STANDING UP
by
William Todd
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
William Todd on Smashwords
Standing Up
Copyright © 2010 by William Todd
Cover Art: Daniel James Wrzesinski
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of creative nonfiction. Some of the stories are complete lies or things the author just flat made up. Any real names have been changed to protect those who were at that time temporarily insane or out of character.
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Standing Up
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
I Support Our Troops More Than You Do!
There Is Nothing Broke About My Mountain
Private Property Is Sacred: (There’s No Such Thing As A Communal Bar Of Soap)
Tina It’s Your Birthday So Try And Cheer The F*$K Up!
The Cabbie Gods Must Be Smiling Upon Me
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LEMONS
One of the things about driving a cab is you hear a significant number of sob stories and stuff you don’t need to hear. I discovered this correlation between how many sob stories I listened to on any given night and how gooey and icky and green my Q-Tip was the next morning. For a while I thought I had an infection. Three mornings in a row my Q-Tip, especially the end I stuck in my right ear, looked pretty funky. When I went to the doctor he said, “That’s not funk; it’s only a bad case of sob stories!”
One night my dispatcher Gina sent me over to the Chippewa motel to take this guy to Meijer and back. If I’d known what kind of sob story I was in for I’d have worn headphones. The dude was returning some gifts he’d purchased for a woman he traveled two thousand miles to see. They met online and one of them was not as honest as they should have been when it was time to share photos. When she took a look at him, she slammed the door in his face and shouted through the mail slot, “If you aren’t off my porch in five seconds I’m calling the cops!”
On the way over to Meijer, I listened to his story. He was returning a bottle of wine, a hallmark card, a decorative balloon, and something in a gift wrapped box. I had some actual sympathy for the schmuck and even added a few thoughtful questions about his situation. When it was time for him to pay his $4.80 fare he handed me a twenty and I gave him back a ten and five singles in case he felt like giving me a tip. He folded the money, placed it in his pocket, and said, “Pick me up again in twenty minutes, will you?”
On the return, knowing what the fare would cost, he handed me a five dollar bill as he climbed back in the van. No tip here as well. Without skipping a beat or asking how my night had been going he jumped back into his hard-luck story. Before he got going I used my big voice to do all the talking. “It was your own fault for not sending this girl an honest picture of yourself so now you have to listen to how my night’s going.”
A couple nights later over on Lincoln Street, I picked up Pete, a guy who wanted to make a booze run. Pete’s old lady was pregnant and they were ready to have a c-section since she was three weeks overdue. The poor woman is someone Pete has no interest in having a long-term future with. When she’s not at the hospital giving birth she’s at the casino. She’s developed a gambling problem which put the family in a cash bind and that’s cutting into Pete’s beer money.
We pulled into his driveway and I gave him his change on an eight dollar fare. I broke the twenty by returning a five and seven singles. Pete had a lot on his plate and I didn’t expect much but he had money for booze so he had money for a tip. A dollar would have been okay but since I listened to him the entire ride, and back too, I had three dollars in mind. Pete put the entire wad in his shirt pocket. No tip.
As Pete exited my van he said, “This relationship of mine with my old lady, well, it’s kind of complex. It’ll require some explanation. It’s a long story. You have a few minutes, don’t you?” Before I looked up from my clipboard he said, “I don’t hear anything coming over the radio.”
If I hadn’t had some sympathy for his sad-ass situation I’d have found his selfishness rude. Was my time so cheap it could be doled out to whoever wanted it?
“Well, I didn’t get a tip from you,” I told Pete.
He seemed taken aback but acted like he understood. Business is business.
“Well, you didn’t have to put it like that…” Pete handed over the two dollars that he should’ve given me in the first place. He was correct, no runs holding so I gave him a few more minutes of my time.
Pete seemed to be trying to say something meaningful about life, even about fatherhood, and he mentioned some things he thought I was going through at age twenty-five. “Everyone’s always saying, ‘Why don’t you turn your lemons into… lemons… I mean, pie or whatever.’”
Pete had asked my age on two separate occasions but I don’t think he could recall it the second after I said it. He was my age once, he said, so that “gave him authority on the subject.”
“You know, when life hands you lemons… When life hands you lemon meringue pie… you know. I mean, when life hands you an ash tray filled with lemon drops… No that’s not it either.” He looked down his driveway, I suppose for the answer. I turned to see if maybe a pretty girl was walking up.
“Let me try this again… When life hands you lemons. Hold on a second… I mean, when someone pours lemonade down my pants. I mean your pants… lemons. How does this fucking saying go? Ah, hell. You know what I’m saying, right?”
Poor Pete’s life story seemed like one big fat lemon. But I’m a nice cab driver and I was touched by his space cadet moment. Whenever a passenger is down and out, a part of me feels for their down and outness. “I have an idea for the perfect job to help you get back on your feet,” I told him.
“Really? Where at? You’re not talking about flipping burgers are you because I’ve tried that and it didn’t work out too well. All those hours and people talking and the smell of grease and food. It was just too much for me.”
“No. What I have in mind is much better than that. The Wayside.”
“The dance club here in town?”
“Yeah, they always have problems clearing out the parking lot at the end of the night. After 2 a.m. when the bar closes everyone is lingering, either trying to hook up with someone or trying to get into a fight and the bouncers have their work cut out for them. These people are holding everything up and the bouncers need to go home. This is where you come in, Pete. You go up to the Wayside with a megaphone and use it to tell everyone about your personal problems. Go into as much detail as possible, and if things work out the way I think they will, the place will clear out in a second. If there are even a few stragglers in the corner who you aren’t getting through to, you can turn up the volume and describe the details of your wife’s gambling problem and hopefully that will eliminate any ambiguity about the rest of their night’s plans.”
Pete was looking at me a bit confused so I added, “The moment the Wayside proprietor catches a glimpse of you at work he’d be a fool not to put you on the payroll. A fool! As soon as you’d arrive he’d be able to send his bouncers home for the night.”
Pete liked the idea but, one problem. No megaphone.
“Well, we’ll have to talk about that… Yes, I have a megaphone you can rent from me,” I said. “I have enough work of my own to do with it. But… I’m sure we can work something out.”
I pulled my megaphone out from under my seat. Instantly Pete moved to touch it. Who could blame him? It’s a Thunderpower 2000. It has a comfortable pistol grip handle, rotary volume control, and a short carrying strap. It was designed for large crowd control and can project a clear sound up to a distance of two kilometers. My primary use for this megaphone is when I need to get the attention of those sitting in the back of my van, to tell them that I’ve reached their destination and it’s time to GET OUT! Pete’s eyes lit up and I had to pull my megaphone away to keep him from grabbing it and running off.
“Not yet, Big Fella,” I said. “Have you ever used a megaphone before?”
“Yes, I have.” Pete looked a little put out that I’d even question that.
“You’re not going to drop it, are you?”
“No I promise. I don’t drop things much anymore.”
I handed over the megaphone and immediately he fumbled and hit the siren. I reached for my megaphone but Pete curled to his side like he was protecting a baby. I used my big voice: “You hand over my megaphone right now!”
Pete complied. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching for his sack. “Here, I’ll give you a beer if you let me hold your toy for a minute. Please!”
“It’s almost eleven o’clock,” I say to Pete. “If I’m going to let you touch my megaphone let’s at least get on your porch and turn off this van. We don’t need to wake your neighbors.”
Pete tries to hand me a beer. “Come on, take one.”
No runs are holding so I say, “What the hell. Just one. But I’m going to speak into my megaphone first.”
Pete’s anxiously waiting for his turn and hoping that what I have to say won’t take too long.
As we walk up to the porch I ask Pete, “You ever hear of Henry David Thoreau?”
“No, I don’t think so. I used to have an Uncle John but he passed away.”
Pete probably senses that it’s his turn to listen if he wants to get his dream job at the Wayside. “Henry’s got a lot of good quotes,” I say to Pete.
“I didn’t have an Uncle Henry. It was an Uncle John.”
“I’m talking about Henry David Thoreau now. Not one of your Uncles so that’s not what we’re talking about right now.”
“Oh,” Pete said.
“Are you with me?”
“Yeah, I’m with you.”
Good. Pete’s back on track.
“Henry once said that ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ It’s one of his best known quotes. If Henry was alive today I’d have plenty to say to him. I’d tell Henry how his quote reminds me of Radio Shack.”
“I’ve been to Radio Shack before. I’ve been there twice!” Pete said.
As I raise the megaphone, I imagine that I’m back in the cab. I’m taking Henry home from the bar and he’s quietly sitting in the back seat. I keep an eye on him in the rear view mirror as I pull my megaphone out from under my seat. Over the reflection of the megaphone I see his eyes.
“Henry… David… Thoreau! You once said that, ‘the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation’… Well, you know what Henry? We’ve got a little place in the 21st century called Radio Shack where you can go and get something called a megaphone and say goooooodddd-bbbyyeeeee to quiet desperation and hellloooo to amplification.” I turn the volume as high as it will go. “MY LIFE SUCKS! WHY DO ALL THE JOBS ON THIS PLANET SUCK SO BAD?! WHY MUST I DO THESE SUCKY JOBS FOR A LIVING, HENRY? WHY, OH WHY? WHAT IS THERE EVEN WORTH BECOMING!?”
I release the trigger only to hear a car alarm going off.
“Wow!” Pete says, “That megaphone sure is loud!”
I’d left the passenger side window of the van down so I could hear my dispatcher over the radio. Runs start to flood in at this hour and if we get too backed up Gina gets snippy. I should get back in my van but she has yet to call my van number and Pete expects me to follow through on my promise. “What the hell,” I say. I hand the megaphone to Pete and crack open another beer. Pete puts the megaphone to his mouth and after some incoherent noises he’s able to put some of his feelings into actual words.
“MY LIFE IS NOT A FAT LEMON! NO ONE’S GOING TO SQUEEZE ME INTO LEMONADE! I WORK AT THE WAYSIDE! I HAVE A MEGAPHONE AND MY VOICE CAN BE REALLY FUCKING LOUD TOO!”
“There you go Pete. You’re getting the hang of it!” Pete returns my megaphone and looks like he could get used to this.
That’s when I hear Gina over the radio. Damn. She has a run holding for me.
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IF I WERE RICH
Nice to see you all! I’m glad to be here. My first crack at standup comedy, so wish me luck. Pumped in over forty grand for my education, earned two degrees, and I end up doing standup. If there’s one thing I’m good at in this world, it’s making shit up. My parents should be proud. Part of the problem is I didn’t look at college as a trade school. When you get a liberal arts education, you become liberally and broadly educated, but for no particular profession.
The other part is, I didn’t like the jobs offered to me. They sucked. Hopefully, standup won’t suck so bad. Early on in college it became clear there were two kinds of jobs in the world: Jobs that suck and jobs that don’t suck that bad.
A job that sucks can be defined in three ways. It doesn’t match your identity. It doesn’t allow you to be creative. Or it doesn’t provide economic independence. The three kinds of suck are not separate bowls but are intermingled into one massive soup of despair. Every job I’ve had so far sucked in at least one of these three ways.
The economic suck has the potential to suck a lot more than the identity suck. Finding an occupation that earns a lot of money can make the other suckage not so bad. The identity suckage still takes its toll, but you have the resources to buy stuff that makes it halfway seem worth it, at least till you get home and cut off the tags. My goal in becoming a standup comedian is that it can make me rich because when you’re rich enough, nothing sucks.
It’s been a challenge to find an occupation that matches up with my identity. If I don’t find the right occupation, I might start dreading my future. This is a challenge for lots of people. It’s what drives people to drink; drinking helps them cope with feeling unfulfilled and neurotic. However, it gets old quick waking up every morning groggy and disconnected. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a well-adjusted person. But if I don’t chase the dream I have of being a standup comedian, every other road I follow is gonna be rocky.
Being a dishwasher was one of those jobs that sucked in all three ways. Even the people I worked with left a lot to be desired. They didn’t make the job suck any less than it already did. From my first day on the job as a dishwasher, the people in the kitchen seemed suspicious if I showed up to work sober. It wasn’t long before I got the message: If you show up to work at this place without booze on your breath more than two days in a row, you’re creating tensions in the workplace. If I did, my coworkers experienced some weird status strain and started to act nervous.
If I wasn’t drunk when I came to work I got strange looks from people. It wasn’t long before I started to hear the rumblings: “Oh, that dishwasher is up to something. He wants our jobs.” “He’s never in the bar after work as much as we are… He’s taking his job seriously so he can move up the ladder and try to be our boss someday. What a prick.”
It was strange to hear those things. What ladder was there worth climbing in that shitty restaurant, anyway? The pay was crappy and we had to wear a hairnet. Still, I didn’t want to show up to work with booze on my breath. I couldn’t be a part of that.
The hardest thing about the whole dishwashing experience was that I never got credit for the times I did show up to work drunk. I’m a vodka drinker, a heavy vodka drinker. I can cover over my vodka by popping an Altoid or even chomping half a stick of gum. That’s why I drink it. But those guys never smelled it. They never caught a whiff of it so I never fit in. Credit was never given where it was due. So that job sucked. I quit and found a job driving a cab and, luckily, that job didn’t suck that bad.
The worst way a job can suck is if it fails to provide economic independence. One way this doesn’t matter is if you truly love what you do. Then money doesn’t matter.
But I’m an American. The lenses of my favorite sunglasses are shaped like dollar signs. I’m driven by economic success. I like money. I want to be rich. “Greed is Good,” as Gordon Gekko says in the movie Wall Street. Money buys plenty of happiness because when you’re rich, you can’t even remember when you had a job that sucked.
Naysayers like to claim that the chances of rags-to-riches are significantly reduced in today’s society. People don’t climb up the food chain like they used to. The American dream died. I still believe in the American dream. I don’t want to work the sucky paycheck jobs until the day I die. I believe upward mobility is still alive and well in our society and I believe that I’m going to achieve this mobility someday.
Naysayers will tell you that globalization has something to do with the problem. As jobs are outsourced it lessens the opportunities and mobility prospects for Americans. There is some truth to that assessment. A global market is competitive and demands flexibility from those who wish to work in it. Thing is, in a global economy you have to work that much harder. You have to fend for yourself. You have to find your niche and discover what you’re good at. I understand that; in college I learned I’m good at many things.
My brain never shuts up. I have a sharp mind that occupies itself with ways to make me rich. One thing I’m good at is playing games on my phone. I have this old phone that an ex-girlfriend gave me and it’s got this game on it called Snake. Snake is a simple game. With the arrow buttons you steer this snake after pellets and other such snake food. The more stuff my snake eats, the longer the snake’s body grows. You can change the speed of the game and the maze in which the snake moves. This game is gloriously mindless and that’s why I love it. I play it at the bank. I play it when I’m waiting for red lights to turn green. I even play it when I’m sitting on the can.
I kick major ass at Snake. I’d like to hold clinics on how to play Snake, teach people, young and old, how to improve their Snake performance. I have a high score of 1258 so that’s good enough credentials. My clinics will teach people how to become better Snake players and I’d get rich by charging participants five hundred dollars an hour. Those who attended my clinics would leave not only better Snake players, but better people as well. My program would include character building exercises. The fee might sound high but people would get their money’s worth. The rate would be based on estimated inflation considering it would be a few years before this game took off in popularity. It would have to start off at the grass roots level.
The problem is Snake won’t make me rich right now. When it comes to achieving economic independence, I don’t have patience. I had a dream one night where this pellet kept moving and wouldn’t stay put long enough for me to steer the Snake over to eat it. The closer my snake came, the more the pellet moved. After a while, I became the Snake! It was agonizing because I was on the verge of a new high game. I interpreted that dream as saying that, for now, I’ll need to put this dream on hold. It’s not a pipe dream but I’m putting it on the backburner for the time being. Someday Snake will enjoy the same level of popularity as poker does now and it will make me filthy rich.
Bossing people around is another skill I have that gives me a leg up over the next guy in a global economy. I can criticize people for not being docile enough along with the best from anywhere on the globe. When I imagine what my life will be like when I’m in my forties, I see myself like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. Grumpy. Money-hungry. Definitely old. I don’t want to be a mean person but I have a keen business mind. And I gotta put that sucker to use. A mind to make me rich. I didn’t pump all of that money into my education without the hopes of getting something back.
I know what it takes to be a successful manager in today’s world, what traits to look for in employees. Two of the best traits an employee can have are a weak mind and a strong back. Can I get a hallelujah? Docile people make for the best employees because they do what you tell them to without any hassle. And I’m not shy about firing people because they aren’t docile enough. My business will be built on the principles of equal opportunity. A minority person, or even a woman has just as much chance as a white man does when it comes to being docile. I’ll also put on my payroll any two-faced or spineless employee who’ll do my dirty work for me. I’ll need someone who can be manipulated into snitching on other employees since this is work for a man of lower rank. A yes-sir personality that kisses ass will be useful. I know what it takes to run a successful business and that’s a skill I need to put to use.
As a manager, I understand how crucial it is to garner the love of your employees. It’s indispensable if you’re serious about wanting to make good money. You gotta get your employees to love you. That’s why it’s important to hire people you can make fun of; when employees are unhappy, they’ve someone upon whom to channel their negativity.
The person with a speech impediment is easy to make fun of. A shapeless disgrace, with a personality bought at the mall is even easier to make fun of. The size of your business will determine how many of these freaks you need. Having an employee that everyone makes fun of promotes stability in the workplace. Not only does it bring the workers together but it also earns you their love and respect. Count on an improved bottom line. These are all skills I bring to the table.
Even though working in a kitchen didn’t pan out for me, it didn’t stifle my dream to someday own and manage my own restaurant. This is where I’m gonna rake in the cash. I went to college. I learned a lot of important things about people. People love eating and they love breaking stuff. Can I get another hallelujah? These are things from which I could make money. My idea is nothing short of a golden nugget. Think about it. What happens when people are breaking shit? They get hungry. The more shit you break, the bigger your appetite; the more food you eat, the more money I make. You know where I pledge the allegiance. I’m all about that bottom line.
Where are you going to break shit? Billy T’s Steak House. If you come down to Billy T’s you’re going to have the time of your life. I’ll answer your questions about stock prices for my restaurant after the show.
All of the liability issues have been covered so there is nothing to worry about. The restaurant will supply goggles and gloves. Customers will sign their names so they can’t sue if they screw up and get hurt. People can choose to bring their own things to break but the majority of people will expect us to provide breakables. We’ll provide pretty much anything that makes a loud shattering noise: Plates, cups, bottles, flower pots, glass. You gotta give customers what they want. Excelling as a manger in a global economy is all about understanding who your customers are and what they want to break.
The breaking room will be connected to the restaurant. There will be batting cage dividers separating customers, allowing them to throw things at a big heaping mound of broken remnants of other shit! For an extra charge, we’ll provide a specific effigy that you want to throw stuff at. This can be anyone from an opposing sports figure to the president of the United States to some hated terrorist. For another charge you can eat at a table a safe distance away, where you can watch friends and family having a good time.
Too bad I’m not ready for the commitment it would take to run my own restaurant. It’s just not the time for it. There’s something more important I have to do first. I have to get this standup comedy out of my system. That’s my real calling. It’s my nature. I have a good feeling my identity will match up with that occupation. Being a standup comic will allow me to be creative, which can’t be a bad thing. I like jokes. I like comedy. I like making shit up. I like sharing things with people. I’ve got the pluck. Now all I need is a little luck. It’s gonna make me rich. Liberating my inner standup comic is gonna be my ticket to the good life. What else is there worth becoming, other than obscenely rich? As much fun as Snake is, it’s not going to be a popular sport soon.
Martin Luther King said, “I have a dream that one day… men and women… boys and girls… brothers and sisters… will not be judged by the color of their skin… or the content of their characters… but instead by the thickness of their wallets.” Marty, I couldn’t agree with you more. I have a dream that one day I will have the thickest and fattest wallet on the flippin’ block! Then the freedom bell would finally ring for me!
I can’t wait to be rich. If I were rich, I’d finally have the opportunity to search for loopholes and tax breaks. If you’re going to excel at something in today’s world, why not loopholes? I long for those opportunities where I express my disdain toward the progressive income tax. I should be able to keep every cent I earn. Wherever government is, let me at them! Someday I’m going to make a hell of a talking head on a Fox News program.
If I were rich, I’d have no money worries. My parents could retire. I could even pay illegal immigrants to do my chores.
If I were rich, I’d be in position to make more attractive offers to strippers to come back to my hotel to have sex.
If I were rich, I’d feel superior to people who aren’t.
If I were rich, there would be no more identity suckage. People would see me for who I am. Facades gone! I’d let it all hang out.
If I were rich, I’d put my unique inner seed on display for the world to see. My money would give people no choice but to listen to me.
If I were rich, nothing would suck.
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MY NEW YEARS RESOLUTION
Welcome back everyone. It’s nice to see you all. Thanks for coming to the show. Happy New Year! A brand New Year, can you believe it? 2006. Time sure flies, doesn’t it? Did you guys have a Happy New Year? That’s good to hear. I had to work but it wasn’t too bad. Make any New Year’s resolutions? Me neither. I don’t see the point. I never understood why people get so worked up about New Year’s resolutions. People make them left and right but you rarely hear success stories of people who actually follow through. That’s because these people are a minority. A small minority.
People don’t take resolutions seriously. Resolutions are quick fixes. You’re quick to make them and just as quick to give up on them because they’re not fixing anything. If you’re committed to a goal, if you really wanted to change your life, you should be able to get going on that any time of year.
That hasn’t stopped me from making resolutions for other people. It’s easier to make a resolution for someone else, a loved one, a boyfriend, a girlfriend, whomever, than it is to make one for yourself. I have no issue with being a little imperialistic when it comes to making New Year’s resolutions.
An old girlfriend, Sara, with whom I used to live liked leaving piles of things all over the place. I wouldn’t have moved in with her if I’d known what I was getting into. The piles got out of hand in a hurry. Magazines, books, clothes, shoes, knick-knacks. Piles of this, piles of that. Piles here, piles there, piles everywhere. Anything that could be put into a pile would be and she left these piles all over the place.
If I had a nickel for every pile Sara left somewhere in our apartment, I’d have one shit load of nickels. I’d be rich! If this girl had to match a nickel for every pile of stuff she left somewhere, we’re talking about a lot of nickels, and if she had a lot of nickels I know exactly what she’d have done with them. She’d leave the nickels in a pile somewhere. In a place that I’m sure would be inconvenient, like on the floor of the bathroom so I’d have to step on them as I got out of the shower. Well… after a while I couldn’t stand it anymore. My girlfriend was destined for a taste of my imperialism.
It was almost April and there was no more snow on the ground but it was not too late for Sara’s New Year’s resolution. Her piles had to go. Surprisingly, Sara was open to my resolution for her. What options did she have? Either the piles had to leave, or she did. Now it took a bit of work. No a lot of work, but like any bad habit it can be done away with. Before I knew it, Sara was actually using her closet. She tossed some shit in boxes, and some she threw out all together. There were serious changes taking place here and it made me feel good that I was making a difference in Sara’s life.
Of course, nothing is perfect. There were suspicious lumps under the rug in the living room. There was probably more stuff than there should’ve been under our bed, making the mattress lopsided. What was important here was that the piles were out of sight. It had the appearance that we were on the right path to a successful New Year’s resolution.
Long story short, the piles didn’t stay out of sight. They came back with a vengeance. But the piles came back in a different form. Now it was piles of arguments, piles of headaches, and piles of “It’s-time-for-one-of-us-to-move-out-and-since-this-is-my-place-you-have-to-get-out,” drama. The relationship wasn’t working so Sara moved in with a girlfriend.
Two thousand five came and went. When 2006 came along, I didn’t have anyone around over whom to channel my imperialism. I had not a damn thing constructive to do with my imperialistic tendencies. Sara was gone and not coming back. No girl around to fill her place. So I said, What the fuck? Let’s give it a shot on myself. It’s time for my own New Year’s resolution.
Now, I don’t like shaking hands. Have I mentioned that before? Sure I have. Shaking another person’s hand, I could do away with. It’s one of those social things that I’d avoid if it wouldn’t seal my fate to being socially ostracized. Is ostracizion a word? Yup, I’ve added it to my computer dictionary.
I imagine horrible things a man does with his hands during the day. Just thinking about what I do with my own hands all day is enough to make me think twice. There was a study done stating that the average person touches sixty penises on a daily basis. Sixty penises! Just going through the day touching door handles or a computer mouse or getting change at the grocery store racks them up in a hurry. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to touch sixty penises. I don’t want to touch any penises. The only penis I want to touch is my own!
I’m not saying everyone should keep their hands in their pockets when it’s time for introductions. Nor is this an advocacy for wearing gloves in the middle of summer. I’ve tried to shake another person’s hand with my hand in my pocket and it doesn’t work. Pulling your sleeve over your hand before a shake, to avoid skin contact, only works in seasons when you’re wearing a long sleeve shirt. You can’t pull that off in a warm season or climate. I’ve tried and suffered acutely. People either get offended or think I’m nuts. Or both.
I have friends who think I’m crazy because I
carry around a flask wherever I go. My flask isn’t filled with the
kind of alcohol you drink to get drunk. Most people take convincing
when I tell them my flask is filled with rubbing
alcohol. My flask is with me wherever I go, at whatever hour of the
day, no matter what I‘m doing. If you bump into me after tonight’s
show, count on seeing me with my flask tucked away in my shirt
pocket. My friends give me a hard time. “It‘s filled with booze,”
they say. “You must have a drinking problem.” My friends like to
bust my balls from time to time, so I try to get even. There’ve
been times when I’ll go along with them, lead them on to think that
it really is booze in my flask. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out,” I
dare them. “Come on man, take a swig of it. You’re thirsty aren’t
you? It’ll go down smoooth.”
When I was driving a cab I
always had my flask. I shook a lot of hands and I touched a lot of
money. I never went to work without my flask. In one busy shift,
without my rubbing alcohol, I’d touch enough penises for a
lifetime. It’s not like I’m some OCD freak but it’s important
to be cautious. I’m paranoid about shaking hands with someone who
doesn’t wash after going to the bathroom. If there’s ever going
to be a pandemic in the future with the bird flu or swine flu or
whatever flu, I’ll be one of the few who doesn’t catch it. It’s
been years since I came down with a cold so I gotta be doing
something right. In my cab, you’ll get no “Bless you” for a
sneeze into your hands.
Two thousand six was my resolution: I was never going to shake hands with another person again. I was making a quick exit from the hand shaking business. And like any New Year’s resolution, it had to begin at midnight on January first. I had to work New Year’s Eve because, in the cab industry, you have to work New Year’s Eve whether you want to or not. It’s one of the biggest money-making nights of the year and Bossman wants to get all the cabs on the road. Work is where I shake the most hands so this wouldn’t be easy. In fact, I wasn’t optimistic. So… I wasn’t surprised when I only stuck to my resolution for about two hours and fifty-nine minutes. That third hour, there wasn’t much I could do about it.
I was taking this Indian named Sparky home from the bar. Sparky hadn’t wanted to stay at home for New Year’s. His girl, who was pregnant, stayed home for the night. She was too big to go out and party.
“You must have a pretty cool girl if she’s willing to let you go out on your own,” I said, “especially on New Year’s.”
“Yeah, we’ve got a pretty good thing going. She keeps me happy. She keeps me happy.” This was going to be Sparky’s second child. “My first child, a boy, changed my life,” Sparky said. “Fatherhood’s a blast, Man. Don’t listen to what anyone says. It’s beautiful, Man, beautiful. It changed the way I look at the world. It changed the way I look at my life. Who I was, where I was going. I’m a changed man now.”
“You run a victory lap around your apartment complex every Father’s Day?” I asked.
Sparky liked repeating lines over and over. If I had a nickel for every time I had to nod to convey that I was listening, we’re talking about another hefty pile of nickels here.
We pulled in to Sparky’s driveway and I glanced at the clock. A few minutes shy of 3 a.m. Something told me my resolution wasn’t going to make it much further. What ensued wasn’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill handshake. This was one of those long-winded handshakes people from the streets make. You know what I’m talking about? Where the hands embrace, followed by a grip of the finger tips, which turns into a bumping of the fists. With knuckles pressed together, there’s a pause, then fists turn keys, which is followed by another clenching of the hands, ten handshakes all rolled into one. Shaking hands with Sparky seemed to go on in slow motion forever, a super-sized handshake.
Sparky’s hand was clammy, something that put my thoughts on my flask. Without letting go of my hand, Sparky said in drunken earnestness, “You’re so cool and real, man.”
“Well, don’t waste your breath telling me shit I already know.”
Sparky laughed.
“I appreciate you giving me a ride home. You’re going to make a good father yourself one day.”
“Thanks for saying that, Spark, I appreciate it.”
He tossed a twenty on the dashboard. “That’s for you. That’s separate from the ten I gave you before we left.”
“Cool, I like that man. Way to look out.”
“Good night, Man. Good night.”
The tip almost made up for the clamminess of Sparky’s hand. Almost. His hand was fucking clammy. Very clammy. In the process of this long, drawn out handshake, the clamminess of his hand transferred to mine, an icky feeling. And the word “icky” is a word I don’t throw around often. My hand was warm with a moist, almost filmy, kind of stickiness like I just dipped it in a pan of warm honey. But, like I said, I never leave home without my flask. As soon as Sparky said his good-bye, which he said for the twentieth time, he shut the door. That’s when I went for my flask.
Then it happened so fast. As I was lathering up my hands, the passenger door flew open. Sparky again. What the fuck? “What’s going on, Man?” I asked. My immediate thought: I hope for god’s sake he doesn’t want to shake hands again! My resolution was already shot. My flask was in my hand, tipped to the side and pouring. Did it matter that he caught me in the act? Did he know that I was lathering up with rubbing alcohol? The cab reeked of rubbing alcohol. The way his nostrils flared, he’d definitely caught a whiff of the strong-ass odor rubbing alcohol gives off. When he didn’t look away, I screwed the cap back on the flask so I could put it back in my bag.
Sparky mumbled something and grabbed his cell phone which he’d left behind on the seat. His cell phone, of course! While breathing through his teeth, he couldn’t stop looking at me. Sparky was pissed. With his lips pursed like a bulldog, he slammed the door so hard my van rocked. I was glad the windows didn’t break. I quickly hit the power locks and threw the van in reverse. Once I was out of Sparky’s driveway I noticed the twenty dollar bill, once sitting on the dashboard, my bonus tip, was nowhere in sight. Things had happened so fast, I didn’t know what became of that money. Had Sparky snatched it up when I was putting my flask away? Or had the impact of the slamming door sent the bill flying somewhere? I couldn’t think about it too long because I had to get the hell out of his driveway. I didn’t want him coming out with a gun or a hose or another hand to shake. At the first gas station I searched the van up and down and the Thomas Jefferson was nowhere. Sparky had taken it, all right. That God damn Indian- giver ruined my New Year’s resolution for sure.
* * * * *
I SUPPORT OUR TROOPS MORE THAN YOU DO!
If World War III rears its ugly head in my lifetime, I’ll contract my services out to the highest bidder. This is not a slam on my country or its history but you already know I have dollar signs in my eyes. They’ve been there since birth. Of course, I’d have to take a look at the circumstances that generated the war. What parties were involved? Who’s responsible? Who has the best chance of winning? If a nuclear war breaks out, which nation has the most nukes? If I could serve the war effort in a Bob Hope capacity to help boost the morale of the troops with my standup, can I tell off-color jokes about the generals? After considering these questions I’d make a decision.
My first choice would be the United States cause then I wouldn’t have to pack up my shit and move. I’d prefer to fight for an English speaking country but if France or Spain is cutting the fattest check, that’s where I’ll sign up. Hopefully wherever I enlist will have a legitimate nuclear capacity and be allied to a superpower. The price would have to be right before I packed up my things to enlist for another country. I’m not tipping patriotic values on their heads; it’s just that I’m a citizen of the world and my life is far too important to be fighting for minimum wage.
Historically it’s usually the poor and disenfranchised and those less anchored to society who fight the wars. This was the case in the Revolutionary War where the poor did the bulk of the fighting. Some of the more well-to-do joined the militia but it was the poor who won the war for the colonies. If I’m ever going to fight, I may have patriotic ideals mixed in there, but my motivation will always be financial. It’s going to take one hell of an attractive dollar amount to compel my heart and mind to engage in such violence. Before I contract my services out to the highest bidder and become a mercenary soldier I need to get paid.
World War III makes me think of a regular passenger I used to pick up. Mr. Hunter was a retired something-or-other and now held a position as a full-time drunk. I could never predict what I was in for when Mr. Hunter jumped into my cab. His moods changed with the weather and the conversations we shared were all over the map. Hunter was an opinionated SOB and could really get going about politics and what was going on in the world.
One night he was drunk and got on my case because he thought I didn’t support our troops enough. He didn’t cut me any slack for being a college student and not getting big enough tips to put together care packages. There was plenty more I could be doing. The thing about Mr. Hunter was that he never did anything for the troops except talk about them. Never wrote to them. Never sent them anything. Never even put an I Support Our Troops bumper sticker on his vehicle. His driver’s license was revoked and he hadn’t owned a vehicle in over a decade so the bumper sticker idea wasn’t going to work out for him anyway. This troops issue was a touchy subject that I never brought up first.
“I support our troops more than you do,” Mr. Hunter groans this one night, like a petulant kid. Mr. Hunter, at least when he was in my cab, never met an opportunity to jump on his soap box that he didn’t take. “Your problem is that you don’t think about supporting our troops enough.”
Mr. Hunter maintained that thinking about sending a care package to the troops in Iraq and Afghanistan makes one more of a patriotic American than someone who doesn’t even engage in such mental exercises.
“When was the last time you thought about our troops?” I asked.
He thinks about my question, “Well last Thursday…. ”
“Is that all?”
“… and I also thought about them last Tuesday,” Mr. Hunter snapped back. “Those sure were times reserved for our troops. As a matter of fact, the other day when one of your drivers dropped me off at Meijer, I even scripted out a shopping list in my mind of specific things to get, like toilet paper and bottled water. Yeah, I never ended up getting those things but I’m sure that’s more than you ever thought about for our troops.”
I dropped Mr. Hunter off and we left it at that. For that day.
The next Saturday night my dispatcher sent me over to take Mr. Hunter home at the end of the night, and he was wasted and cranky because he’d just had a bad encounter involving some woman. I didn’t want to listen to him bellyaching about that so I picked up our war conversation where we’d left off last time. “Why don’t you just go ahead and send something to the soldiers serving in Iraq or Afghanistan?” I asked. “Why can’t you send our troops something? Pop tarts? Toilet paper? Underwear? A bag of Cheeto’s? Something. You have the spare time and money for such charity, so what’s your excuse?”
“Cheeto’s?! Are you out of your mind? What happens if those Cheeto’s end up in the hands of those sadistic soldiers who tortured prisoners at Abu Gharib? Then what? I heard a story where a soldier had an Iraqi on his knees balancing a nickel on his nose with the threat of being sodomized with a ruler should the damned nickel fall! A ruler, for cryin’ out loud! Just imagine what kind of disgusting atrocities they could commit with Cheetos!”
I’d heard a lot of disturbing stories in regards to Abu Gharib but nothing of Mr. Hunter’s example. I didn’t know where Mr. Hunter got his information, but thought it probably had credibility issues.
“What happens if that wasn’t a nickel, but was one of those Cheeto’s I sent over in a care package?” Hunter asked. “I couldn’t live with myself. A Cheeto is a hell of a lot tougher to balance on your nose than a nickel. Have you ever tried to balance a Cheeto on your nose? I have, so I speak from experience. It’s no easy task.”
Mr. Hunter wanted to prove how much easier it was to balance a nickel than a Cheeto. He reached into his pocket. Did he have any nickels? As he pulled out his change some of it spilled between the seats. Knowing how long it’s been since anyone vacuumed under the seat, or anywhere else in this van, I wasn’t surprised when Mr. Hunter returned with a crumpled up straw wrapper, a lighter, and some loose change. No nickel.
Before he looked any further, I cut in. “Hold on. Let me check the change in my own pocket.” I hit the dome light. Sure enough I had a nickel. I handed it over and the task of getting it to stay on Mr. Hunter’s nose in a moving van was easier said than done. But it was a helluva good time watching.
“How long was it that time?” he asked, picking the nickel back off the floor for another go.
“About five seconds.”
“That’s all?”
“Yup.”
“It felt like fifty-five. If I could find a Cheeto under this damn seat I’d show you how, with a Cheeto, it’d be a lot shorter than that. Cheeto’s are lopsided and one side is disproportionately weightier than the other. Plus, Cheeto’s have those ridges that a nickel doesn’t have which makes them not sit still.”
“I’ve eaten a bag of Cheeto’s before.” I pulled into his driveway.
“Delicious, aren’t they?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So, see what I mean? If that Abu Gharib prisoner lost hold of that Cheeto his anus would be bleeding like a faucet. You ever experienced anal bleeding?”
I tensed up at the thought. Would he illustrate this one too?
“No, I’m glad to say I haven’t.”
“Anal bleeding is another area where I can speak from experience. I had hemorrhoids for three weeks. Fuckers bled into the toilet and I sobbed into my hands. God only knows what that prisoner might have gone through when the camera wasn’t around. A ruler for cryin’ out loud! It would’ve been all my fault because I was stupid enough to send over a bag of Cheeto’s. I’m best off just thinking about our troops.”
* * * * *
THERE IS NOTHING BROKE ABOUT MY MOUNTAIN
My dispatcher sent me over to pick up a guy named Paul who was supposed to be waiting for me at the back door of some bar. This being neither the time nor the place for an “I hit it from the back” joke, I stepped inside to get him. Paul wasn’t in my cab a full minute before he started in on how he wanted to pay for more than just a cab fare. Paul wanted to pay me for sex.
“Swing over to the ATM. Whatever it is I’ll match your price. How much do you want?”
“Thanks, but no thanks Paul,” I told him. “There’s nothing broke about my mountain. Women and women only are allowed to hike and climb and camp in my mountains.” It would have been considerate if Paul had at least learned my name before trying to pay me for sex but, as he was to tell me later, he was just being drunk and stupid.
“Tell me about your female situation then,” Paul said with a glowing faggy smile. I had no reason to lie. “I just got out of a two-year relationship with a girl but have since moved on and have been kind of seeing this other girl for the last couple weeks. Although my long time ex-girlfriend has been out of the equation for a while that doesn’t mean you can try to spin that into any kind of sign that I’m a closet homosexual.”
Paul didn’t want to hear it. He made the most out of being drunk and uninhibited. “Does she suck your cock? Does she suck your cock till you cum?” Of course the next one was: “Have you ever had a guy suck your cock?”
I glanced in Paul’s direction, making sure he wasn’t going to try something faggy and give me a reason to knock him out. Even if it wasn’t much different, no Brokeback Mountain was taking place in my cab tonight.
“No guys,” I said. “Not until I’m in prison” I laughed a little. All good fun.
Paul lived fifteen minutes outside of town and considering the ride we had in front of us I didn’t want to say something that’d make the ride to his place unbearable. I wasn’t interested in him sucking my cock, but nor did I want to sit in awkward silence for fifteen minutes.
“If there’s one thing I’m one-hundred percent certain about in this world, it’s my sexuality,” I told Paul. “There’s nothing ambiguous about my sexuality. It’s a black and white issue. I am one-hundred percent sure there is nothing broke about my mountain. A life-term in prison might change how I feel about getting an erection for another man, but in no way would I go for that while I’m out here, free.”
“I’ve got football players to go home with me for the night who never had sex with a man before.”
Having slept with young college guys in the past was Paul’s justification for thinking that any guy had his price. “You won’t even let me suck your dick for five hundred dollars? That’s more than you’ll make driving all night.”
Paul kept sitting so he could watch himself in my rearview mirror. I supposed that his looks had gotten him things he wanted in the past. “I used to be a dancer,” he told me. And he was proud of scoring many attractive guys off the dance floor so it was hard for him to believe I wasn’t interested in his offer.
Paul looked like someone you’d see in the summer catalog advertising Docker shorts so I understood why sexually confused and bisexual males found him attractive. Not me. But the word “No” meant little to Paul.
Next I tried to convey my sexuality by asking if the temperature in the van was okay. Did he want me to turn up the air conditioning?
“No. Temperature’s fine, thank you,” he said with his now familiar, faggy smile.
“What’s that?” I put my finger behind my ear, (his side, screw the Q-tip) making sure he knew it was listening time. “You were wondering how I felt about the temperature?” I asked. “I’m straight, too.” I answered my own question. “I have no problem leaving the temperature right where it is because I’m straight. I’m neither too warm nor too cold, because I’m straight!”
We pulled into Paul’s driveway and still he wouldn’t let up. “Why won’t you just pull it out and show me? Are you not comfortable enough about pulling it out in front of another man? I’ll cut you a check for a hundred right now.”
With the dome light on even drunken, gay men have moments of clarity. “Please. Never mind,” Paul begged. “I take back everything I said. I’m really sorry. I’m not like this at all. That was so stupid. I’m just too drunk right now. I feel bad about all this and want to make up for your trouble.”
I hesitated wondering, what next? The last thing I want is Paul lunging at me, trying to slip his hand down my pants. It wouldn’t be the first time I had to protect myself from a disorderly passenger but I didn’t want to have to hit Paul. I didn’t want to waste the rest of the night digging under the seats looking for the remainder of Paul’s teeth while worrying that the search was pointless. He’d have swallowed them! We wouldn’t know until his next bowel movement and I’m not sticking around for that.
The fare was ten bucks and Paul wrote out a check for twenty-five. Twenty-five wasn’t cutting it. If we were putting a price on things, then this ride home was worth at least fifty. I’m a cab driver and used to putting up with shit but I expect to be paid. I’d have told Paul this, but I didn’t want to spend any more time with him than I already had. Writing the check took long enough with Paul looking up and apologizing after every number or letter he wrote, really trying to see if I’d had a change of heart and he should add another zero.