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Regrettable Moment No. 455

Way back when we were barely teenagers, we hung around Hudson Street Playground.  It wasn’t much of place, but it was ours. It was a ¼ basketball court with a single hoop, nestled on the hill near the Hungarian Church overlooking what had been Regan’s Farm.  It was located in a valley town which was dominated by the mill.

The town had been generally tough, but tougher now that the mills were starting to struggle. The grit which spewed from the mills made the town tough; Hell, it made us tougher than young teens should be.

We were a loose knit group of about 8 guys. Bob always lugged around an 8-track player, which was normally playing Shook Me All Night Long. Don, Dan and his brother were the usual’s.

Bob was tall.  I mean tall for a kid.  He was damned near 6 foot 4.   He was the athletic one.

Adjacent to the Hudson Street Playground was an awkward trailer court.  No, it wasn’t a campground.  It was a small place where a handful of trailers were permanently attached.   We had never met anyone who lived there.

One typical day at Hudson Street Playground, we were sitting around as normal – spitting tobacco juice and sipping on snitched beers.  We were quite busy with that ritual when a strange voice broke the silence, “Hey” it said.

We turned and saw a kid our age whom we had never seen before.  He said, “I’m Biff.  I just moved into that trailer park”.

The fact that he was new, lived I the odd trailer park, and carried a cassette player blaring REO Speedwagon made this new guy tough to like.

He hung around for a bit, made some awkward attempts at forced conversation, and meandered over toward the trailer park.

Using idiot teenage logic, we decided we didn’t like Biff.  However, Biff stopped by the playground from time to time and annoyed us with his awkward forced attempts at conversation, such as, “Hey, did you see the tits on that chick?” or “I really like Barry Manilow”, or the infamous, “I think Jo Polniaczek is hotter than Blair Warner on The Facts of Life.”

One day, as the summer wore on, we were all sitting at the picnic table.  Suddenly, we saw Biff riding his bike in circles on Hudson Street.  It was hot. We were busy spitting tobacco juice onto the slag, but we didn’t have any snitched beers.  We watched Biff Circle, with his cassette player blasting “Mandy”.

After a while, Bob said, “I bet I could hit Biff with a rock.”

Now, mind you that this was an innocuous teenage bet. Also, Hudson Street had to be 150 feet from the picnic table.

Biff continued circling.

We kept discussing the odds of hitting him with a rock.  And, those odds seemed slim.

Someone said, “Hell, at that distance, you won’t be able to even reach the street, no less hit a moving target.

Bob says, “Okay, it’s a bet!”

He reached down and picked up a silver dollar size piece of slag.

He watched Biff circling.

Bob finally went into a Baseball style wind up.  His right arm cocked backward, he stepped forward, and threw the rock towards Hudson Street.

Biff circled.

We watched the rock.  It arced upward on a high trajectory.

As the rock started coming down, we watched Biff circle.

Then, we were all horrified – We realized that the trajectory of the falling rock directly aligned with Biff’s path.

Dan said, “Ain’t no way it’s gonna hit him n’at.”.

Anyway, Dan was wrong.  In fact, he couldn’t’ have been more wrong.

The rock popped biff on the right side of his head.  He pedaled two rotations after the impact, then his hand wobbled on the handlebars.

He crashed the bike right in the middle of Hudson Street.

Barry Manilow stopped playing.

We heard crying.  He got up off of the pavement and headed toward the trailer park.

We all beat a path out of there.

Over the next day or two, we all sheepishly gathered at Hudson Street Playground.  No one mentioned the rock incident.

Suddenly, Biff walked up behind us. He had a new cassette player and a big piece of gauze taped to his head.

He said, “Man, I really wrecked my bike bad the other day.”

No one had any words.  They were taken by the frog in our throats.

Biff’s mom yelled out of the trailer door for him to come to dinner, and he trotted off.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in silence.  Spitting tobacco and staring at each other, and secretly feeling bad about Biff.

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The Booger Burglar

I think it was George Carlin who said, “You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friends nose.

Invariably, that quote always sends me back to the fifth grade.  There was some kid.  No, I don’t recall his name. He was a grade or two behind me.   Anyway, everyday after lunch, regardless of the weather, they’d send us outside for recess.

Recess took place in a fairly large asphalt parking lot. About once a week, this kid would pick a big ol’ juicy booger out of his nose, and place it on the tip of his right index finger.  He’d then approach a group of unsuspecting kids – normally a group of girls – and threaten to touch them with his booger.

The target group would then scream, squeal, and run, and he’d chase them around the parking lot.  He’d have the brightest eyes and the biggest smile while this went on.

Even at the tender and awkward age of 10, I realized that was an awful way to impress a chick.

I’ve been thinking about this booger-fingered kid for a whole lot of years.   It struck me that, if at my age, someone threatened to touch me with a booger, I’d probably squeal and run too – and I’m a grown ass man!

That got me to thinking; I’m betting a person, if they really wanted to, could go on a weaponless crime spree.  Hear me out – In place of a weapon, you could use a booger on your index finger.  Seriously.  Picture it.  You could storm into a gas station, pick a huge juicy booger out of your nose, plant it on the tip of your index finger, and BAM – You’re good to go.

How?  Threaten to touch the clerk with the booger.  I mean, “Hey – Empty out that cash drawer into this bag or I’ll touch you with this booger!”. You may have to point the booger like a gun, and take a step or two toward the clerk, but the money is gonna be put in the bag.

If the manager causes any problems, you could grab him from behind, with his neck in the crook of your left elbow. Your right finger (with the booger) would be pointed at his cheek like a gun. Then, you could announce to the entire store, “If anyone wants to try and be a hero, I’ll wipe this booger on this guy’s cheek!”

So, after the deed is done, you can run out the door, flick the booger into the parking lot, jump on the 61C bus, and ride off into the sunset.

The best part is when the cops show up.   The cop will ask the clerk, “So, what did this guy look like?”

The clerk will say “He was about 40 years old, 6 feet tall, white, and about 200 pounds.”

“What did he get away with?”

“About $1,200 bucks.”

“What kind of gun did he have?”

“Uh.. he didn’t’ have a gun”

“What kid of knife did he have?”

“Uh, he didn’t have a knife.”

“Club?”

“No.”

“Stick?”

“No.”

“Well, what did he have?”

“He had a booger.”.

“A Booger?”

“Yeah. A booger.  A booger on his right index finger.”

“A booger?!?!?!?”

“Yeah, he threatened to wipe his booger on us.”

“No more questions.”

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Hoagie Gate

Back in the mid 90’s, I worked for a  small but growing company.   We burgeoned to about 100 employees about the same time that email was brand new corporate technology.

At one point, we received an email that was sent to “Everyone”.   It was from some new guy who was recently hired in our Appraisal Department.  He sent the blast email because he was trying to sell hoagies for his kids PTA.

Even though most of us didn’t know him, the prospect of a cheap hoagie lunch at some point in the future sounded good. The new guy sold 82 hoagies via this email. He sent another email about how happy we all made him.  He must’ve broken a hoagie selling record or something.  He promised to deliver the hoagies in two more Fridays.

That second Friday arrived and we were all looking forward to a hoagie luncheon.  We arrived. We heard nothing about hoagies.  I mean not a peep.

I called the new hoagie guys boss.  Soon after he picked up the phone, I got he distinct impression that I wasn’t the first hoagie lover to call him.

He said, “Dude – He called off today”.

I said, “You mean Nicky New Hoagie Guy called off?”

He said, “Yeah”.

I said, ‘Is he sending his wife in with the hoagies or something?”

He said, “I have no idea, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

All 82 of us made alternate lunch arrangements.

All 82 of us talked shit on the hoagie guy.

Fast forward to Monday.  Hoagie guy sends another blast email that says, “Hey, I’m sorry I was sick on Friday. I have all of your hoagies at my desk. Please drop off your $4 and pick up your hoagie.”

Nobody obliged him. I mean c’mon. He picked these hoagies up on Thursday night for a Friday delivery.  It’s now Monday.  These things are now a minimum of 5 days old. Moreover, let’s assume that a regular guy has a regular size fridge, and that regular guy sold 82 hoagies, they ain’t gonna fit in his fridge.

Ick. Count me out.

Hell, everyone counted themselves out.

Hoagie guy sent another blast email saying, “Hey, you all promised to buy these here hoagies, and if you don’t pay for them, I’ll have to pay for them out of pocket”.

I responded, “Hey Hoagie Guy.  We wanted hoagies on Friday when there was a chance that they wouldn’t poison us.  Count me out. “

I supposed that many others responded similarly.

A few hours later, we all receive a blast email from the Big Boss Man.  It says, “Mister Hoagie Guy has submitted his resignation.   If you have any non-hoagie business to discuss with him please contact <InsertSupervisorsName>. . . “

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I Was Forty Something The First Time I was Gaslit.

I’ve spent 30 years in a whacky industry that is out of the public eye. No one goes to college to major in it.  It’s an odd business, and  it’s cyclically tied into the interest rate.  Every few years people spin in or spin out based on either their best offer or the whim of leadership.

So,  I’ve worked in a lot of places with a lot of bosses.  Some of those bosses have been good.  Some have been mediocre.  A whole lot of those bosses have been terrible, but the King of terrible goes to my last boss. Here’s the clinching story:

It was late on a Friday.  She clomps up to my desk in her cheap shoes, bad hair, and stretch marks and says, “I need you to put together a quick bullet pointed list of requirements for <InsertBusinessTaskHere>.

I said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that because I’m not an expert in that area of the business.  Moreover, the business leaders of that department are at an all day conference, however I’ll be glad to pick that up first thing Monday morning.

She said, “I need it today.  Why don’t you bring your laptop to my office.  I’ll dictate the requirements to you and you can write them down.

I silently thought, “Uh, you could just type the damned things yourself.”, but I dutifully grabbed my laptop and headed to her office.

For about a half hour she rattled on, and I typed on. For everything she said, I asked clarification questions to make sure I was getting it right.  And the lines I wrote, I read back to her to make sure I had gotten them right.

I was in the office until nearly 8PM that Friday formatting the document, filling in boiler plates of the template, putting on a cover page, and making it look nice.  I emailed it to her and put a printed copy on her desk.

Fast forward to Monday.  I arrive at my desk at 7AM as usual.  About 10 AM I hear the familiar stomping of her cheap shoes heading toward my desk.  When she arrived at my desk, she announced her presence by slamming the copy I printed for her down on my desk;   She then bellowed, “WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THESE REQUIREMENTS!”

I said, “Uh, from you?”

She said, “No you didn’t, I didn’t say any of this to you!”.

I said, “Uh, so where else would I have gotten it from?”

She snarled, “I don’t know, but this is entirely unprofessional and unacceptable!”.

I said, “Well, my apologies.  Tell me what I need to update, and I’ll be glad to make the changes,”.

The look in her eye grew joyous as she said, “You mean to tell me you don’t know what you missed?”

I said, “That document is damned near word for word what you said. I confirmed each statement you made with you at the time, so, if I missed something, it’s probably something you didn’t’ tell me.”

She spun around and walked away.  Over her shoulder she said, “Be sure to have the corrections on my desk ASAP.”

I said, “Uh, I’ll be glad to fix it, but you need to tell me what needs to be fixed, because you’re the one who dictated it to me.”

She said, “If you don’t know what you did wrong, it’s your problem, not mine!”, and continued to walk out of the office.

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Oscar the Crop Dusting Grouch

As a kid, my favorite TV character was Oscar the Grouch.  Okay, it really was probably Grover, but Oscar the Grouch was a close second.  Just last week, the puppeteer who ‘was’ Oscar the Grouch retired.  I was secretly sad.  I mean, I always like him, and I always wondered about him, I mean:

Why was he grouchy?

Why did he live in a garbage can?

Where did he go to the bathroom?

What did that garbage can smell like?

Anyway, there’s this young guy at work.  He’s like 30 something.  He often makes me think of Oscar the Grouch because he’s always complaining.  If being a curmudgeon was an Olympic sport, he’d take home at least a silver.    It’s like he’s practicing to be the world’s grumpiest old man.

So, when Oscar’s puppeteer announced his retirement, I was really thinking about Oscar all day.

As I was pondering what that garbage can must have smelled like, my young curmudgeon coworker walked by.  Slowly, but completely, the musky aroma of a silent but deadly fart engulfed our cube farm.

The young curmudgeon had properly timed his SBD move so that he was no longer in the office when the stifling aroma hit.

It was Killer.  It smelled as if he had been gluttonously feasting on ketchup covered onion smothered hot dogs with massive sides of baked beans, broccoli, and roasted Brussel sprouts, all washed down with a 12 pack of Gennessee Cream Ale.

Three cock roaches crawled out from under desks and coughed and gagged as they ran for the door.

About 20 minutes later he came back to his desk with a  piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.  I blurted out, “Dude – You about killed us with the crop-dusted fart!”.

He sheepishly said, “Huh?  I didn’t fart.”.

The two thirds of the office that sat near me stared at him.  I stared at him.  He looked at his shoes.  We knew.  He knew.

I now not only know what Oscar the Grouch’s trash can must smell like, but I’m also worried about if and when the hairs inside my nose will grow back.

 

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Schooler Is Cooler

For 12 years, my parents sent me to Catholic School. The high school years did do me some good, but those grade school years consisted of standing in line, being punished, and being beaten and berated by nuns.  I will say that the junior high years made me tougher.  Hell, they made an entire school tougher.

Here’s the deal.  I went to Duquesne Catholic Schools.  Duquesne was a hard as nails steel town.  Folks worked hard, and that work ethic was passed on to the kids, and the catholic school.  Maybe I’m being a bit obtuse here, but, here’s the story.

During the bitter winter of 1979, I was in the 7th grade.  At that time in Duquesne Catholic, Junior high held 6th  , 7th, and 8th grade in the Holy Trinity building.  The Holy Trinity building consisted of 8 cavernous classrooms spread evenly over two floors.

Anyway, the winter of ’79 was horribly snowy and cold. Snow piled up all over the city.  It was cold.  Like teens and low 20’s cold.

Let me drop one last tidbit here.  Duquesne Catholic Schools was bankrolled by the three local catholic churches.  Catholic Churches subsist on the monies donated to them by their parishioners.  Large chunks of the cash donated to the local churches was required to be sent along to the diocese, and then along to the Vatican.   I told you that story to tell you this story.

During the bitter winter of 1979, in the Holy Trinity building of Duquesne Catholic Schools, there was a massive and noisy boiler in the cellar. It kept us warm, but it often made clanging noises.  People would come in and look at it, turn wrenches on it, and it kept us warm, until one fateful day that the noisy contraption would no longer keep us warm.

At least one professional was called in.  He deemed it dead.  It needed to be replaced. I don’t know what the cost was, but it was way above what the school had in petty cash.  So, they called the churches.  The cost was way above what the churches had left after they had sent most of the money to the diocese and the Vatican.

So, the school had to apply to the Diocese for funds to fix the furnace.  The diocese reported back that it would take a week or so to appropriate the funds the furnace repair guy indicated that I would be a week or so from the time he got the funds to the time the furnace would once again warm the cavernous classrooms.

So, the Nuns and Priests and Shit made an epic decision. They certainly didn’t decide that us kids would have 2 or 3 weeks off.  The also did not decide that we’d have class in an alternate location.  They decided – and I’m not kidding – That they’d allow us to wear our hat, gloves, and coats all day long!  How wonderful!  As an added bonus, each cavernous classroom would have a tiny portable electric heater installed!

For two nasty February weeks, we sat bundled up in frozen classrooms the size of most houses.  If you got “really” cold, you could ask permission to stand by the tiny electric heater.  A guy named Mike spent the entire two-week frozen period shivering next to the heater with snot hanging out of his nose.

I don’t recall a single damned topic that was taught to me during that frozen period, but I do remember sitting in frozen classrooms – especially when listening to school closure announcements because it’s “Too Cold”.

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Breaking The Bourbon Tradition

I have this camp way up in the forests of northern Pennsylvania.  My Grandpap and some of his cousins bought it in 1929.    Even by today’s standards, it remains half way from nowhere.

It was a deer camp way back when, but now I mostly fly-fish the creeks and rivers.

From as early as I could remember, beer and bourbon have been a tradition.  I’ve also seen pictures that bear testament that this tradition is way older than me.    For years, I had done my level best to maintain that tradition; I always had beer and bourbon in camp, but that changed one spring day. . .

I got into Camp late Friday with the plan of fly-fishing sunrise to sunset on Saturday. I brought all of my gear in. I had a bourbon with a beer chaser.  Then, I sipped on another beer after a second bourbon.   Then, another round or two later, Greg finally arrives.  Then, we’re each having bourbons followed by beers.

At one point, I got my beers and bourbons out of sync (uh, see, there’s the unwritten Camp rule that beers and bourbons have to be 1 to 1, because if they get out of sync the world may stop rotating on its axis.

So, I tried to remember whether the bourbon or the beer was behind.  So, I chose one.  Then, I had second thoughts and tried to even up the other side.

Anyway, about 2:30 AM, I peed off of the balcony fell into bed.

The alarm goes off at 5 AM.  I swing my feet over the side of the bed.  I realize that I have a dull ache behind my eyes and hat I have a case of cotton mouth so bad that I’m unable to talk or swallow.,

My sorry ass dragged itself to the kitchen.  I chugged water, took an aspirin, and headed out to the streams.

Over the years, I’ve (regretfully) became used to fly-fishing with a mild hangover. But this wasn’t a mild hangover.  It was the grand-pappy of hangovers.

I got my split shots set and my drifts were fine – even though the sun had closed my eyes to squinted slits.  About 10:30 I figured I could use a break.  I waded to the side of the stream and sat down on the raised bank.   The water was flowing around my feet.

The next thing I know, I can hear a strange man yelling from the distance.  I begin to realize that my feet are still in the water, but the rest of me is laying flat on my back on the bank.  My sorry ass had fell asleep.   I jolted awake when I realized that some animal was licking my face.

That strange animal turned out to be a Golden Retriever.  The man yelling from the distance was the owner of the dog.

The Man said, “I’m just happy you’re not dead”.

I said, “Uh, yeah. I am too”.

Greg, who had been fishing a ways up stream comes walking back and said, “What was all the screaming about?”

I thought to myself, “I don’t recall screaming”.

I said, “I didn’t hear anything”.

Anyway, that’s why I don’t bring bourbon to camp anymore, but I do worry about the Earth not spinning on it axis.

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Marg From Across The Street

I’ve lived in the exact same house for 41 years.  I’m not that terribly old, but still – 41 years in the exact same place.

That amount of time does give a person a certain level of information.  I mean, I know everyone.  Everyone knows me and my habits.

Way back in my 20’s, the woman across the street was named Marg. She was a sweetheart.   She was a friend of my Grandparents and her kids were friends with my parents.   She sort of adopted me and mine as extra family members.

They say as you get older that you need less sleep.  Marg embodied that.  She seemed to be awake most of the time, and she was always fully aware of what was going on in the neighborhood.  Night and day Marg was always on watch.

I’ve always been up and out to work early.  One day, back when the only phones were land lines, I took a vacation day. Early in the morning, about 10 minutes after my usual departure time, the phone rang.

I answered it, “Hello.”

The voice on the other end said, “Hi, this is Marg. Marg from across the street.”

(I had figured out who it was at “Marg”).

She said, “You’re late”

I said, “Huh?”

She said, “You’re late.  I think you slept in.”

I said, “Uh, Marg, I’m off today.  I took a vacation day.”.

She said, “Oh, you’re off today.  Okay,” and hung up.

Fast forward 20 years.  Marg had sadly passed away and her son Jim moved in.  I had booked a vacation day.  About 6:30 in the morning the phone rings.

I answer it, “Hello.”

“Dave, this is Jim.  Jim from across the street.  You’re late. I think you slept in.”

I said, “Uh, Jim, I’m off today.  I took a vacation day.”.

He said, “Oh , you’re off today.  I’ll buy you a drink down at Clancy’s” and hung up.

I smiled as I flopped back into bed.  The neighborhood had my back.

 

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Drunken Bro Hoagies

So, I was in this bar one time. . .

It was named “Dicks Place”.  Everyone called it “Dicks”.  As I walked in,   I quickly realized that Barry and Bob (who are 60ish brothers) were about a dozen drinks ahead of me. I had no intention of catching up.

They decided they were hungry.  Dicks doesn’t serve food, but, if you walk out the back door, there is a pizza joint about 40 steps away from any of the barstools.

Barry says, “Bob, I’m a gonna order a steak sammitch, ya want anything?”

Bob says, “Yeah, man, half a steak hoagie.

Barry responds, “Okay.  I’ll order a whole steak hoagie, then  I’ll give you half.  Then, I’ll order another half a steak hoagie for me.”.

Now, remember that the pizza shop is no more than 40 steps away.  You can walk there in mere seconds – Trust me.  I’ve made that walk a hundred times.   But, Barry decided it would be easier to call in his order.

He frisks himself looking for his phone. He finally find it, and begins to peck away a the touch screen to locate the number of the pizza shop. He finally finds it.

Pizza shop:  Hi, Local Pizza Shop.  May I take your order?

Barry:  Hey, this is Dick down at Barry’s.  I wanna order some hoagies.

Pizza shop: You’re a dick?

(Note: Barry’s phone is on speaker an turned to max volume.  I recognize the voice as the son of a family I’ve known for 50 years).

Barry:  No.  I’m not a dick.  In at dicks trying to order a hoagie.

Pizza Shop: What kind of hoagies do would you like?”

Barry:  I want a whole steak hoagie, and a half a steak hoagie.  I’ve had dental work done, so I need half of that whole cut into quarters, so that’s three pieces, and that half cut into quarters, so that’s two pieces too”.

Pizza Shop:  So, you want a whole steak hoagie cut into four pieces, and a half a steak hoagie in one piece”.

Barry:  No.  That whole needs to be in three pieces, and that half needs to be in two pieces”

Pizza Shop:  Okay, so, I’m gonna give you a whole hoagie, cut into a half and two quarters, and a half a hoagie cut in half, right?”

Barry:  “Yeah, can you deliver to Dick?”

Pizza Shop:  “Yeah Dick, we’ll have those hoagies right over to you”.

About 15 minute later, the saloon door swings open. In walks the guy who was on the phone in the Pizza shop.  As he walks by me, he says, “Hey, how are you.  Did you hear that drunken dick on the phone?”

(names have been changed to protect the innocent)