Toony next door. He said they seemed agreeable enough to him.

Uh, yeah, my boyfriend is a 6’3 musclebound obvious veteran who could snap either of them like a twig, whereas I’m just 4’11 and still got offered kids’ menus when we went out on dates. Of course Loony would mind her manners around him more than around me.

And it’s not like Loony was going to be honest about her actions when telling her side anyway. I’m sure she told a very different story from, you know, reality.  

My boyfriend was always a friendly guy, and I’m sure treated them politely, probably gave them the benefit of the doubt, although he did see the note, but I’m betting him just showing up to speak to them at all was enough of a warning not to mess with me… at least as long as he’s around to have my back.

For a while, Loony didn’t cause any more trouble. So I figured her little episode that day would be a one-time event, not worth dwelling on. I would just ignore the neighbors and forget about it. I had my own life to live, after all.

Loony would glare at me from her front yard, like she wanted to say something, but kept her mouth shut. I just acted like I didn’t even see her. She didn’t exist, as far as I was concerned.

So this doesn’t seem so bad, right? Just a rude note and an absurd argument. Not a huge deal. If this had been the end of it, it would barely be a blip in my memory and wouldn’t have been worth retelling here. I would have never needed to call the cops, get a restraining order, or keep a pistol on me just to mow the lawn.

And it might have been the end of it if it weren’t for one thing: after a few years or so of living in that house, my boyfriend took a job that had him away overseas for months at a time. It didn’t take long for the neighbors to notice that I was home alone.

It was not the end. Loony and Toony were just getting started.

[wanderermatteo]

The Pier

The Pier I had spent the night awake, as now seemingly all my nights were. Nothing could free my mind from the confusions that clear thought held. I had to get high, soften the loneliness and the guilt that refused to let me rest in peace. Grabbing a dub and and my wallet. I dressed lightly and headed out of the shelter. The air was crisp and chilled by the early mornings still darkness. I found relief in the cold walk towards the pier, it seemed to take away the depression and replace it with more of an even keeled emotion. The pier as I expected was empty in the early dawn with the exception of an Asian fisherman, towards the end of the pier. Casting out twinned traps trying to catch I don’t know what out the polluted Hudson. I passed him walking all the way to the piers tip, and sat absorbing the mist that had yet to be cut by direct Sun light. I sat for a second and wished, I was on the other side of Manhattan. At least I could have seen the sun rise. I missed the sunrise, it seemed so lackluster and completely lacking in magic in the city. Or maybe that was just the homesick part of me thinking.

A sound behind me made me turn and look more suddenly and directly than politeness calls for at the face of and old Asian man running near the rail. He seemed to not realize the look or even m presence for that matter. He passed within a foot of me, following the rail exactly as it cornered and cornered again and lead back towards land. Unheaded by me his wife I am assuming passed me in the same manner and the same path as he, althouth a bit more rounded and less cornered path. She followed him as might a faithful dog tired of its masters ubsured energy. I smiled something about her was comedic and yet commendable. In my pocket my hand touched the sharp corner of the bag maryjane. Smiling again and remembering my purpose for this early visit to the pier. I pulled the bag and my wallet from my pocket. Putting bag between my teeth, I opened my wallet and took two Bob marleys out. The wind was not moving so rolling was a “breeze” I took my time though. I liked to think I rolled a beautiful joint and this would be no exception. I had no fear of police, I knew that at 4:30 the last of the night patrol had left, and it might be noon before the pier would be invaded again by their unwelcome presence. There. It was done, I felt proud. And why not it was perfect the finely crushed weed Thinly wrapped looked…I wish I could show it off. This interrupting thought made a feeling of loneliness sweep back, I lost the slight smile that had found a home on my face. But only for a second I was feeling better now and the unlit joint in my hand needed a lighter. Lighting the j took more of an effort than had rolling it, it seemed that with the sun beginning to rise was coming a breeze. Finally cupping my free hand, flicking the lighter hard, pulling deeply it lite. I pulled hard I had no desire for the small ember to go out. It glowed brightly slowly eating it’s way around the tip and down the j. Exhalling I almost coughed, the pull had been a bit much but I knew a few more like that and I would want nothing in the world but sleep. I smoked lazily just fast enough to keep the ember well lit but that was all. I noticed the sun had made its first contact with the houses on the Jersey side. Turning I saw it rising between the buildings of times square. The drug did its trick, even in the now growing breeze I didn’t feel the cold. The Waves and seagulls were more beauty and entertainment than I could wish for. My mind was now a simpler and more peaceful place. I felt the sudden heat of the ember on my finger tips, instinctively I flicked the small roach from my fingers. It landed on the boards of the pier and them a second later sweepted by the wind fell to the water below. I reached for and lit a cig, it tasted good. I smoked it much more quickly than I had the j. Pulling hard and exhaling, enjoying the clouds of smoke blowing into the wind. Footsteps again suddenly grabbed my attention, turning quickly my eyes found the eyes of man might have been 25 maybe 40. And obviously homeless. He returned the look walked up and asked for a cig, dahm I have to stop doing that, I thought. Eye contact in New York was always an invitation of some kind, and mostly unwelcome attention. But I was in a good mood and had a fresh pack so I replied in a friendly if not completely genuine “sure ya no problem.” After bumming a light as well, he sat down on the bench next to me. I had hoped he was going to at least leave me in peace, after getting a cig. But after setting his back pack down. He looked and asked me if I smoked. The sarcastic answer of “of course” “im smoking now” came to mind, but I knew what he meant. A simple yes came to my lips and before I knew it he was unzipping a pocket in his pack and pulled out a nice looking blunt, lit it, and held it towards me. And though still somewhat standoff ish, to his presence. I accepted his implied offer and took the blunt. You have no idea what the fuck is in that blunt. Was the one clear thought my intoxicated brain had but it was not alarming enough to me in that moment. And besides he seems calm and intelligent enough. I pulled once, exhaling and reaching the blunt towards him. He motioned for me to take another pull. It tasted good so I looked the offer this time with less fear and more friendship. Exhalling a second time I handed it back to him. He began saying sometime about the dahm fucking Asians always running around for no reason. I was to high to really object or even really listen. Although something in his voice made me laugh, and them convulsively cough as a result. Rookie mistake I thought. Never laugh while smoking. Looking down I noticed his feet were worn through the leather shoes he was wearing. Something about him made me double think my perceptive powers. Everything about his clothes said bum, and yet something about the way he had walked when he approached, the clear blue of his eyes and may be something about his nose gave him an air of royal presence. Haha here! Pulled from my thoughts I noticed he had been trying to pass the weed back, I smiled, laughed and “sorry I zoning out”. He laughed and I pulled, things became quiet for the first time since he had sat down, it seemed my Caucasian brother had run out of racist comments about the Asian fisherman 20 yards behind us. Suddenly he jumped up. Standing in front of me he waved his hand out as calming a cheering crowd and began delivering lines from what I thought was the sapranos. He mimicked well, every line was perfect in tone and delivered beautifully. But all I could feel was embarrassed, I looked around quickly and no one seemed to be around. Even the Fisherman seemed oblivious to the performance going on before me. “And cut!” Was his enfatict punctuation to the bit of theater. Looking at me he seemed unaffected by what had to have been mere shock and confusion on my face. Spinning lightly he sat back down and asked me if I knew that the pyramid capped building behind us was the illuminati head quarters in New York. I trying to keep my smile hidden, told him I did not. He then began telling me about his girl friend, well one of his girl friends, his Russian girl friend who because of her families blood lines had been invited to that building and had seen the secret workings within. Even though doubting his sanity at this point, I decided his story entertaining and asked questions at points as he told me his tale. He had been born weathly, but had become poor on the sudden death of his aunt who raised him. On his 30rth birthday a fortune would be his, the trust of the estate would be put in his name. He had seen much of the world Russia and Italy, were the only places he thought worth being. Since the power of the world rested in their hands. So on and forth his story came. I could not laugh, so sincerely did he talk that I feel he would have been hurt if I seemed anything but believing. He was maybe the most racist man I have ever met, he told me that the “plutarians” some sort of alien race had founded the world and mixed their blood with that of the Aryan races. He told me that he was the last of the plutarians, and all hope of preserving this long hallowed race were all but lost. I should have disagreed, this is a sinful thing to say, but it felt good even if only in the whimsical tales of this crazy man, to feel superior. It fed something dark in my soul that I have no interest finding again. Lighting a cig, I passed him one without him asking and then the light as well. I was feeling generous, and though somewhat shocked by the amount racial hate being spewed around an epic tale of the founding of the earth, I was alone. No one in the world would know better if I enjoyed how eloquently he told the story. He was eloquent I thought as he rumiged through his bag. His vocabulary stretched the limits of my own rather inflated mental dictionary. “Here it is, my plays” he said “plays I have worked on for years, each one could be the greatest piece of literature ever to grace man’s pitiful eye.” I might have smiled as he introduced the few scrapes of paper carefully rolled and held by an elastic band. He looked hurt for a second as if my smile had been an unbelieving one mocking his sanity. But As he had at other points in the conversation, he simply blinking his eyes and dove into the story of his plays as if to convince me that his introduction to them had not been overestimated. As he talked glanced across at the now unraveled pages in his hand. I realized as he jumped from page to page telling me the endless plots they contained, that only the first page had been written on, the rest were empty. I felt pity, for the first time when I saw this but I pray to God he did not see it. If earth has taught taught me one thing I is never to pity, give yes, empathize yes, assist yes. But never pity...

[tomupside]

In Response to a Question

Chris: Tell me a story about your father.

 Me: I honestly can't narrow it down. There are too many to chose from. The trips to the swimming pools, where he would spend hours devastating us and our friends as the Kid Catapult. The nights pretending to "sneak" us into the drive-in theater. The innumerable Dad Jokes. The memories of comical embarrassments and times where we pissed him off with our Typical Teenage Angst (yes, even a D&D geek like me found ways to test the limits of his No Kill policy. lol )

Chris: [more insistent] Tell me a story about your father . . . Me: [wry chuckle]

 It's gonna be a long one . . .

 [deep breath]

 It's the trips to the pool that always stand out the most vividly for me. Piqua wasn't much of a city even when I was living there, but the pool was always a spot of joy. Before my stepmom came into the picture, it was just Dad, me and my two sisters; before he was a firefighter, he worked a third-shift job at Hartzel Propeller -- one of only a half dozen factories in the town (and still one of the only ones left today.) He'd put in a solid eight-plus hour night, only to come home to several kids who, since these were the days before we had cable, demanded all of the attention. Since my middle sister had a serial killer's sense of glee and affinity for poisons, he'd "sleep" on the couch through those mornings and afternoons as we played across that living room.

Most people, when reminiscing, recall their 20s as sleepless nights closing down the bars and early mornings in class, and wondering how they had the energy to do it all as they wrangle their kids with no small amount of exhaustion. My Dad kind of skipped that step and went straight to exhaustion and kids. Sometimes we would let him sleep. Sometimes. Not often, though. Most times, it’d be not at all. Back then, we didn’t really have Air Conditioning. We barely had a television. And it would be a LONG time before we had video games. And since our neighborhood wasn’t exactly “kid friendly,” there wasn’t much else for us to do.

Sometimes we'd be content with just ourselves; other times, we'd insist on him being our personal interactive jungle gym. And we were not gentle monkeys. He engendered a sort of bestiality in our play that still prevails with kids to this day. Don't know why that was. Don't know why that is, still. Maybe because he always seemed like he could take it. Like he was indestructible. Not that we didn’t love to test the limits of his indestructibility! It was always a particular joy when we got to help him sort out his back – which almost always involved us doing frog splashes from the couch to his spine. He said that it helped, but several decades later, that man would slip a disk and have to get steel rods to put his back into place, and I'm sure we deserve more than a little responsible for that.

But summertime was particularly exciting! Summer meant the swimming pool. That sacred ground where we could truly let loose without worrying anything (or anyone) getting broken! There, Dad could be Most Fun Dad Ever!

Looking back, I recall all the Hell we put my Dad through, and it exhausts and terrifies me in equal portions.

Dad had a rule: we couldn't go to the pool unless it was over 80-degrees. Which, in hind sight, was a clever move on his part. Even in July, it rarely broke 80 before Noon, which gave him at least the opportunity for four hours of sleep. So we kids would press close to our 1970s Magnavox two-ton historic monstrosity, transfixed on the weather channel, watching the thermometer as it ticked back and forth and up and down, waiting for that single magical moment when 79-degrees became 80 and released us from the spell which bound us to the house!

But when it hit 80 – and it inevitably did – it never mattered the work night Dad had or the sleep he never got or the sores or the calluses or the back pains. We'd be a murder of crows, pecking and pawing and screeching away – "LOOK! IT'S 80!" (because it would sometime slip back down to 79 a couple of times before it actually stuck, so we had to be sure he saw it as soon as possible, otherwise he'd grumble and go back to sleep, and we'd have to wait a hole five minutes more!)

And he'd have no choice. He was Super Dad. Also, we were loud and whined and were insistent, and he would know no peace if he didn't relent. So he'd wake as best as he could, and we'd gleefully dress in whatever hand-me-down swimming suits we could find; then we'd help him line the cooler with ice and stuff it with packaged lunch meats and breads and condiments and drinks, and sometimes those freezie ices that came in the clear plastic tubes that you used to have to rip the tops off of and squeeze out like frozen colored-sugar toothpaste. And we'd pile in our 1980s Pontiac Bonneville – the Great Grey Whale – and drive down to the great shining beacon of summer memories!

Aside from the water slide, the pool hasn't changed all that much from when we were ankle-biters. Compared to others I’ve visited since then, it really wasn’t all that special. But oh, how wonderful it seemed then! 100-plus yards of Z-shaped concrete joy, gradating from The Shallow End at the bottom of the Z to The Deep End at the top of the Z, with two normal sized diving boards and one High Dive that wouldn't stop scaring the shit out of me until well into high school (and still gives me the heeby jeebies to look at it.)

Zones of grass were on either corner, where sun-bathers laid out upon blankets and kids played tag and the grass never stayed green for very long with the constant watering with chlorine and spilled pop and god knows what else.

There were two zones: The Flat Grass, which now has the slide nearby and was nearer the diving boards, and was always prime real estate because it was away from the trees and gave you the clearest runway for a running cannonball, and it was flat and the grass usually stayed greener for longer, and the people were generally better and always took care to clean up their area; unlike The Bad Grass, which was hilly, bumpy, usually littered with pebbles, and nearer to the locker rooms which never didn't smell, and the people always left their trash everywhere, except us when we were there, because we were natural-born Flat Grassers – except when we did leave our trash everywhere, because hell, everyone else was, so why shouldn't we?

Near the entrance and to the right were locker rooms that only a cave troll would find homey, with almost no lights save for whatever sunlight slipped through, and tiled floors that always felt like you'd get Athletes Foot if not for the protective layer of chlorine and urine. To the left of the entrance, past the forest of umbrella tables if you were coming from the Flat Grass area, there was a snack bar, with candy bars for a quarter and pop for 50-cents and tiny bags of chips for a little more than a dime and I-can't-remember-how-much for hot dogs and pretzels; and absolutely no shade, so your feet would be sizzling from the sun-baked concrete as you waited in that line which was always terrible, because there was never a day when the pool wasn't elbow-to-elbow with old people and teenagers and kids and toddlers and parents and the occasionally curious goose. Too many days I'd come back to the grass, and the soles of my feet looked like griddle cakes.

If you were smart and had a friend with you in line, you'd each take turns holding each other's place so you could dunk your feet in the water to cool them off. You learned quickly to wait to get your snacks either right before or right after Adult Swim. Otherwise, you'd be standing there with the skin of your feet melting to that jagged concrete, sun mocking you from a million miles up as you inched your way towards the front, hoping like hell that you'd get through before they blew the whistle for All Swim.

Oh, and it was ALWAYS a tense bit of drama, too. Because as soon as that whistle blew, it didn't matter if you were middle of the line or back of the line or in the middle of putting your order in, you'd sprint like reflex back into the pool and dive in without a second thought to the hot dogs you were leaving behind or the wadded dollar bill tucked in your pocket that were sure to lose now. You couldn't help yourself! It was reflex! Pavlov was right, every time!

If we got there soon enough, before every other kid was able to get their parents to see that yes, it was indeed 80 degrees, and remind them that they'd promised – PROMISED – to take them to the pool, we would get a spot right in the perfect middle of the Flat Grass – setting up like pro gypsies: Dad laying out his towel right in the middle of our camp, with the cooler setting away from the pool so he could keep an eye on us; and us laying out our towels on either side of the cooler, so we could have easiest access to snacks and drinks. And we'd slather ourselves with SPF as fast and as thoroughly as we could, then were off to the water like ducks after migration – leaving Dad to "mind the cooler."

Which we didn't catch on until later meant that he was going back to sleep – the clever man. He knew we'd all be so busy swimming that he'd at least be able to get in at least an extra hour (total) of decent-ish sleep before he had to go back to being Super Dad. It wouldn't be until I was an adult myself that I understood how he was able to sleep through any of it. With all of the squeals and cries and splashes, and the 50s Doo-Wap and 60 bubblegum pop piping over the intercom, a roar could barely be heard as a whisper. Then I started third shift at a gas station, and then as a server administrator, and now wonder how he went as long WITHOUT falling asleep!

Not that we gave him much opportunity to sleep, though. Because before long we'd be after him to join us. Sometimes it was just us kids; sometimes, it was us and all of our friends; sometimes it would be random kids we pulled in to help us out. But it was always the same game:

Try to Drown the Sea Monster.

The object was simple: Dad was a sea monster, and we had to try and drown him.

Any.

Way.      

Possible.

(Except biting, scratching, kicking, punching, pinching, clawing, or head-butting. Otherwise, it was Anything Goes.)

We'd go for the knees and attack the calves; we'd coordinate diversionary splash attacks and pile on for a mass tackle assaults with military precision. We'd send wave after wave of other kids to wear him down so we could make the finishing blow! But it was no use! With him being almost 200 pounds heavier and four feet taller than all of us put together, he'd power through it all like a Sicilian Godzilla with a Magnum PI mustache, and with our best efforts shrugged off and our forces scattered, we could only scream and flee helplessly as he'd snatch us out of the water, heave us HIIIIIIIGH into the air, and send us sailing as far as our scrawny, aerodynamic bodies could go. And MAN, could he THROW! Professionals still pour over videos of those days, trying to categorize each maneuver and nuance! He was an artist, and throwing kids was his canvas!

And we'd have that man attacking us for HOURS, to the point where he perfected his technique to Olympian perfection! Sometimes, I could almost be parallel with the top of the high dive, and have enough hang time to contemplate the deeper meanings of life and all the ways we were interconnected in this invisible ocean of particles and happenstance, and wonder whether alternate versions of me were handing as high in the air as me or if they were sailing above other swimming pools or even oceans and I wonder what the ocean would look like from up so high and do dolphins ever wonder about these things and oops here comes the water -- SPLASH!!! God, the days when I was skinny enough to be tossed so high!

This would go on until three curt whistles signaled for us kids to get the hell outta the pool – it was ADULT SWIM!

During Adult Swims, we'd begrudgingly shuffle back to camp – after all, it wasn't like any adults ever really SWAM during Adult Swims, so why couldn't we KEEP swimming?, it was so unfair! – where Dad would fix us sandwiches and helped us with our freeze pops, and sometimes let us have cookies or whatever additional snack he brought. One time, he even packed a giant five pound slab of Hershey chocolate bar that he'd picked up in Hershey, Pennsylvania; which he chopped up for us as best as he could (considering it was like a brick from being in the freezer and then the cooler) and let us nom on (which was also like EATING a brick from being in the freezer and the cooler.) God, I remember that candy bar lasting us for DAYS!

And we'd eat and hydrate, and he'd help us re-slather the sunscreen and chastise my sisters for trying to drown one another and me for blowing my nose in my hand and wiping it on the side of my swimsuit – because it didn't matter how much pool water was up there, that shit was disgusting and also he was a single dad so I was probably scaring away prospective chicks (that last bit I made up, but probably wasn't too wrong.)

And then that long, single whistle would blow, and we'd be back at it again! We'd go at him with all the force of werewolves, and he'd toss us like a Scotsman tosses logs. And we'd land with the grace of water comets, drown a bit as we regained our bearings; then, once our senses had returned and we'd wiped the chlorine snot on our swimming suits, we'd dive to the bottom and engage our submarine assaults and tiger shark attacks, and continue until Adult Swim. Then recharge. Then back in the water. Then back out. For hours!

And Dad would let us! He never got tired! Or if he did, he rarely let it show enough. He had the endurance of a pack mule and heave of an Irish bouncer! I look back to those pictures of him and how skinny he was, and how massive his forearms were, and like to think those Summer afternoons were the reason for all of that.

Then, around five-ish or six, when the sun was starting to creep downwards and the heat was starting to break, we'd go until one last Adult Swim. Bruised, beaten, mostly bloated from almost drowning, and VERY begrudgingly, we'd towel ourselves down, lace up our shoes (because we didn't have sandals, because hey, what did Dad look like, a Money Tree? Shoes were good enough!) and head back to the car, where we'd be soaked and shivering and wrapped in towels but still dripping through the towels and soaking the chairs, and Dad would listen to Jimmy Buffet's "Why Don't We Get Drunk" and swiftly mute the volume every time it would get to the line "and screw", replacing it with something innocuous like "and tickle your!" or "and spew!" all through the short drive home.

I know it's not a single memory. I have more – so many more. If love is weighed in deeds, then my Dad has thrown the world off its tilt. Maybe I'll share some of them next time, next Father's Day. For now, I think I'm going to sit here a little longer, and wax a little nostalgia.

 Tom Upside

- Finally beginning to understand the appeal of The Wonder Years