I had a couple of other ideas for my next post, but an occurrence from the last couple of days has brought to mind a truly bizarre experience from my childhood that I hope you will appreciate.
For the most part, I don't anticipate delving into my childhood for source material, primarily because I don't remember all that much of it. This is probably because there was nothing particularly remarkable about it; however, one event from an otherwise hazy time has always featured prominently in my memory, and I was recently reminded of it by, of all things, my son's trip to the local feed store.
It seems that in this particular feed store, they currently have a clutch of newly-hatched chicks; indeed, seeing these chicks is the reason my wife took the kids there in the first place. These cute little chicks caused quite a stir with the family and, in fact, even prompted some discussion about acquiring some chickens (guess who was the wet blanket in that conversation!). All this talk of chicks, however, took me all the way back to a certain spring day in 1977: disco was in its heyday, Gerald Ford was in the White House, and I was in kindergarten.
It was a rainy, dreary day. But something marvelous was about to occur: one of the little girls in my class (I no longer remember her name, although I can still picture her--dark hair, glasses, freckles) had brought in a chicken egg that was about to hatch. We would be witnessing the miracle of birth! We would actually get to see a baby chicken emerge from its shell and live!
Naturally, I missed it. I was doing arts or crafts or some such crap and the whole damned thing happened without me. No ringside seat to the wonders of new life for me, thank you very much. What I did not miss was the opposite of a miraculous birth, which happened almost immediately.
In the aftermath of life's greatest miracle--hell, right in the middle of it, actually--a heinous crime was committed. As it was related to me by the girl who had brought in the egg/chick (dammit, what was her name?!), one of our classmates, a boy named Jay (his name is indelibly burned into my memory!), had seized the chick, still a-borning, placed it in the doorway of our classroom, and slammed the heavy wooden door on its tiny neck in such a way that its head popped right off.
Its. Head. Popped. Right. Off.
Bear in mind that, as disturbing as this chain of events was, I had still not personally witnessed anything troubling. Yet. My young, fragile psyche was still unscarred. Hoping to remedy this, I quickly rushed to the scene of the crime.
Aside from having its head severed from its body, the chick was not what I had expected. I had pictured a fluffy puff of downy yellow feathers; instead, its still-damp feathers were plastered to its body (which had not yet completely emerged from the egg), giving it a scrawny, alien appearance. The kindergarten teacher had scooped up the mortal remains on a piece of white paper (we didn't have printer paper then, it was probably typewriter paper or mimeograph paper, and if you're too young to know what a mimeograph is, I hate you). The body, still half-in, half-out of the egg, lay a few inches away from the head, which had a little pool of blood around it. I remember being a little surprised at how small that pool of blood was. But mostly I remember how fascinated and horrified I was by the fact that the head was still alive.
Of course, it wasn't really alive, but the little beak was still opening and shutting silently; I could almost hear the ghost of the peeping sound it was trying to make. The beak would open grotesquely wide, then it would shut, then open again. And again. And again. Peep. Peep. Peep. There were only three of us children who had not already fled the scene in terror--all boys, of course.
I am fairly certain that my kindergarten teacher was completely discombobulated by the atrocity that had just been perpetrated so unexpectedly; that is the only way I can explain what happened next. She shoved the piece of paper, with its mangled occupant, into the hand of the boy standing next to me, and ordered the three of us to take the victim into the bathroom and flush it.
Our kindergarten class was in a shabby little outbuilding separated from the dungeon-like elementary school we attended, so we had our own little unisex bathroom connected to the classroom. Our strange little funeral procession--three six-year old pallbearers carrying a murdered chick on a piece of mimeograph paper (Google it!), no mourners--marched into the bathroom and right up to the toilet. Where we stood, staring, mesmerized, at the still-silently-peeping corpse we were supposed to flush. Peep. Peep. Peep. We still weren't convinced it was actually dead, so flushing it seemed wrong somehow. Peep. Peep. Peep.
I'm not sure how long we stood there before the teacher came in, wordlessly grabbed the paper, flung the whole mess into the toilet and flushed. Peep. The three of us stood, helplessly transfixed, as paper, body, and head all began circling, independently of each other. Peep. That head, that hideous, silent, peeping head continued to convulse, open and shut, open and shut. Peep. Peep. Peep. It just kept circling and peeping, circling and peeping.
This whole memory has a very surreal, dreamlike quality to it, even now. Some might think my traumatized little six-year-old brain imagined it, that disembodied head and its deathly-silent peeping on its circular journey around that watery vortex to the grave. Maybe. But I swear, I remember with absolute perfect clarity, that tiny head, its beak opening and shutting, peeping, peeping, peeping, all the way down, until it disappeared into the sewer.
I'll probably have nightmares about it tonight.
--Incredibill
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
No Gals in Nogales
I have decided that I need to intersperse my epic-length stories with a few of shorter length so that I might post a bit more frequently. With that in mind, this post will be comparatively brief; a bit of fluff, really, that I am including here primarily because I have a picture to accompany it. I thought this particular piece of damning evidence might be amusing to my good friend, Jeff K.; since he is responsible (or to blame) for
me starting this blog on the first place, I am including it as a reward (or punishment) especially for him. Jeff, no peeking at the picture until you've read the story (which you've probably already heard, anyway).
This is probably one of the few stories I have which occurred through no fault of my own. It was in the spring of 1995; I was a virile, 24-year-old stallion, as you will see in the accompanying photo. I was living in Phoenix at the time, and it happened that my parents and some relatives were converging on the retirement village in Tucson where my grandparents lived. I made the short trip to Tucson to stay for a few days, and since this particular part of my family was scattered across the country and rarely got together, we made the most of it by going on a number of family outings. One of these outings was to Biosphere 2. Biosphere 2, if you recall, was a highly-publicized science experiment that was supposed to simulate a space colony or something by being completely self-contained. The experiment bombed out in front of the whole world when it turned out that the scientists were sneaking out and smuggling food back in, if I recall correctly. Anyway, by the time we got there it was no longer sealed off and was sort of a research station/tourist attraction. It was interesting, but I only mention it here because this is where the picture was taken. Notice how interested I look.
Anyway, we followed up this excursion with a day trip to Nogales, Mexico. Believe it or not, despite living in Arizona for nearly a decade and a half, this is the only time I ever made it to Mexico. If you've ever been to Nogales, you know why. I don't remember much about the city, aside from the fact that it was (with all due respect to our neighbors to the south) an armpit. Nogales is the kind of place where you could easily imagine waking up in a dirty bathtub full of ice with one of your kidneys missing. That's a real thing, I swear. I had heard about it on the news, or something.
Anyway, aside from my dad and myself, all of our party were women, who were there for one thing: shopping. My aunts and cousin were particularly excited about the fact that you could haggle with the vendors; apparently, buying cheap tourist-y crap becomes an exhilarating adventure if you can have an uncomfortably intense semi-polite argument with a stranger first. So, while my parents preferred to stay near the more reputable-seeming shops, my female relatives wandered into a shadier-looking area where vendors were selling junk out of tents. I tagged along with them, figuring they would need me to protect them from kidney thieves and kidnappers who would sell them as sex slaves. This almost definitely saved their lives, as we did indeed encounter a very shady character (cue scary music).
This gentleman had seemed nice enough at first. He and my cousin haggled for several minutes--have I mentioned that I hate haggling? I can't even negotiate the price of a car. I have bought a car at a dealership by myself exactly two times at a dealership; on both occasions, when the salesman told me the price of the car/dungheap, my response was "Great! I'll take it!" I practically tipped them. They love people like me at car dealerships.
Anyway, my point is that I got really, really uncomfortable as the haggling dragged on and on and became less and less polite. Finally, my cousin ended the bargaining with something like "Fine, I really didn't want it anyway," and the three ladies walked away. I was feeling pretty bad for the guy at this point--after all, we were guests in his country, and I thought we had maybe treated him a bit rudely (does anyone else ever worry that people will think they're an "ugly American" when they're traveling internationally? I'm absolutely paranoid about it). So the vendor is standing there with a big fake smile on his face to hide his frustration, and as I walk by, trailing behind the three ladies, I smile politely at him to (hopefully) let him know we're not assholes, just hardcore shoppers; and suddenly, his smile went from fake to sneaky. This guy was a great sneaky smiler: the sneakiness of the smile was accentuated by his awesome 70's-porn-star mustache (standard issue south of the border), and it lit up his whole face with a sort of sneaky joy. He looked like one of those cartoon foxes that starts slobbering when it sees a fat, juicy chicken. Clearly, he had just spotted a "rube", and that rube was me. Those of you who have cheated and peeked at the picture already will know that this was completely unjustified; nevertheless, that was his assessment, and the reason for a slightly different sales pitch than what the ladies had heard from him:
"Psst! Hey, buddy! Wanna buy my sister?"
I know, it sounds like something from a bad 70's cop show, but that's actually what he said. I believe it is the only time in my life that someone has actually said to me, unironically, "Psst! Hey buddy!" However, I'm not really in a position to look down my nose, since I responded with an equally ludicrous "I beg your pardon?!" The whole thing was starting to sound like dialogue from a really cheesy TV movie.
The vendor/pimp was really grinning now: "Come on," he said, nodding toward his tent, "I'll sell you my sister. She's in the back."
Now, as naive as I may seem in this story, I was not completely brainless. I had no doubt that, wherever this gentleman's sister (if he had one) might be, it was far away from his seedy little tent and, if I were foolish enough to accompany him into "the back", one of three things would happen: a) best-case scenario--I would wake up later with a sore head and no wallet, no money, and no ID; b) worse-case scenario--I would wake up in a dirty bathtub full of ice with one of my kidneys missing; c) worst-case scenario--I wouldn't wake up. I was feeling particularly attached to my possessions, my kidneys, and my ability to keep converting oxygen into carbon dioxide that day, so I declined with a polite "No, thank you," (no ugly American here!) tucked my tail between my legs, and hustled my ass out of there, acutely aware of the fact that the would-be pimp was laughing his ass off at me.
Hey, I just realized that two of my three posts are about not having sex! I'm like the poster boy for abstinence education! I bet there's a Republican organization somewhere that would want to fund my blog. I'll research it and get back to you. Anyway, here's the picture of me from the aforementioned trip to Tucson:
PS: I just noticed that I seem to be playing a pretty intense game of pocket-pool in this picture! I assure you, however, that was not the case. Although it would explain my expression.
me starting this blog on the first place, I am including it as a reward (or punishment) especially for him. Jeff, no peeking at the picture until you've read the story (which you've probably already heard, anyway).
This is probably one of the few stories I have which occurred through no fault of my own. It was in the spring of 1995; I was a virile, 24-year-old stallion, as you will see in the accompanying photo. I was living in Phoenix at the time, and it happened that my parents and some relatives were converging on the retirement village in Tucson where my grandparents lived. I made the short trip to Tucson to stay for a few days, and since this particular part of my family was scattered across the country and rarely got together, we made the most of it by going on a number of family outings. One of these outings was to Biosphere 2. Biosphere 2, if you recall, was a highly-publicized science experiment that was supposed to simulate a space colony or something by being completely self-contained. The experiment bombed out in front of the whole world when it turned out that the scientists were sneaking out and smuggling food back in, if I recall correctly. Anyway, by the time we got there it was no longer sealed off and was sort of a research station/tourist attraction. It was interesting, but I only mention it here because this is where the picture was taken. Notice how interested I look.
Anyway, we followed up this excursion with a day trip to Nogales, Mexico. Believe it or not, despite living in Arizona for nearly a decade and a half, this is the only time I ever made it to Mexico. If you've ever been to Nogales, you know why. I don't remember much about the city, aside from the fact that it was (with all due respect to our neighbors to the south) an armpit. Nogales is the kind of place where you could easily imagine waking up in a dirty bathtub full of ice with one of your kidneys missing. That's a real thing, I swear. I had heard about it on the news, or something.
Anyway, aside from my dad and myself, all of our party were women, who were there for one thing: shopping. My aunts and cousin were particularly excited about the fact that you could haggle with the vendors; apparently, buying cheap tourist-y crap becomes an exhilarating adventure if you can have an uncomfortably intense semi-polite argument with a stranger first. So, while my parents preferred to stay near the more reputable-seeming shops, my female relatives wandered into a shadier-looking area where vendors were selling junk out of tents. I tagged along with them, figuring they would need me to protect them from kidney thieves and kidnappers who would sell them as sex slaves. This almost definitely saved their lives, as we did indeed encounter a very shady character (cue scary music).
This gentleman had seemed nice enough at first. He and my cousin haggled for several minutes--have I mentioned that I hate haggling? I can't even negotiate the price of a car. I have bought a car at a dealership by myself exactly two times at a dealership; on both occasions, when the salesman told me the price of the car/dungheap, my response was "Great! I'll take it!" I practically tipped them. They love people like me at car dealerships.
Anyway, my point is that I got really, really uncomfortable as the haggling dragged on and on and became less and less polite. Finally, my cousin ended the bargaining with something like "Fine, I really didn't want it anyway," and the three ladies walked away. I was feeling pretty bad for the guy at this point--after all, we were guests in his country, and I thought we had maybe treated him a bit rudely (does anyone else ever worry that people will think they're an "ugly American" when they're traveling internationally? I'm absolutely paranoid about it). So the vendor is standing there with a big fake smile on his face to hide his frustration, and as I walk by, trailing behind the three ladies, I smile politely at him to (hopefully) let him know we're not assholes, just hardcore shoppers; and suddenly, his smile went from fake to sneaky. This guy was a great sneaky smiler: the sneakiness of the smile was accentuated by his awesome 70's-porn-star mustache (standard issue south of the border), and it lit up his whole face with a sort of sneaky joy. He looked like one of those cartoon foxes that starts slobbering when it sees a fat, juicy chicken. Clearly, he had just spotted a "rube", and that rube was me. Those of you who have cheated and peeked at the picture already will know that this was completely unjustified; nevertheless, that was his assessment, and the reason for a slightly different sales pitch than what the ladies had heard from him:
"Psst! Hey, buddy! Wanna buy my sister?"
I know, it sounds like something from a bad 70's cop show, but that's actually what he said. I believe it is the only time in my life that someone has actually said to me, unironically, "Psst! Hey buddy!" However, I'm not really in a position to look down my nose, since I responded with an equally ludicrous "I beg your pardon?!" The whole thing was starting to sound like dialogue from a really cheesy TV movie.
The vendor/pimp was really grinning now: "Come on," he said, nodding toward his tent, "I'll sell you my sister. She's in the back."
Now, as naive as I may seem in this story, I was not completely brainless. I had no doubt that, wherever this gentleman's sister (if he had one) might be, it was far away from his seedy little tent and, if I were foolish enough to accompany him into "the back", one of three things would happen: a) best-case scenario--I would wake up later with a sore head and no wallet, no money, and no ID; b) worse-case scenario--I would wake up in a dirty bathtub full of ice with one of my kidneys missing; c) worst-case scenario--I wouldn't wake up. I was feeling particularly attached to my possessions, my kidneys, and my ability to keep converting oxygen into carbon dioxide that day, so I declined with a polite "No, thank you," (no ugly American here!) tucked my tail between my legs, and hustled my ass out of there, acutely aware of the fact that the would-be pimp was laughing his ass off at me.
Hey, I just realized that two of my three posts are about not having sex! I'm like the poster boy for abstinence education! I bet there's a Republican organization somewhere that would want to fund my blog. I'll research it and get back to you. Anyway, here's the picture of me from the aforementioned trip to Tucson:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)