Yesterday, my brother called my grandma. He told her about how he was stuck in Canada because he had been in a car accident, and something about insurance fucking him over, and how he's going to need $10,000 wired to him so he can get back home. She had her Alzheimer's-ridden husband drive her around all day, first trying to get the money (the bank apparently gave her some shit about trying to access her own goddamn money), and then trying to figure out how to wire it to him. She went to Wal-Mart, but the employees were inept and didn't know how to handle that much money.
My grandma only has a land line and doesn't have caller ID, so she called my mom to get my brother's phone number. She didn't mention that she was trying to wire him money, because my mom wasn't supposed to know about how he wrecked his car and got stranded in Canada.
When she called my brother back to tell him about her trouble wiring the money, she found out that my brother wasn't in Canada. He hadn't even wrecked his car. The guy she had been talking to earlier wasn't even my brother at all.
She called the cops, who came to her house and asked her if she had lost any identification recently, and then told her that there wasn't anything they could do because no fraud actually occurred. It's apparently legal to trick somebody into wasting their day and trying to send you $10,000, as long as they don't actually send you $10,000.
One of the creepy parts of the story is when my fake brother asked her if she had the money and if she'd be home later. When I heard that, it creeped me the hell out because this creep I sort of knew, a friend of a friend of a friend, is currently awaiting trial for strangling an old man to death in his home during a robbery. He probably just asked if she'd be home because that was the only place he could reach her, though, not because he was planning on strangling her and her husband. The other creepy part is when my grandma said it sounded exactly like my brother. Even after she talked to the real guy, she thought they sounded the same. That could be because the crook knows my brother, but I prefer to think it was because she's old and losing touch. It's also possible that somebody targeted my grandma specifically, because people where she lives know who my grandpa was, and think the family has money.
People are creeps.
Showing posts with label weirdos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weirdos. Show all posts
9.4.08
7.2.08
I'm pretty sure she made me touch her butt.
I never really socialized much at work. I didn't really even leave my desk except when I had to, and when I did, I would do what I needed to do as quickly and efficiently as possible so I could get back to monitoring the tubes, reading science fiction magazines, and playing with my Nintendo DS. Sometimes I would wear headphones when I left my desk so I could pretend I didn't hear anybody and avoid talking to them. When I was forced to talk to people, I didn't say much, and would immediately go back to my desk when I was done doing what I was supposed to do, regardless of whether or not it seemed like somebody was done talking to me. I just didn't see any need to make friends with the people I worked with, and I didn't want to waste my time talking about the weather, sports, Jesus, TV shows, or any other inane bullshit people seemed interested in. My disinterest in talking to people stemmed less from a specific dislike for the people I worked with than from a general distaste for people.
There were, however, exceptions to this rule.
Some of the people I worked with I found truly disagreeable. Among them was a morbidly obese black woman who dressed very loudly and caked her face with many layers of clown/whore makeup every day. Her appearance was not the only loud thing about her, and I would often be forced to listen to her having long conversations with her friends in their normal indoor voices, which were the screams, yells, and cackles you would expect from people at a loud concert rather than a quiet office building. At least once, I turned my headphones up painfully loud, but was still unable to drown out the sound of her and another woman practicing their gospel singing at full volume.
The woman was somewhat crazy, and I had once heard from a girl my age about an altercation she had had with the woman. The girl was swearing, talking to her friend, when the woman put her face inches from the girl's face and engaged her in a yelling argument over her apparent lack of respect for herself. The girl asserted that she was "a grown-ass woman" who could talk however the hell she wanted to, which only served to make the woman louder and angrier.
I was, unfortunately, too friendly to be actively disliked. Despite my unwillingness to socialize with my coworkers, I would always help people with their retarded-person computer problems if they asked for my help. I would have preferred it if people thought I was an asshole and never tried to talk to me, but I gained a reputation as a quiet but friendly guy who was willing to help people when they were too goddamn inept to do incredibly basic tasks by themselves.
On several occasions, the loud woman came to my desk asking for computer help. Each time, she wanted me to go back down to her desk to help her. She was very slow-moving because of her girth, so I would be forced to endure extra moments of her talking to me. She would tell me about her teenage son's incredible musical skill, and how he played for a large number of incredibly famous acts, and how all kinds of guys really want her because she's so sexy. I never believed her. When we got to her desk, her problem would invariably be something so fucking stupid that it would shock me that somebody would give her a job sitting at a computer much of the day. I would save her file, or maximize her window, or whatever other stupid shit she needed, and then immediately go back to my desk.
I tried to avoid interacting with her more than I tried to avoid interaction with anybody else. When she did say something to me, it was often uncomfortable shit like, "You get more and more handsome every day", or trying to get me to come to her birthday party. I tried to be polite, but I was always very short and in a hurry to get back to my desk.
One day, I went downstairs to pick up my batch of work that should have been printing out at that moment, as it did every evening. The morbidly obese lady was standing near the printer with two other coworkers.
"They're not coming yet," she said.
"Oh," I replied, ready to go back upstairs.
She grabbed my hand. "Here," she said in her deep, manly voice, "let me show you."
I didn't need to be shown, and I sure as hell didn't need to have my hand held to walk 3 feet to the printer. My hand was limp as she clasped it and began waddling towards the printer.
And then my hand touched her butt.
"See?" she asked, gesturing at the empty printer with her free hand.
"Uh, yeah," I said, pulling my hand free. "I guess I'll check later," I said, and went back to my desk, wondering what the fuck just happened. Did she just pull my fucking hand into her butt? I asked myself.
It has been hypothesized that perhaps pulling my hand into her butt was just an unfortunate consequence of her being so fat that her butt took up so much space. That makes me wonder, how often do morbidly obese people "accidentally" touch their own butts? I will never know whether or not she intentionally made me touch her butt, but either way, she had no goddamn business grabbing my hand in the first place.
On my last day of working at that place, she stopped me as I was walking to my boss's desk, trying to bitch at me about doing too much work and raising the ludicrously low standards, which meant she actually had to do some work.
"You do all them boxes, and now Chris thinks we can all do that much. I can't. You need to..."
"This is my letter of resignation," I said, cutting her off and showing her the paper in my hand. "I don't have to take any shit at all from anybody here ever again."
She was clearly taken aback. "Oh," she said, "well, I was thinking I might have to do the same thing if things don't change around here."
"Yeah," I said, not trying to hide the contempt in my voice, "You do that." I walked away.
I'm so happy that I'll never have to see her again.
There were, however, exceptions to this rule.
Some of the people I worked with I found truly disagreeable. Among them was a morbidly obese black woman who dressed very loudly and caked her face with many layers of clown/whore makeup every day. Her appearance was not the only loud thing about her, and I would often be forced to listen to her having long conversations with her friends in their normal indoor voices, which were the screams, yells, and cackles you would expect from people at a loud concert rather than a quiet office building. At least once, I turned my headphones up painfully loud, but was still unable to drown out the sound of her and another woman practicing their gospel singing at full volume.
The woman was somewhat crazy, and I had once heard from a girl my age about an altercation she had had with the woman. The girl was swearing, talking to her friend, when the woman put her face inches from the girl's face and engaged her in a yelling argument over her apparent lack of respect for herself. The girl asserted that she was "a grown-ass woman" who could talk however the hell she wanted to, which only served to make the woman louder and angrier.
I was, unfortunately, too friendly to be actively disliked. Despite my unwillingness to socialize with my coworkers, I would always help people with their retarded-person computer problems if they asked for my help. I would have preferred it if people thought I was an asshole and never tried to talk to me, but I gained a reputation as a quiet but friendly guy who was willing to help people when they were too goddamn inept to do incredibly basic tasks by themselves.
On several occasions, the loud woman came to my desk asking for computer help. Each time, she wanted me to go back down to her desk to help her. She was very slow-moving because of her girth, so I would be forced to endure extra moments of her talking to me. She would tell me about her teenage son's incredible musical skill, and how he played for a large number of incredibly famous acts, and how all kinds of guys really want her because she's so sexy. I never believed her. When we got to her desk, her problem would invariably be something so fucking stupid that it would shock me that somebody would give her a job sitting at a computer much of the day. I would save her file, or maximize her window, or whatever other stupid shit she needed, and then immediately go back to my desk.
I tried to avoid interacting with her more than I tried to avoid interaction with anybody else. When she did say something to me, it was often uncomfortable shit like, "You get more and more handsome every day", or trying to get me to come to her birthday party. I tried to be polite, but I was always very short and in a hurry to get back to my desk.
One day, I went downstairs to pick up my batch of work that should have been printing out at that moment, as it did every evening. The morbidly obese lady was standing near the printer with two other coworkers.
"They're not coming yet," she said.
"Oh," I replied, ready to go back upstairs.
She grabbed my hand. "Here," she said in her deep, manly voice, "let me show you."
I didn't need to be shown, and I sure as hell didn't need to have my hand held to walk 3 feet to the printer. My hand was limp as she clasped it and began waddling towards the printer.
And then my hand touched her butt.
"See?" she asked, gesturing at the empty printer with her free hand.
"Uh, yeah," I said, pulling my hand free. "I guess I'll check later," I said, and went back to my desk, wondering what the fuck just happened. Did she just pull my fucking hand into her butt? I asked myself.
It has been hypothesized that perhaps pulling my hand into her butt was just an unfortunate consequence of her being so fat that her butt took up so much space. That makes me wonder, how often do morbidly obese people "accidentally" touch their own butts? I will never know whether or not she intentionally made me touch her butt, but either way, she had no goddamn business grabbing my hand in the first place.
On my last day of working at that place, she stopped me as I was walking to my boss's desk, trying to bitch at me about doing too much work and raising the ludicrously low standards, which meant she actually had to do some work.
"You do all them boxes, and now Chris thinks we can all do that much. I can't. You need to..."
"This is my letter of resignation," I said, cutting her off and showing her the paper in my hand. "I don't have to take any shit at all from anybody here ever again."
She was clearly taken aback. "Oh," she said, "well, I was thinking I might have to do the same thing if things don't change around here."
"Yeah," I said, not trying to hide the contempt in my voice, "You do that." I walked away.
I'm so happy that I'll never have to see her again.
4.2.08
Simon's $50 pound of weed.
This is, by far, my post popular post, receiving a bunch of views every day, but nobody has ever left a comment. You can do it anonymously. You should leave one. What is it you're looking for that brought you here? Did the title lead you to believe somebody had a pound of weed for sale, over the internet, for $50? Were you trying to figure out what a pound of weed is worth? (ProTip: Try THMQ.) Are you doing research for school? I can't, for the life of me, think of what else might be bringing so many clicks this way. Why don't you leave a comment and help end the mystery?
I first met Simon in 5th grade. He was a couple years older than me, several times my size, and a compulsive liar. On the bus, he would brag to me about how he had so much body hair that he had to shampoo his chest, pubes, and armpits, and how his flacid penis was the size of a full roll of paper-towels. Simon was clearly black, but would vehemently deny it, claiming to be a Mexican/Native American hybrid, despite looking like neither. He referred to black people as "colored people."
I considered Simon a friend, though this didn't prevent me from occasionally setting off his violent temper just for kicks. I learned that simply stating "I am God" would infuriate the religious kid, so it became something I enjoyed saying. Both of us were classified as "emotionally handicapped" and stuck in a classroom of other fire-starting crazies, and on several occasions, I witnessed the full power of his explosive rage, with screaming, book-throwing, and eventual restraint by all the adults in the room.
In 8th grade, I lost my "emotionally handicapped" label and stopped riding the short bus into the neighboring school district. I started going to the school I was supposed to, and Simon followed me the next year. I had no classes with him, but would sometimes talk to him in the hallway.
One day, Simon pulled me off to the side of the hall. He looked around suspiciously, and then leaned in close to my ear.
"I'm looking for a pound," he whispered.
"A pound of weed?" I asked in my normal voice.
"Shhhh! Yeah. Can you help me out?"
"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," I told him, and walked away.
As luck would have it, I had a friend in Spanish class who was a known pot dealer that had recently been busted by his mom. She had opened the trunk of his car to find it full of weed that he had grown in the woods. She was furious, and wanted him to get rid of it all immediately. For this reason, he had actually offered me a pound of weed at the crazy discount price of $100 just days before Simon's request. I declined, as I didn't smoke or have $100. When Simon asked for the pound, though, lights starting going off in my head. I didn't tell him about the offer, because I figured I'd pretend I was looking around, and then make some money brokering a deal for him. Even at the time, so many years ago, you could consider yourself well-connected to even get an ounce for $100, so anybody actually looking to make some money would have no problem dropping a few bills for a whole pound.
"Hey, Simon," I called out in the hallway a couple days later. He walked over to me.
"Yeah?"
"I found that pound you wanted," I told him.
"How much?" he asked.
"Three hundred bucks."
Simon rolled his eyes. "I already found one for fifty!" he said, walking away.
I told my friend in Spanish class about the failed transaction. We both agreed that Simon was completely full of shit.
The last time I saw Simon was one day when he showed up at school when I was in 12th grade. He spoke in a very soft voice and told me he was now a missionary. I didn't know whether or not to believe him, because nothing he ever said seemed to be true. I didn't really care, though. That guy was a jackass.
I first met Simon in 5th grade. He was a couple years older than me, several times my size, and a compulsive liar. On the bus, he would brag to me about how he had so much body hair that he had to shampoo his chest, pubes, and armpits, and how his flacid penis was the size of a full roll of paper-towels. Simon was clearly black, but would vehemently deny it, claiming to be a Mexican/Native American hybrid, despite looking like neither. He referred to black people as "colored people."
I considered Simon a friend, though this didn't prevent me from occasionally setting off his violent temper just for kicks. I learned that simply stating "I am God" would infuriate the religious kid, so it became something I enjoyed saying. Both of us were classified as "emotionally handicapped" and stuck in a classroom of other fire-starting crazies, and on several occasions, I witnessed the full power of his explosive rage, with screaming, book-throwing, and eventual restraint by all the adults in the room.
In 8th grade, I lost my "emotionally handicapped" label and stopped riding the short bus into the neighboring school district. I started going to the school I was supposed to, and Simon followed me the next year. I had no classes with him, but would sometimes talk to him in the hallway.
One day, Simon pulled me off to the side of the hall. He looked around suspiciously, and then leaned in close to my ear.
"I'm looking for a pound," he whispered.
"A pound of weed?" I asked in my normal voice.
"Shhhh! Yeah. Can you help me out?"
"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," I told him, and walked away.
As luck would have it, I had a friend in Spanish class who was a known pot dealer that had recently been busted by his mom. She had opened the trunk of his car to find it full of weed that he had grown in the woods. She was furious, and wanted him to get rid of it all immediately. For this reason, he had actually offered me a pound of weed at the crazy discount price of $100 just days before Simon's request. I declined, as I didn't smoke or have $100. When Simon asked for the pound, though, lights starting going off in my head. I didn't tell him about the offer, because I figured I'd pretend I was looking around, and then make some money brokering a deal for him. Even at the time, so many years ago, you could consider yourself well-connected to even get an ounce for $100, so anybody actually looking to make some money would have no problem dropping a few bills for a whole pound.
"Hey, Simon," I called out in the hallway a couple days later. He walked over to me.
"Yeah?"
"I found that pound you wanted," I told him.
"How much?" he asked.
"Three hundred bucks."
Simon rolled his eyes. "I already found one for fifty!" he said, walking away.
I told my friend in Spanish class about the failed transaction. We both agreed that Simon was completely full of shit.
The last time I saw Simon was one day when he showed up at school when I was in 12th grade. He spoke in a very soft voice and told me he was now a missionary. I didn't know whether or not to believe him, because nothing he ever said seemed to be true. I didn't really care, though. That guy was a jackass.
19.3.07
Caleb: the upbeat Christian.
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My grandma has always, as long as I can remember, been a very religious woman, and very active in her church. It has been her primary social network, and through this network she met a family who lived just down the street from her place. They had a kid named Caleb, and one weekend day while visiting my grandma, she wanted my brother and I to go play with him.
I was in 7th grade at the time. Caleb was a year or two younger than I was, and my brother several years younger than he was. My brother had met Caleb previously while visiting my grandma.
Being a grunge-obsessed junior high cretin, I kept asking Caleb if he liked any of my favorite bands. He didn't like any of them, and would always answer by telling me about his musical preference.
"Do you like The Smashing Pumpkins?" I'd ask.
"No, not really," he'd answer. "I'm pretty much just into upbeat Christian music."
"You don't even like Nirvana? Kurt Cobain is the coolest!"
"No, I pretty much only listen to upbeat Christian music."
He took my brother and I into his room and popped a tape into his cassette player, so we'd be able to experience upbeat Christian music. He told us it was the tape was of his favorite singer. Before anybody even started singing, I knew it sucked. It lacked the distortion and roughness that I required in my listening. It was offensively soft to my ears. When the singing started, it just got worse.
"It sure beats Hell. It sure beats Hell. Anyway you look at it, you're doing pretty well. It sure beats Hell. It sure beats Hell. Anyway you look at it, you're doing pretty well."
After the song finished, somebody on the tape started taking.
"See? He's a comedian, too!" Caleb told us. He kept chuckling as the guy spoke, but none of it was funny. It was all fire and brimstone. He'd bring up a bad scenario, and then say "It sure beats Hell!" and Caleb would laugh as if it were a joke.
"You might think you've had a rough day, you stubbed your toe and your dog died. But lemme tell you something: It sure beats Hell!"
Caleb had a Super Nintendo, and we kept asking if we could play with it. We didn't have video games at our house, so it was always an extra treat to play when we could. Caleb didn't want to, though. He was bent on playing soccer. He kept asking us if we wanted to play, and we'd say no, and ask again if we could play video games. Eventually, instead of playing video games, he put on some shin guards, even though we had never agreed to play soccer.
We never played soccer, though. We went back to my grandma's house shortly after he put the shin guards on.
1.3.07
The Smiths.
Beginning in fourth grade, I rode the short bus with retarded kids and crazy kids to another school district, where the high school had special programs to meet our needs. I was classified as "emotionally handicapped" because I was uncontrollable and my parents wouldn't let them drug me into submission, and I spent my days in a classroom with kids who lied compulsively, set fires, or just completely refused to do anything but make fun of darkies. They began integrating me into classes with normal kids, and by 7th grade, I wasn't in the crazy-kid class at all, but they still bussed me out there to go to school for some reason or another. On the bus in 7th grade is where I first met Jolene Smith.
I had heard of Jolene's brother, Aaron Smith, years before I met Jolene or even knew she existed. Aaron was in my sister's 5th grade class. Supposedly, he was older than I was (my sister was one grade below me), but incredibly tiny and spoke in a high-pitched squeak. He also wanted to fight almost everybody. My sister showed me a picture of him in her yearbook, and his head was huge, making his photo stand out among the rest of them. Maybe the photographer overcompensated for his small stature and zoomed in too much, which made him way too big instead of just right.
Jolene was weird. She was a couple years older than I was, and had a chin like a caricature of Jay Leno. She would tell stories of imaginary happenings, like weird Satanic rituals that happened late at night in the woods near her house. She told me I was too young to know about that stuff.
I don't know that her name really was Jolene, because sometimes she went by Renee. Maybe both names were hers, or maybe she just stole the name Jolene from the only other girl I've ever known with that name, who happened to ride our bus. Maybe it was kind of like the time that she stole my birthday.
Jolene found out that my birthday was coming up, and acted surprised and excited, and said that her birthday was on the same day. She told me she was making me a Ninja Turtles shirt, and I dreaded her giving it to me. I imagined wearing it on the bus, and changing it or covering it up immediately after arriving at school, so that nobody would see me wearing it. Fortunately, on my birthday, she just gave me a balloon. I didn't ask about the shirt.
Later, I found out that some other day was her birthday, too.
I started going to the school in my area in eighth grade. I never saw Jolene again, but there were rumors. Supposedly, she was seen in her front yard humping the guy who had been hired to paint their house. Another time, she was rumored to have done the same thing with a dog. Once, their house burnt down and everybody said that they had done it on purpose so that they could afford to send Jolene to a mental hospital.
Also, in eighth grade, on my first day of school, I finally met her brother, Aaron. He had the locker right next to mine. I recognized him from his giant-headed photo, and I knew it had to be him because he was tiny even compared to myself, and I had always been a really little guy.
This other guy who used to ride the crazy bus, Ron, started attending normal kid school that year, too. I ran into him, and he told me that Aaron wanted to fight me. Since my locker was right next to his, I asked him.
"Don't listen to him," Aaron squeaked at me. "Ron is full of shit!"
At some point in eighth grade, I heard somebody making fun of Aaron by saying, "Something smells like ketchup." I didn't get the joke, if there was one, but I started saying it every time I saw Aaron. For a couple weeks, he didn't react in any way to my taunts. One day by our lockers, I said it, and he punched me in the eye and ran away. It didn't hurt, and I was more shocked than anything. I started laughing, both because it was a surprise and because I didn't want anybody to think the kid had hurt me.
"You should have kicked his ass," a kid told me.
"Shit, man," I said, "I was so surprised, I had no time to react. That shit was funny. It didn't hurt."
The rumor about the Smiths was that they were all completely inbred and, as a result, they were all deformed and crazy. Their mom was said to be a huge fat lady, too big to even leave the house. A kid in my health class told me a story that he probably made up about visiting their house. He said there was dog shit all over the place, and while he was there, a dog shat on the floor again. They told him not to worry about it, and put a paper towel on top of it, and then sprinkled baking soda on top of the paper towel. He said they had a bunch of top of the line computers, too.
In 9th grade, Aaron was in my gym class, and had changed his name to Dan. My friend and I always called him Danly Smythe. He and I had a weird, adversarial quasi-friendship. Sometimes we would talk about the internet, because he was one of the few people at that point who was on it, and sometimes I would chase him around and try to stick him in the big net-bag they kept all the basketballs in.
Aaron spent a lot of gym periods on the bleachers instead of dressing for class. One day, after we did our daily calisthenics, I looked up and saw Aaron aggressively humping the bleachers. I pointed and laughed, and he yelled at me to shut up, and kept going as if nobody knew what he was doing.
Another day we had some sort of argument about something, and since gym was our last class of the day, Aaron ended up attacking me outside after school. I was standing with a few friends, casually talking, when Aaron appeared out of nowhere with some sort of crazy jump-kick-punch. I reflexively punched him in the face, and he ran off.
"Holy shit, that was fucking awesome!" said my friend, also named Aaron. He started telling people who missed it about how I had punched Aaron in the face, and how it was one of the best things he had seen. I wished he would shut up, and not tell anybody about it, but I didn't want to say anything and sound like a pussy. Even as a stupid 9th grader, I didn't see anything good about punching a tiny, possibly retarded kid in the face.
That was the last year that Aaron was in school. I never saw any of his family again, but I heard more stories. In driver's ed, my teacher told me that Aaron was in his class the year before. He said the kid drove like he had a death wish, and that he was the only kid who ever scared him with his driving. In 11th grade, my speech teacher said that her husband had once let their family take some fallen trees from their property for firewood, and that they kept coming back. She said they didn't really know how to say no to them, and would pretend they weren't home when they showed up. Jolene would peer into their windows, puffing hard on a cigarette.
My friend says he saw Aaron a couple years after high school. He wasn't sure if it was him, because instead of being really short, he was really tall, but he had the same face.
I had heard of Jolene's brother, Aaron Smith, years before I met Jolene or even knew she existed. Aaron was in my sister's 5th grade class. Supposedly, he was older than I was (my sister was one grade below me), but incredibly tiny and spoke in a high-pitched squeak. He also wanted to fight almost everybody. My sister showed me a picture of him in her yearbook, and his head was huge, making his photo stand out among the rest of them. Maybe the photographer overcompensated for his small stature and zoomed in too much, which made him way too big instead of just right.
Jolene was weird. She was a couple years older than I was, and had a chin like a caricature of Jay Leno. She would tell stories of imaginary happenings, like weird Satanic rituals that happened late at night in the woods near her house. She told me I was too young to know about that stuff.
I don't know that her name really was Jolene, because sometimes she went by Renee. Maybe both names were hers, or maybe she just stole the name Jolene from the only other girl I've ever known with that name, who happened to ride our bus. Maybe it was kind of like the time that she stole my birthday.
Jolene found out that my birthday was coming up, and acted surprised and excited, and said that her birthday was on the same day. She told me she was making me a Ninja Turtles shirt, and I dreaded her giving it to me. I imagined wearing it on the bus, and changing it or covering it up immediately after arriving at school, so that nobody would see me wearing it. Fortunately, on my birthday, she just gave me a balloon. I didn't ask about the shirt.
Later, I found out that some other day was her birthday, too.
I started going to the school in my area in eighth grade. I never saw Jolene again, but there were rumors. Supposedly, she was seen in her front yard humping the guy who had been hired to paint their house. Another time, she was rumored to have done the same thing with a dog. Once, their house burnt down and everybody said that they had done it on purpose so that they could afford to send Jolene to a mental hospital.
Also, in eighth grade, on my first day of school, I finally met her brother, Aaron. He had the locker right next to mine. I recognized him from his giant-headed photo, and I knew it had to be him because he was tiny even compared to myself, and I had always been a really little guy.
This other guy who used to ride the crazy bus, Ron, started attending normal kid school that year, too. I ran into him, and he told me that Aaron wanted to fight me. Since my locker was right next to his, I asked him.
"Don't listen to him," Aaron squeaked at me. "Ron is full of shit!"
At some point in eighth grade, I heard somebody making fun of Aaron by saying, "Something smells like ketchup." I didn't get the joke, if there was one, but I started saying it every time I saw Aaron. For a couple weeks, he didn't react in any way to my taunts. One day by our lockers, I said it, and he punched me in the eye and ran away. It didn't hurt, and I was more shocked than anything. I started laughing, both because it was a surprise and because I didn't want anybody to think the kid had hurt me.
"You should have kicked his ass," a kid told me.
"Shit, man," I said, "I was so surprised, I had no time to react. That shit was funny. It didn't hurt."
The rumor about the Smiths was that they were all completely inbred and, as a result, they were all deformed and crazy. Their mom was said to be a huge fat lady, too big to even leave the house. A kid in my health class told me a story that he probably made up about visiting their house. He said there was dog shit all over the place, and while he was there, a dog shat on the floor again. They told him not to worry about it, and put a paper towel on top of it, and then sprinkled baking soda on top of the paper towel. He said they had a bunch of top of the line computers, too.
In 9th grade, Aaron was in my gym class, and had changed his name to Dan. My friend and I always called him Danly Smythe. He and I had a weird, adversarial quasi-friendship. Sometimes we would talk about the internet, because he was one of the few people at that point who was on it, and sometimes I would chase him around and try to stick him in the big net-bag they kept all the basketballs in.
Aaron spent a lot of gym periods on the bleachers instead of dressing for class. One day, after we did our daily calisthenics, I looked up and saw Aaron aggressively humping the bleachers. I pointed and laughed, and he yelled at me to shut up, and kept going as if nobody knew what he was doing.
Another day we had some sort of argument about something, and since gym was our last class of the day, Aaron ended up attacking me outside after school. I was standing with a few friends, casually talking, when Aaron appeared out of nowhere with some sort of crazy jump-kick-punch. I reflexively punched him in the face, and he ran off.
"Holy shit, that was fucking awesome!" said my friend, also named Aaron. He started telling people who missed it about how I had punched Aaron in the face, and how it was one of the best things he had seen. I wished he would shut up, and not tell anybody about it, but I didn't want to say anything and sound like a pussy. Even as a stupid 9th grader, I didn't see anything good about punching a tiny, possibly retarded kid in the face.
That was the last year that Aaron was in school. I never saw any of his family again, but I heard more stories. In driver's ed, my teacher told me that Aaron was in his class the year before. He said the kid drove like he had a death wish, and that he was the only kid who ever scared him with his driving. In 11th grade, my speech teacher said that her husband had once let their family take some fallen trees from their property for firewood, and that they kept coming back. She said they didn't really know how to say no to them, and would pretend they weren't home when they showed up. Jolene would peer into their windows, puffing hard on a cigarette.
My friend says he saw Aaron a couple years after high school. He wasn't sure if it was him, because instead of being really short, he was really tall, but he had the same face.
12.9.06
Flo: professional gangsta rapper.
There was a retarded kid at my high school who everybody called Flo. I always assumed he got the name because of his imaginary rhyming skills, but I later found out that it was actually short for Florence, which was his real name. Flo would walk around the cafeteria, taking peoples' trays up to the conveyor belt when they were done eating. Every so often, though, for absolutely no reason, he would decide not to take a person's tray up, and ask, "What am I? Your nigger?" A friend of mine hypothesized that the whole tray-taking routine was nothing more than a ruse that would give him an excuse to say that once in a while.
The true awesomeness of Flo wasn't the fact that he'd usually save you a trip across the cafeteria to drop your tray off. No, the true awesomeness of Flo was that he would "rap." If you gave Flo a few coins, he would generate several lines of gangsta-rap cliches that almost never rhymed.
"I was walking down this street. I had my hoes at my side. And then I saw this nigger. So I capped him in the ass. Damn! Payback's a bitch!"
I always wondered if Flo actually thought he could rap. People were enthusiastic about his raps, and encouraged him by giving him their pocket change, but his raps always ended with the table of people listening to him laughing enthusiastically, and Flo walking away with their empty lunch trays. I didn't know whether or not I should feel sorry for him, but I gave him a fair share of nickels and dimes for his trouble. It was undeniably entertaining as hell.
"I got a fat sack of weed. I got cash money and a gun. Don't mess with me on the street. I'll pull out my gat!"
The last time I saw Flo was on the last day of eleventh grade. Instead of making us go to class and showing us movies, which was the usual last day of class routine, they let all the students go outside. I sat with Flo and a group of friends on the bleachers on the far side of the football field, away from the meddling eyes of authority figures. One of the substitute teachers, only a few years older than the graduating class, was walking around the track that circled the football field with two female students. Every time they'd walk by, we'd all make semi-loud, but vague, comments about how he was going to get laid. On the fourth or fifth time around the track, Flo decided he would join in on the fun. Unfortunately, the art of subtlety escaped poor Flo, but he did his best.
"Hey!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, "You fucking faggot! You're going to fuck them in the fucking ass!"
We all started laughing uncontrollably. The substitute teacher turned around momentarily, puffing out his chest like he was going to beat up a retarded kid, which made us laugh even harder. They walked away, and a few minutes later a different teacher came and told us we weren't allowed to sit on those bleachers since there was nobody there to supervise us.
The true awesomeness of Flo wasn't the fact that he'd usually save you a trip across the cafeteria to drop your tray off. No, the true awesomeness of Flo was that he would "rap." If you gave Flo a few coins, he would generate several lines of gangsta-rap cliches that almost never rhymed.
"I was walking down this street. I had my hoes at my side. And then I saw this nigger. So I capped him in the ass. Damn! Payback's a bitch!"
I always wondered if Flo actually thought he could rap. People were enthusiastic about his raps, and encouraged him by giving him their pocket change, but his raps always ended with the table of people listening to him laughing enthusiastically, and Flo walking away with their empty lunch trays. I didn't know whether or not I should feel sorry for him, but I gave him a fair share of nickels and dimes for his trouble. It was undeniably entertaining as hell.
"I got a fat sack of weed. I got cash money and a gun. Don't mess with me on the street. I'll pull out my gat!"
The last time I saw Flo was on the last day of eleventh grade. Instead of making us go to class and showing us movies, which was the usual last day of class routine, they let all the students go outside. I sat with Flo and a group of friends on the bleachers on the far side of the football field, away from the meddling eyes of authority figures. One of the substitute teachers, only a few years older than the graduating class, was walking around the track that circled the football field with two female students. Every time they'd walk by, we'd all make semi-loud, but vague, comments about how he was going to get laid. On the fourth or fifth time around the track, Flo decided he would join in on the fun. Unfortunately, the art of subtlety escaped poor Flo, but he did his best.
"Hey!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, "You fucking faggot! You're going to fuck them in the fucking ass!"
We all started laughing uncontrollably. The substitute teacher turned around momentarily, puffing out his chest like he was going to beat up a retarded kid, which made us laugh even harder. They walked away, and a few minutes later a different teacher came and told us we weren't allowed to sit on those bleachers since there was nobody there to supervise us.
30.7.06
Crackheads, stay off of my porch!
Yesterday, my girlfriend and I were sitting on the couch in the front room. It was hot out, and we had the windows open. I was playing some video games, and she was playing with her laptop.
"What's up?" I heard, coming from outside.
I turned around and there was a somewhat dirty guy with dreadlocks on our porch, walking towards the door.
"What's up?" I said through the window.
He said "What's up" again and stood at the door for a moment. When he realized neither of us was going to get off the couch, he came to the window.
"What's up?" he said once more.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Hey, let me tell you about my situation. My car is broken down, and I'm here from out of town. I'm from north of here. I have my mom with me, she's from south of here. Now, my mom is a diabetic, and..."
"Sorry, man, I'm broke," I said, cutting him off.
"OK," he said, "I'm sorry for bothering you."
"Good luck," I told him as he walked off my porch.
When I'm out, I almost always give money to whoever asks me for some. I know a lot of those people are going to spend it on feeding a habit, but who am I to judge? Ideally, they should be getting help somewhere, but life isn't so ideal. If I can help somebody make it through the day, I'll do what I can, even if they give me a line of bullshit about their car being broken or out of gas (I can't count how many times I've heard that one). My contact with these people is enough that for a brief period, I even contracted a case of the dreaded bum disease.
I draw the line, however, at people coming to my home and asking for money. I don't need mysterious people showing up at my door asking for money, and I sure as hell don't need them coming back again because it worked before.
Later, at around 2:00 AM, we went to the 24-hour laundromat and dropped our clothes off. When we came back, there was some lady sitting on the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street directly in front of the house, right next to our driveway. We walked in through the side door, like we always do, and avoided having to walk past her. When we left to go back to the laundromat, she was gone.
I'm sure it was probably a coincidence, but two random weirdos in front of our place on the same day makes me kind of uneasy.
Maybe the dude with the dreadlocks heard the reggae coming out of the stereo and thought it was some kind of invitation to come beg for money. Maybe the lady sitting on the grass was taking a midnight stroll and just happened to stop in front of the house.
Or maybe the dude with the dreadlocks was scouting for places to rob for crack money, and when he saw the various gadgets and toys we had, he told the lady to hang out and see when we're home and when we're not. The rational part of my brain tells me that's it's kind of blatant and stupid, but the paranoid part tells me I should be on my toes. The paranoid part of my brain tells me that crack heads tend to be blatant and stupid, but the rational part of my brain tells me that it's difficult to even look out the window without seeing a cop drive by, which hopefully makes it unlikely that somebody is going to get away with stealing my stuff. I don't have a lot of faith in the police, but I think their heavy presence in my area, right next to a college, should make my home an unattractive target.
Crackheads, stay the fuck off of my porch. You make me paranoid.
"What's up?" I heard, coming from outside.
I turned around and there was a somewhat dirty guy with dreadlocks on our porch, walking towards the door.
"What's up?" I said through the window.
He said "What's up" again and stood at the door for a moment. When he realized neither of us was going to get off the couch, he came to the window.
"What's up?" he said once more.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Hey, let me tell you about my situation. My car is broken down, and I'm here from out of town. I'm from north of here. I have my mom with me, she's from south of here. Now, my mom is a diabetic, and..."
"Sorry, man, I'm broke," I said, cutting him off.
"OK," he said, "I'm sorry for bothering you."
"Good luck," I told him as he walked off my porch.
When I'm out, I almost always give money to whoever asks me for some. I know a lot of those people are going to spend it on feeding a habit, but who am I to judge? Ideally, they should be getting help somewhere, but life isn't so ideal. If I can help somebody make it through the day, I'll do what I can, even if they give me a line of bullshit about their car being broken or out of gas (I can't count how many times I've heard that one). My contact with these people is enough that for a brief period, I even contracted a case of the dreaded bum disease.
I draw the line, however, at people coming to my home and asking for money. I don't need mysterious people showing up at my door asking for money, and I sure as hell don't need them coming back again because it worked before.
Later, at around 2:00 AM, we went to the 24-hour laundromat and dropped our clothes off. When we came back, there was some lady sitting on the little strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street directly in front of the house, right next to our driveway. We walked in through the side door, like we always do, and avoided having to walk past her. When we left to go back to the laundromat, she was gone.
I'm sure it was probably a coincidence, but two random weirdos in front of our place on the same day makes me kind of uneasy.
Maybe the dude with the dreadlocks heard the reggae coming out of the stereo and thought it was some kind of invitation to come beg for money. Maybe the lady sitting on the grass was taking a midnight stroll and just happened to stop in front of the house.
Or maybe the dude with the dreadlocks was scouting for places to rob for crack money, and when he saw the various gadgets and toys we had, he told the lady to hang out and see when we're home and when we're not. The rational part of my brain tells me that's it's kind of blatant and stupid, but the paranoid part tells me I should be on my toes. The paranoid part of my brain tells me that crack heads tend to be blatant and stupid, but the rational part of my brain tells me that it's difficult to even look out the window without seeing a cop drive by, which hopefully makes it unlikely that somebody is going to get away with stealing my stuff. I don't have a lot of faith in the police, but I think their heavy presence in my area, right next to a college, should make my home an unattractive target.
Crackheads, stay the fuck off of my porch. You make me paranoid.
27.6.06
Public restroom pervert.
I was working in a big building that had, at any given time, hundreds of people per floor. Half of the people were employees, while the other half were members of the general public there for various reasons. It was the sort of place where just about anybody could walk in and aimlessly wander the halls without really being noticed. This story is about a weirdo who may have had a legitimate reason for being there, or may have just been there to get his kicks.
It was still earlier in the morning, and I left my work area to go take a dump. I took the stairs to the next floor down, because I figured I was less likely to have people I knew smelling my waste should they need to use the facilities. The restroom was empty, so I took my place in one of the stalls and hung my coat on the stall door.
A few seconds after I sat down, somebody else came into the restroom. He took the stall next to mine, and I noticed his red sneakers. I heard him spit a couple times, and then I began to hear a vigorous rubbing sound coming from his stall. It sounded like he was rubbing his hands together very quickly and rhythmically, occasionally stopping and spitting.
There's no fucking way he's doing what I think he is, I thought.
This continued for about a minute, and then he confirmed my suspicions when I heard him speed up his rubbing before abruptly stopping, grunting loudly.
"Uh, unnh, yeah, unnnhh, yeah!"
I hoped he would leave so I could finish pooping, but I heard him spit and start doing it again a few seconds later. I quickly wiped my ass, rinsed my hands, and got out of there. I went down another flight of stairs to the bottom floor. I did my business in the restroom down there and then left to go back to my job.
When I got to the stairwell, I looked back for some reason. Entering the restroom I had just been in was a young guy, probably in his mid or late twenties. He wore a baseball cap, flannel shirt, and a pair of jeans.
And a pair of red sneakers.
It was still earlier in the morning, and I left my work area to go take a dump. I took the stairs to the next floor down, because I figured I was less likely to have people I knew smelling my waste should they need to use the facilities. The restroom was empty, so I took my place in one of the stalls and hung my coat on the stall door.
A few seconds after I sat down, somebody else came into the restroom. He took the stall next to mine, and I noticed his red sneakers. I heard him spit a couple times, and then I began to hear a vigorous rubbing sound coming from his stall. It sounded like he was rubbing his hands together very quickly and rhythmically, occasionally stopping and spitting.
There's no fucking way he's doing what I think he is, I thought.
This continued for about a minute, and then he confirmed my suspicions when I heard him speed up his rubbing before abruptly stopping, grunting loudly.
"Uh, unnh, yeah, unnnhh, yeah!"
I hoped he would leave so I could finish pooping, but I heard him spit and start doing it again a few seconds later. I quickly wiped my ass, rinsed my hands, and got out of there. I went down another flight of stairs to the bottom floor. I did my business in the restroom down there and then left to go back to my job.
When I got to the stairwell, I looked back for some reason. Entering the restroom I had just been in was a young guy, probably in his mid or late twenties. He wore a baseball cap, flannel shirt, and a pair of jeans.
And a pair of red sneakers.
20.6.06
Brett Flat-face.
"The Klan is going to burn down your house."
These are the words that Brett spoke to my sister shortly before threatening to kick my ass. I don't know exactly what lead up to this statement, nor did I hear it with my own ears. My sister had a class with him, though, and it was there that he said it.
Brett was an excessively tall, goony-looking kid who was in 7th grade, as was my sister, when I was in 8th grade. His face looked smashed flat, like somebody had hit him cartoon-style with a shovel. Given his facial deformities, he had the most tragically ironic name I've ever encountered. His last name was Flat.
My sister was a big Tupac fan in 7th grade, which was one of the reasons she and Brett didn't get along. He had just died, and Brett said he was in Hell, getting whipped and picking cotton. The fact that my siblings and I are white and Filipino half-breeds probably didn't help make Brett like us, either.
The day he threatened my sister, I approached him in the lunch line. He towered over me, but I wasn't scared of him. He seemed vaguely retarded, and thus unintimidating.
"What the fuck are you saying to my sister?" I asked him.
"Tupac is dead!"
"So the Klan is going to burn down our house?"
"Yeah. You little Fill-a-peen. You should be out in the fields, picking beans."
"Fuck you, you fucking retard hillbilly. Don't talk to my sister."
I wandered off to find my friends. I told them what happened, and then looked for Brett to show them who he was. We found him sitting by himself, eating his lunch.
"This is the guy," I said, "The fucking hillbilly who is saying the Klan will burn down our house. Hey, fuck you, inbreeder."
Brett lifted a leg into the air, exposing a cowboy boot.
"You see these boots?" he asked.
"Yeah, so?"
"I'll kick your ass!" he told me.
"No," I said, "I'll kick your ass."
It was a pretty empty threat. Brett was much bigger than I was, and I didn't really imagine we'd ever come to blows. As soon as I said it, though, Brett got up and walked out of the cafeteria. The rest of us got some food and sat down to eat.
A few minutes later, the vice principal appeared at our table.
"Are you Paul?" he asked me.
"Yeah."
"Come to my office when you're done eating."
I finished my lunch and walked to his office. Brett was sitting in there.
"What's this about you threatening Brett? You're going to kick his ass?"
"No. Brett has been harassing my little sister, saying that the KKK is going to burn down our house. He told me I should be in the field picking beans, and then he showed me his cowboy boots and said he was going to kick my ass."
I never referred to my sister as my little sister. I knew in this case it would probably add sympathy to my side, though, so I used it. I also conveniently left out the part where I said, "No, I'll kick your ass."
The vice principal turned to Brett and started yelling at him.
"Don't you ever make threats against people, and especially don't ever make racial threats or use racial slurs!"
"But...but..." Brett tried to say something, but just broke down in tears. I was excused from the office, and suffered no repercussions from the incident.
Brett never said anything like that to my sister again. He vanished from school a couple years later, but from what I understand, stayed in the area.
These are the words that Brett spoke to my sister shortly before threatening to kick my ass. I don't know exactly what lead up to this statement, nor did I hear it with my own ears. My sister had a class with him, though, and it was there that he said it.
Brett was an excessively tall, goony-looking kid who was in 7th grade, as was my sister, when I was in 8th grade. His face looked smashed flat, like somebody had hit him cartoon-style with a shovel. Given his facial deformities, he had the most tragically ironic name I've ever encountered. His last name was Flat.
My sister was a big Tupac fan in 7th grade, which was one of the reasons she and Brett didn't get along. He had just died, and Brett said he was in Hell, getting whipped and picking cotton. The fact that my siblings and I are white and Filipino half-breeds probably didn't help make Brett like us, either.
The day he threatened my sister, I approached him in the lunch line. He towered over me, but I wasn't scared of him. He seemed vaguely retarded, and thus unintimidating.
"What the fuck are you saying to my sister?" I asked him.
"Tupac is dead!"
"So the Klan is going to burn down our house?"
"Yeah. You little Fill-a-peen. You should be out in the fields, picking beans."
"Fuck you, you fucking retard hillbilly. Don't talk to my sister."
I wandered off to find my friends. I told them what happened, and then looked for Brett to show them who he was. We found him sitting by himself, eating his lunch.
"This is the guy," I said, "The fucking hillbilly who is saying the Klan will burn down our house. Hey, fuck you, inbreeder."
Brett lifted a leg into the air, exposing a cowboy boot.
"You see these boots?" he asked.
"Yeah, so?"
"I'll kick your ass!" he told me.
"No," I said, "I'll kick your ass."
It was a pretty empty threat. Brett was much bigger than I was, and I didn't really imagine we'd ever come to blows. As soon as I said it, though, Brett got up and walked out of the cafeteria. The rest of us got some food and sat down to eat.
A few minutes later, the vice principal appeared at our table.
"Are you Paul?" he asked me.
"Yeah."
"Come to my office when you're done eating."
I finished my lunch and walked to his office. Brett was sitting in there.
"What's this about you threatening Brett? You're going to kick his ass?"
"No. Brett has been harassing my little sister, saying that the KKK is going to burn down our house. He told me I should be in the field picking beans, and then he showed me his cowboy boots and said he was going to kick my ass."
I never referred to my sister as my little sister. I knew in this case it would probably add sympathy to my side, though, so I used it. I also conveniently left out the part where I said, "No, I'll kick your ass."
The vice principal turned to Brett and started yelling at him.
"Don't you ever make threats against people, and especially don't ever make racial threats or use racial slurs!"
"But...but..." Brett tried to say something, but just broke down in tears. I was excused from the office, and suffered no repercussions from the incident.
Brett never said anything like that to my sister again. He vanished from school a couple years later, but from what I understand, stayed in the area.
18.6.06
Roger.
There was a kid in my 8th grade gym class named Roger. On the first day of class, I tried to say something to him, but other students quickly informed that I shouldn't be talking to him. He was the lowest of the low, the variety of scumbag that no decent person would ever allow themselves to be seen socializing with.
Roger was a masturbator.
My friend Lew claims to have actually seen Roger doing the deed, while another guy I knew in junior high claims to have made it up just for the sheer hell of it. In truth, I think most of the anti-Roger stigma was related to his status as a really poor kid, rather than his supposed indecent proclivities. He always gave off an awful stench, and I used to believe it was because he was so poor he couldn't shower, which I now think is fairly unlikely. People called him a "dirty" and he had no friends, so his uncleanliness was probably the result of a sad case of self-fulfilling prophecy. People called him "Roger Doger, dick massager," but they probably wouldn't have been his friend even if he hadn't been caught getting the job done in the restroom.
There was this other kid in my gym class named Matt. He dressed, in the mid 90s, like he had stepped out of an after school special from the late 70s. It was intentional, though, and everybody thought he was cool as hell. Kids would gather around this guy in the locker room after class, listening to him tell these drug stories, always looking really bored so everybody would know just how awesome he was. One time we listened with rapt admiration as he told us about his VW bug, the trunk of which was stuffed with "one hundred kilos of rock cocaine, bro."
One day our class went outside, and the teacher left all the boys in a field, unsupervised, to play flag football while the girls ran around in circles. Roger, not wanting to bother, decided to sit the game out. Matt immediately went up to Roger and started yelling and cussing, inches from his face, telling him he had to play. He was doing the fighting dance that so many adolescent boys do, puffing up his chest and trying to look intimidating. Roger just stood there, quiet and uncertain, but unwilling to play football with a bunch of people who didn't like him. Everybody cheered Matt on, hoping the fighting dance would bear fruit. When he was finished verbally abusing Roger, he punched him the face and walked away. Roger stood there, his face a mixture of anger and humiliation, while the rest of the boys congratulated Matt on a job well done.
"I get vicious when I do shit like that!" he bragged, beaming.
After class, Roger made the mistake of leaving the padlock on his locker unlocked while he took a shower. One of the vultures took it and put it on top of a paper towel dispenser. When he got back to his locker, he asked where it was. Everybody just made fun of him and pretended they didn't know where it was.
When the bell rang and it was time to move to the next class, I gathered my things slowly. Everybody scurried out, leaving just Roger and myself.
"It's on top of the paper towel dispenser," I told him.
"What?"
"Your lock. They put it on the paper towel dispenser."
Not wanting to risk my name any more than I already was, I left as quickly as I could. The act I had committed was probably enough to get me blacklisted.
Matt disappeared that year. I later heard he had had a drug overdose and was almost dead, or was in jail. Neither story would be a surprise. Roger dropped out of school as soon as he could and was never heard from again.
UPDATE: Lew just wrote up his story, and apparently Roger is now a convicted child molester.
Roger was a masturbator.
My friend Lew claims to have actually seen Roger doing the deed, while another guy I knew in junior high claims to have made it up just for the sheer hell of it. In truth, I think most of the anti-Roger stigma was related to his status as a really poor kid, rather than his supposed indecent proclivities. He always gave off an awful stench, and I used to believe it was because he was so poor he couldn't shower, which I now think is fairly unlikely. People called him a "dirty" and he had no friends, so his uncleanliness was probably the result of a sad case of self-fulfilling prophecy. People called him "Roger Doger, dick massager," but they probably wouldn't have been his friend even if he hadn't been caught getting the job done in the restroom.
There was this other kid in my gym class named Matt. He dressed, in the mid 90s, like he had stepped out of an after school special from the late 70s. It was intentional, though, and everybody thought he was cool as hell. Kids would gather around this guy in the locker room after class, listening to him tell these drug stories, always looking really bored so everybody would know just how awesome he was. One time we listened with rapt admiration as he told us about his VW bug, the trunk of which was stuffed with "one hundred kilos of rock cocaine, bro."
One day our class went outside, and the teacher left all the boys in a field, unsupervised, to play flag football while the girls ran around in circles. Roger, not wanting to bother, decided to sit the game out. Matt immediately went up to Roger and started yelling and cussing, inches from his face, telling him he had to play. He was doing the fighting dance that so many adolescent boys do, puffing up his chest and trying to look intimidating. Roger just stood there, quiet and uncertain, but unwilling to play football with a bunch of people who didn't like him. Everybody cheered Matt on, hoping the fighting dance would bear fruit. When he was finished verbally abusing Roger, he punched him the face and walked away. Roger stood there, his face a mixture of anger and humiliation, while the rest of the boys congratulated Matt on a job well done.
"I get vicious when I do shit like that!" he bragged, beaming.
After class, Roger made the mistake of leaving the padlock on his locker unlocked while he took a shower. One of the vultures took it and put it on top of a paper towel dispenser. When he got back to his locker, he asked where it was. Everybody just made fun of him and pretended they didn't know where it was.
When the bell rang and it was time to move to the next class, I gathered my things slowly. Everybody scurried out, leaving just Roger and myself.
"It's on top of the paper towel dispenser," I told him.
"What?"
"Your lock. They put it on the paper towel dispenser."
Not wanting to risk my name any more than I already was, I left as quickly as I could. The act I had committed was probably enough to get me blacklisted.
Matt disappeared that year. I later heard he had had a drug overdose and was almost dead, or was in jail. Neither story would be a surprise. Roger dropped out of school as soon as he could and was never heard from again.
UPDATE: Lew just wrote up his story, and apparently Roger is now a convicted child molester.
8.6.06
Hanging out with Kenny.
I had just moved to a new town, and was living with my girlfriend at her mom's house. We were both actively searching for jobs, and she landed one working nights in the dildo and porn store at a nearby strip club. Not wanting to be stuck with her mom and her mom's boyfriend, I asked her if she had any friends I could hang out with while she was at work. She said she knew this guy named Kenny I could hang out with. Being new to the area, I had no idea that the only reason she picked Kenny was because she had no friends on account of being completely fucking crazy. Kenny was the only other person she really talked to, and she probably only talked to him because she was a sociopath and he was a pathetic loser who was completely in love with her.
We picked up Kenny on the way to her job, where she was to be dropped off and picked up hours later. In the meantime, I was supposed to hang out with Kenny all night. When Kenny lumbered out of his house, I was in awe of his girth. He was a hulking figure, nearly as wide as I am tall, and towered over me. He also dressed to impress, wearing a button-up shirt printed with a graphic of a dragon and smelling of urine and heavy perspiration.
We dropped the girl off at the strip club, and then it was just us guys. Kenny held his seat belt in place in case the cops were out, because he couldn't make it actually fit around him.
"So, what is there to do around here?"
"Uh, Idunno."
The problem was that Kenny had absolutely no life. He had no friends. He had no job. He was a 20 year old high school dropout who did nothing but sit at home playing Evercrack, eating, and reeking of stale pee.
We finally decided we'd hit the video arcade first. On the way there, Kenny tried in vain to impress me by telling me he could rap all the lyrics to a Limp Bizkit album. When I wasn't interested in hearing him rap, he went on and on about Everquest, filling me in on all the most mundane details.
"Well, you have your bronze pieces, and you get 10 of them and it's worth one silver piece, and then you get 10 of them and it's worth one gold piece. Oh man, do you realize how much a horse costs in Everquest? I've been questing for hundreds of hours a week, and I'm not even close! There are these monsters, and..."
Since he seemed into computer RPGs, I asked him if he ever played oldschool paper Dungeons and Dragons. He told me he and his older brother had tried it, but couldn't get into it. I assume it wasn't visual enough, or took too much thought. They were, however, avid fans of Yu-Gi-Oh.
Yes, a 20 year old and his older brother collected and played Yu-Gi-Oh.
We got to the part of town where the arcade was, and there we ran into another problem. Kenny didn't know where it was. This would be a recurring theme throughout the night. Kenny, despite having lived there his entire life, didn't know where fucking anything was, and he was going to be my navigator for the night. Wonderful.
We found a structure to park in and wandered some streets looking for the arcade. While we walked, Kenny bragged about how all he needed was a thin denim jacket, while I was freezing my ass off in a big coat. We ended up asking somebody where the arcade was.
"Across the diag," she said.
I asked Kenny where the diag was, and if it was a long walk. Apparently we were right next to the diag, but it was an incredibly long walk and we needed to go back to the car so we could drive to a different parking structure. I later found out that the diag is a very short walk, probably less than the equivalent of two city blocks.
We got to the arcade, which was Kenny's idea, where he told me he didn't have any money. Annoyed, I decided we'd spend 10 bucks and then leave.
When we left the arcade and went back to the structure, I asked Kenny if he minded taking the stairs instead of the elevator, because it was closer. I may have asked because subconsciously I knew he would have a hard time with it, and I was already really annoyed with this guy. He told me he didn't mind taking the stairs, he did it all the time.
On the way up, he paused, panting heavily, and pretended to wonder what some unintelligible graffiti on the wall said.
We started driving around again, trying to figure out what to do next. Kenny was really thirsty, and wanted me to stop at a gas station and buy him something to drink. What's a guy like Kenny drink, you ask? A two-liter bottle of Coke, and a two-liter bottle of cream soda. Hell, if somebody is nice enough to agree to buy you something to drink, you need to take advantage of it. When Kenny got back in the car, he made a failed attempt at opening the cream soda, spraying it all over my car. Moments after the soda explosion, there was a loud breaking noise, and the seat Kenny was sitting in snapped backwards from his girth. This would be the first of no less than 3 chairs of mine that Kenny broke. He would later go on to break a recliner and a papasan, the latter of which I was always scared of breaking, and I'm a really skinny guy.
Predicting that Kenny would want me to buy him food at some point, I decided we should go dumpster diving at some pizza places, which he was easily able to direct me to. If you're unaware, most pizza places have a policy of throwing away full pizzas in the box if the order is somehow messed up. The boxes are used to keep track of how many pizzas are made. I asked Kenny if he had any problem eating some free, clean, dumpstered food, he said he didn't. When we found pizza, he ended up eating a whole pepperoni pizza and a full order of cheese bread, minus the two or three pieces that I had. He later went on to tell somebody that this was "the worst thing" he ever did.
Unsure of what to do next, we decided to go to one of the many 24-hour superstores surrounding us. We wandered around the store aimlessly. At some point, we passed the books, where I noticed this book I had seen there before and briefly glanced at. It was a book written by a supposed child-abuse victim, but the entire book, from what I saw, read like some kind of twisted internet torture fetish fan fiction. I told him I thought the book was bullshit written to capitalize on peoples' morbid curiosities.
"No," he said, "It's all true. That guy was on Oprah."
"So?"
"Do you honestly think somebody would go on Oprah and lie?"
"Yeah, to sell books."
"No, no. They had a police officer there to back it up. Do you think a police officer is going to lie?"
"Are you serious? You don't think cops lie?"
"You can't just go on TV and lie! I saw him on Oprah! You're so cynical!"
I was awestruck. Not only did this guy watch Oprah, but he believed every word she or anybody on her show ever said. He didn't believe it was even possible that somebody would lie on TV, and I was just an incredibly cynical bastard. No wonder the guy loved that Eminem movie so much. He was convinced it was the true story of his life. I had to ask him about that, and once again I was told I was very cynical for not believing some story about a famous person.
Bored, we drove off to another 24-hour superstore. At this one, we walked to the furniture section and sat down on a couch. A few minutes later, a plainclothes security guy came and told us we had to move. Kenny got up, and I moved to the adjacent couch. Rent-a-cop glared at me.
"Come on, man," Kenny pleaded.
"If I'm going to buy a couch here, I need to know that it's comfortable."
Rent-a-cop said nothing, he just kept glaring at me while Kenny continued to plead with me like a little baby. I finally gave in just so he would shut the fuck up.
We went back to visit my girl, hard at work selling sex dolls and rubber vaginas to guys who all claimed they were novelty gifts for friends. I perused the pornography selection while Kenny went to the counter to talk to his only 'friend.' He thought I was out of earshot when he started bitching about the music we were listening to in the car the whole time.
"He just kept playing it!" he said.
I was going through a death metal phase at the time, and so the music was loud, abrasive shit that most people, including the current version of myself, cannot listen to for very long, if at all. The thing is, though, I had asked him what he thought about it, and he had told me that he really, really liked it. What the fuck?
When we left, I turned the death metal up louder as we drove to yet another 24-hour superstore. We wandered around the store, and I tried to get him to stop in the furniture section to just relax. He was too scared of security, even when I told him they couldn't do anything to us for testing out furniture we might buy.
When it was finally time to pick up my girl and drop him off, I was so relieved.
A person reading this might think I'm being excessively hard on Kenny. Sure, he was an idiot and a huge loser, but so what? It's sad, and we should feel sorry for people like Kenny. I shouldn't be talking shit about him on the internet, giving people actual quotes from him like, "Sometimes when I eat a whole pizza, I feel fat."
I used to feel that way about Kenny. I felt bad for him after hanging out with him, and I felt bad for him for pretty much all of the time I knew him, despite his attempts to make moves on my lady. I thought he was a pitiful excuse for a human, which he is. I feel fully justified calling him a goddamn motherfucker, though. Allow me to explain why.
At the end of my relationship with that girl, she was living in my apartment and contributing absolutely nothing. She wouldn't help pay the bills, she wouldn't help pay rent, and she wouldn't lift a finger to help keep the place clean. She would hang out with Kenny all day while I was at work, letting that sniveling worm kiss her ass and make her feel great all day, and then she'd come back and sleep at my place. She didn't work. She didn't go to school. She did spend all of my money, though. And she was an mean, evil, and completely crazy fucking bitch on top of that.
When I told her she had to move out, the two of them had me arrested on false charges and then robbed my apartment while I was locked up. I was eventually cleared of the charges, but being cleared of charges doesn't mean you get back all the time or money you lost because of them.
I hadn't seen Kenny in a few years, but he was working at a store where I went to buy something. I left as soon as I saw him and never went back to that store.
We picked up Kenny on the way to her job, where she was to be dropped off and picked up hours later. In the meantime, I was supposed to hang out with Kenny all night. When Kenny lumbered out of his house, I was in awe of his girth. He was a hulking figure, nearly as wide as I am tall, and towered over me. He also dressed to impress, wearing a button-up shirt printed with a graphic of a dragon and smelling of urine and heavy perspiration.
We dropped the girl off at the strip club, and then it was just us guys. Kenny held his seat belt in place in case the cops were out, because he couldn't make it actually fit around him.
"So, what is there to do around here?"
"Uh, Idunno."
The problem was that Kenny had absolutely no life. He had no friends. He had no job. He was a 20 year old high school dropout who did nothing but sit at home playing Evercrack, eating, and reeking of stale pee.
We finally decided we'd hit the video arcade first. On the way there, Kenny tried in vain to impress me by telling me he could rap all the lyrics to a Limp Bizkit album. When I wasn't interested in hearing him rap, he went on and on about Everquest, filling me in on all the most mundane details.
"Well, you have your bronze pieces, and you get 10 of them and it's worth one silver piece, and then you get 10 of them and it's worth one gold piece. Oh man, do you realize how much a horse costs in Everquest? I've been questing for hundreds of hours a week, and I'm not even close! There are these monsters, and..."
Since he seemed into computer RPGs, I asked him if he ever played oldschool paper Dungeons and Dragons. He told me he and his older brother had tried it, but couldn't get into it. I assume it wasn't visual enough, or took too much thought. They were, however, avid fans of Yu-Gi-Oh.
Yes, a 20 year old and his older brother collected and played Yu-Gi-Oh.
We got to the part of town where the arcade was, and there we ran into another problem. Kenny didn't know where it was. This would be a recurring theme throughout the night. Kenny, despite having lived there his entire life, didn't know where fucking anything was, and he was going to be my navigator for the night. Wonderful.
We found a structure to park in and wandered some streets looking for the arcade. While we walked, Kenny bragged about how all he needed was a thin denim jacket, while I was freezing my ass off in a big coat. We ended up asking somebody where the arcade was.
"Across the diag," she said.
I asked Kenny where the diag was, and if it was a long walk. Apparently we were right next to the diag, but it was an incredibly long walk and we needed to go back to the car so we could drive to a different parking structure. I later found out that the diag is a very short walk, probably less than the equivalent of two city blocks.
We got to the arcade, which was Kenny's idea, where he told me he didn't have any money. Annoyed, I decided we'd spend 10 bucks and then leave.
When we left the arcade and went back to the structure, I asked Kenny if he minded taking the stairs instead of the elevator, because it was closer. I may have asked because subconsciously I knew he would have a hard time with it, and I was already really annoyed with this guy. He told me he didn't mind taking the stairs, he did it all the time.
On the way up, he paused, panting heavily, and pretended to wonder what some unintelligible graffiti on the wall said.
We started driving around again, trying to figure out what to do next. Kenny was really thirsty, and wanted me to stop at a gas station and buy him something to drink. What's a guy like Kenny drink, you ask? A two-liter bottle of Coke, and a two-liter bottle of cream soda. Hell, if somebody is nice enough to agree to buy you something to drink, you need to take advantage of it. When Kenny got back in the car, he made a failed attempt at opening the cream soda, spraying it all over my car. Moments after the soda explosion, there was a loud breaking noise, and the seat Kenny was sitting in snapped backwards from his girth. This would be the first of no less than 3 chairs of mine that Kenny broke. He would later go on to break a recliner and a papasan, the latter of which I was always scared of breaking, and I'm a really skinny guy.
Predicting that Kenny would want me to buy him food at some point, I decided we should go dumpster diving at some pizza places, which he was easily able to direct me to. If you're unaware, most pizza places have a policy of throwing away full pizzas in the box if the order is somehow messed up. The boxes are used to keep track of how many pizzas are made. I asked Kenny if he had any problem eating some free, clean, dumpstered food, he said he didn't. When we found pizza, he ended up eating a whole pepperoni pizza and a full order of cheese bread, minus the two or three pieces that I had. He later went on to tell somebody that this was "the worst thing" he ever did.
Unsure of what to do next, we decided to go to one of the many 24-hour superstores surrounding us. We wandered around the store aimlessly. At some point, we passed the books, where I noticed this book I had seen there before and briefly glanced at. It was a book written by a supposed child-abuse victim, but the entire book, from what I saw, read like some kind of twisted internet torture fetish fan fiction. I told him I thought the book was bullshit written to capitalize on peoples' morbid curiosities.
"No," he said, "It's all true. That guy was on Oprah."
"So?"
"Do you honestly think somebody would go on Oprah and lie?"
"Yeah, to sell books."
"No, no. They had a police officer there to back it up. Do you think a police officer is going to lie?"
"Are you serious? You don't think cops lie?"
"You can't just go on TV and lie! I saw him on Oprah! You're so cynical!"
I was awestruck. Not only did this guy watch Oprah, but he believed every word she or anybody on her show ever said. He didn't believe it was even possible that somebody would lie on TV, and I was just an incredibly cynical bastard. No wonder the guy loved that Eminem movie so much. He was convinced it was the true story of his life. I had to ask him about that, and once again I was told I was very cynical for not believing some story about a famous person.
Bored, we drove off to another 24-hour superstore. At this one, we walked to the furniture section and sat down on a couch. A few minutes later, a plainclothes security guy came and told us we had to move. Kenny got up, and I moved to the adjacent couch. Rent-a-cop glared at me.
"Come on, man," Kenny pleaded.
"If I'm going to buy a couch here, I need to know that it's comfortable."
Rent-a-cop said nothing, he just kept glaring at me while Kenny continued to plead with me like a little baby. I finally gave in just so he would shut the fuck up.
We went back to visit my girl, hard at work selling sex dolls and rubber vaginas to guys who all claimed they were novelty gifts for friends. I perused the pornography selection while Kenny went to the counter to talk to his only 'friend.' He thought I was out of earshot when he started bitching about the music we were listening to in the car the whole time.
"He just kept playing it!" he said.
I was going through a death metal phase at the time, and so the music was loud, abrasive shit that most people, including the current version of myself, cannot listen to for very long, if at all. The thing is, though, I had asked him what he thought about it, and he had told me that he really, really liked it. What the fuck?
When we left, I turned the death metal up louder as we drove to yet another 24-hour superstore. We wandered around the store, and I tried to get him to stop in the furniture section to just relax. He was too scared of security, even when I told him they couldn't do anything to us for testing out furniture we might buy.
When it was finally time to pick up my girl and drop him off, I was so relieved.
A person reading this might think I'm being excessively hard on Kenny. Sure, he was an idiot and a huge loser, but so what? It's sad, and we should feel sorry for people like Kenny. I shouldn't be talking shit about him on the internet, giving people actual quotes from him like, "Sometimes when I eat a whole pizza, I feel fat."
I used to feel that way about Kenny. I felt bad for him after hanging out with him, and I felt bad for him for pretty much all of the time I knew him, despite his attempts to make moves on my lady. I thought he was a pitiful excuse for a human, which he is. I feel fully justified calling him a goddamn motherfucker, though. Allow me to explain why.
At the end of my relationship with that girl, she was living in my apartment and contributing absolutely nothing. She wouldn't help pay the bills, she wouldn't help pay rent, and she wouldn't lift a finger to help keep the place clean. She would hang out with Kenny all day while I was at work, letting that sniveling worm kiss her ass and make her feel great all day, and then she'd come back and sleep at my place. She didn't work. She didn't go to school. She did spend all of my money, though. And she was an mean, evil, and completely crazy fucking bitch on top of that.
When I told her she had to move out, the two of them had me arrested on false charges and then robbed my apartment while I was locked up. I was eventually cleared of the charges, but being cleared of charges doesn't mean you get back all the time or money you lost because of them.
I hadn't seen Kenny in a few years, but he was working at a store where I went to buy something. I left as soon as I saw him and never went back to that store.
Bling-bling at the drive through.
There's this guy who works the window at a nearby fast wood restaurant. Every time he hands me my food, I can't help but notice the massive 'diamond' earing in his ear. It's so shiny, there's no way a person couldn't see it if they look in his general direction. Every time I see it, I wonder who he thinks he's fooling.
Jewelry generally serves no real purpose, with the exception to the rule being widely-used items like super secret decoder rings or the more common time-keeping device. Most necklaces, rings, and earrings, particularly pieces with precious metals and gemstones, serve no purpose other than conspicuous consumption. People wear bits of shiny expensive stuff so that people know that either that the wearer is rich enough to throw money away on rocks, or that somebody cares enough about the wearer to throw away money on rocks. In the case of males wearing monster rocks in their ear, the former is more likely.
Suppose this guy has a real giant diamond in his ear. Working part time for minimum wage, he would probably have to work his ass off for a year to get that thing. Is that what he wants to imply? That he's capable of working incredibly hard simply to be able to say, in the end, that he he was able to buy a rock? Does that get you chicks? Or does he want to imply that he has a side business, perhaps selling drugs or some other high-profit activity? If that was the case, why the fuck would he be handing people greasy bags of french fries? It's more likely that his earring is a dirt-cheap cubic zirconium that he bought with less than a week's pay, but that just leads me to wonder who he thinks he's fooling. I think he's one of those guys who doesn't mind girls who are stupid as hell, because one would have to be pretty dull to be impressed by a fake diamond from a guy who's asking if they want fries with that. I've always been under the impression that if you give a girl a diamond, and it's fake, she will be mad at you, despite the fact that it looks the same and serves the same function. Maybe there's a double-standard I'm unaware of, and the ladies find fake precious stones more appealing when it's the men wearing them.
I guess it's possible that a guy working for minimum wage in the service industry is only wearing bling-bling because of his love of hip-hop culture in general. After all, most gangsta rap fans are not gangstas, even the ones who go to great lengths to look like they are.
But I still think it's fucking stupid.
Jewelry generally serves no real purpose, with the exception to the rule being widely-used items like super secret decoder rings or the more common time-keeping device. Most necklaces, rings, and earrings, particularly pieces with precious metals and gemstones, serve no purpose other than conspicuous consumption. People wear bits of shiny expensive stuff so that people know that either that the wearer is rich enough to throw money away on rocks, or that somebody cares enough about the wearer to throw away money on rocks. In the case of males wearing monster rocks in their ear, the former is more likely.
Suppose this guy has a real giant diamond in his ear. Working part time for minimum wage, he would probably have to work his ass off for a year to get that thing. Is that what he wants to imply? That he's capable of working incredibly hard simply to be able to say, in the end, that he he was able to buy a rock? Does that get you chicks? Or does he want to imply that he has a side business, perhaps selling drugs or some other high-profit activity? If that was the case, why the fuck would he be handing people greasy bags of french fries? It's more likely that his earring is a dirt-cheap cubic zirconium that he bought with less than a week's pay, but that just leads me to wonder who he thinks he's fooling. I think he's one of those guys who doesn't mind girls who are stupid as hell, because one would have to be pretty dull to be impressed by a fake diamond from a guy who's asking if they want fries with that. I've always been under the impression that if you give a girl a diamond, and it's fake, she will be mad at you, despite the fact that it looks the same and serves the same function. Maybe there's a double-standard I'm unaware of, and the ladies find fake precious stones more appealing when it's the men wearing them.
I guess it's possible that a guy working for minimum wage in the service industry is only wearing bling-bling because of his love of hip-hop culture in general. After all, most gangsta rap fans are not gangstas, even the ones who go to great lengths to look like they are.
But I still think it's fucking stupid.
5.6.06
The Man, The Mystery
Recently, my buddy doug ran into this guy we knew from high school, Tony. He snapped a picture of him, which I am now sharing with you.
I barely knew the guy. He was in my 9th grade science class. During a discussion on leaches, he interjected, "Getting leaches on you is cool." Our teacher started laughing and said, "Yeah, if you want hickeys all over your body!" He went on to tell the class, to our further amusement, that he had gotten covered in leaches while he was swimming under some bridge to pack explosives underneath it, like some sort of ultra-awesome commando on an important mission from the president.
A year or two after high school, I drove my dad to an auto shop so he could pick up his car. While I was waiting to make sure his car was ready, this guy with a huge, unkempt lumberjack beard stepped out of the shop. He had a big piece of metal in his hand, and was staring at me like he knew me. It took me a few seconds to realize it was Tony.
He came up to my car and showed me the piece of metal in his hand. It was long and flat, in no way symmetrical, and one edge had been sharpened into a jagged edge. There was fabric or tape wrapped around the base, so one could hold it without slicing themselves.
"I make swords," he told me, "It's what I do."
He went on to tell me that he worked in the auto shop, where apparently they didn't mind if he spent his time looking like the unabomber and making prison-style shanks. He also said that with his beard he could get into any bar, despite being underage, and that I should stop by the motel where he lived to hang out sometime.
"Room 28, man, I'm always there!"
I never saw him or heard about him again.
When Doug ran into him, Tony filled him in on some of the more recent events in his life. Apparently that shop where he was working was owned by his dad, and Tony was in the process of purchasing it from him. Working as a sword smith/auto mechanic had been incredibly profitable for him, and when he was arrested for driving under the influence, he had a stretch limo pick him up from the police station within 15 minutes.
I think tomorrow I'm going to quit my job and look for a new career in the crazy guy industry.
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