Accord, Accelerate Accordingly.

Ever since Gene Honda began producing automobiles in the late 80's one thing has remained consistent; Hondas are the fastest cars on Earth. Knowing this has put me in my fair share of arguments, fist fights, thumb wars, drag races, you name it. Luckily I have a lead foot to get me out of such jams, only, it's an endless cycle. Soon as I finish proving the fastness of my car some new chump comes crawling out of the woodwork to challenge me. It never fails.
"Hey, you drive a Honda? I'll blow you away with my souped up moped."
Or, "Hondas are slow as hell! I'll totally blow you away in my tricked out Sentra!"
And, "Dude that Honda ain't shit compared to my lame-ass Neon. Prepare to be blown away!"
Things have gotten so bad with the "Honda Haters" that I've developed a sixth sense which detects when one is near.
I was leaving work early to get drunk in a Wal*Mart bathroom when suddenly I was struck with a hot flash. Too young for menopause, I knew it had to be something else.
The school day hadn't yet ended, all the busses were lined up in back of the building with their drivers leaned against them, talking, waiting for dismissal. One particular driver stood apart from the group; tight black jeans, denim vest, tattooed arms (each wrapped around a lady bus monitor), ponytail, and aviator sunglasses; this guy was leader of the pack. The kind of guy that washed his face by scrubbing it with glass shards. The kind of guy that wiped his ass with 40-grit sandpaper. The kind of guy that could fist fight a mule. The kind of guy that would fist fight a mule.
Yeah. Impressive. It was while walking past him that I had the hot flash.
"You the fag with the Honda?" he asked.
I looked over. One foot on the ground, the other poised against the bus, an old lady in each arm, he represented all that was cool. Without answering I walked by as he spat tobacco juice, then spoke.
"Hey Nancy, where ya goin? I'm talkin to you!"
"My name's not Nancy!" I yelled, "It's Richard. Richard T. Garfunkle. What the hell do you want?"
He rolled his eyes.
I turned and started walking again.
"Hold up! I got somethin to say."
Whipping back around I stared him dead in the eyes, squinted mine, curled my lip like Billy Idol and told him, "Well start talking punk. Otherwise I gotta split."
"OK" he said, "Here's what's up. Think back to a few months ago, let's say the end of March maybe; you're driving along when, lo and behold, you come to a red light. Now you're staring straight ahead, not looking at no one. You're feeling pretty cool. Hell, you should, you're listening to Disturbed. Those guys wrote the book on cool. You turn your head to the left, give the guy in the next lane a look like you wanna kiss him. Now, let's say you start revving your engine like a tough guy. The light turns green. You take off. You don't look in your rear view mirror until you've hit third, maybe fourth gear. And what do you see? Some 'chump' in a Dodge Spirit 'so scared he took a left turn!!!' How's this sounding?"
Frankly it sounded pretty awesome (ya know, except for that kissin' dudes part) and made me wish I had a girlfriend so we could bang. I didn't tell him that. Instead, I held my Billy Idol lip snarl, shrugged my shoulders and, in my most stoic voice said, "Sounds like I'm listening to a punk bitch."
He spat his tobacco wad onto the pavement, smiled, revealing a mouthful of greasy brown, jagged teeth. "What I mean is, this story. Does it sound familiar?"
Familiar? Shit, I must've made that ooh-ahh-ahh-ahh-ahh noise for like three weeks afterwards, that's how stoked I was over the whole thing. I didn't tell him that either. No. I wasn't about to back down from this putz simply because he had two broads ready and willing to hump at his disposal. That trick didn't work on me. Neither did the tattoos nor the tobacco; not even the unbrushed teeth would phase me. Shrugging again, intensifying the lip snarl so drastically I couldn't see out my right eye I asked, "What's your point?"
"My point? Great question. What's my point in telling you this story you know so well?"

I lost interest, zoned out.


"Stop that!" I heard him yell.
"Stop what?"
"Scratching your balls, man! Jeeze, you'll make my old ladies puke." He pulled the broad on his left in for a nice long tongue kiss, extra sloppy.
"Sorry about that, babe. Some people have no manners." He said this, winking, after they'd finished. The broad on his right shook her head at me, farted, said I was a loser.
Without any clue what we were talking about or why I wasn't yet in a Wal*Mart bathroom getting drunk I started walking away again.
"I'm not finished!"
Annoyed, I yelled back, "Well finish!"
"I'm trying! Where were we?" he paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "My point is, that 'chump' wasn't turning left out of intimidation. That 'chump' was turning left, because he was in the turning lane. That 'chump' was me and ever since I found your stupid little blog entry, saying how you beat me in a race, I've been trying to find you. THAT'S my point."
My lip snarl died down. I thought back to that fateful day, realized he was right. He had been on my left, in the turning lane. My cheeks red, my hands shaking, I asked, "So? You want a rematch or something?"
He laughed. "You bet your ass I wanna race. And you know what my Dodge Spirit will do to your puny little Honda?"
"What?" I asked.
Reaching into his pants pocket he pulled out a tiny notebook, ripped off a sheet of paper, crumpled it in his hand and blew it away.
"That."
School bells clanged. The kids were out. Soon the busses would be clogging up traffic. Forget getting drunk at Wal*Mart I needed to see Groff. Before I could reach the Accord I heard him call to me again so I spun around.
"Hey champ! One thing I'll give you credit for. You really were down with the sickness that day. Don't let anyone take that from you" and he put his fist to his chest in respect.
I nodded in silence, then took off.

Earl and Groff were deeply immersed in a conversation about how much they missed stealing kids' bikes only to ghost ride them down hills, into trees, ponds, and other cool things by the time I reached Groff's place. They were pretty hammered and, considering it was almost 3 in the afternoon, I wasn't surprised. I relayed to them the details of my confrontation until Groff interrupted, saying, "Sounds like you had an encounter with Throttle."
Throttle? I was set to race a dude named Throttle? No way. "Are you sure we're talking about the same guy?" I asked, providing a description afterward.
"Did he have two busted lookin' broads with him?"
"Yep."
"Then that's Throttle all right."
"How do you know this, Groff?"
"I was out drinkin' alone one night when I spotted this chick with huge knockers. She was with another chick and this dude with shitty tattoos. I walked over to introduce myself but I must've slipped, 'cause I fell face first into those fun bags of hers; probably eight or nine times this happened. A freak accident, ya know? Then the dude with the tattoos picked me up and started yelling."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I knew what he did to pricks who try hittin' on his old ladies. I told him I didn't. He said 'I do this' and body slammed me onto a table. I woke up a few hours later in a dumpster, a shirt full of spaghetti."
"Damn. That sucks, dude."
"Tell me about it."
"So what do I do?"
"Don't you worry about it Rich. Just set up a date to hold the race and leave the rest to your good buddy Groff."

So that's what I did.

Three days later Groff, Earl, and I were on our way to the meeting point which, coincidentally, was behind the school. A risky move since I'd called in to work to prepare but, whatever, I had my dignity on the line. My nerves always act up before a race so we made small talk. Passing a used car dealership Groff announced it would be exciting to steal a car, hotwire it, and go for a joyride. Earl agreed, mentioning that he and his cousin used to hotwire cars all the time, adding, "I can show you how whenever you want." This pleased Groff very much and he couldn't stop smiling the rest of the ride.
Approaching the school we could see Throttle and his two old ladies through my windshield. Small talk was over. Groff gave a quick review of the plan, refreshing our memories in case we needed it. We didn't.
I pulled up alongside Throttle's Dodge Spirit, and we exited the car. Without hesitation Groff went right to work, approaching the broad with huge knockers, hands out, fingers wiggling. The distraction. Throttle fell for it, grabbing Groff by the crotch and yelling at him. I joined in the mayhem, swearing at the other broad and Throttle simultaneously. Perfect. No one saw Earl open my trunk or what he did after that.
Two black eyes, a torn shirt, bruised groin, and a pair of soiled trousers later Groff was ready to call it quits and go home. I stopped Throttle from beating Groff unconscious by reminding him of the race he was about to lose. This pissed Throttle off even more, but he got into his Dodge and started pumping the gas, his old ladies following. Earl, Groff, and I did the same.
Now, I bet you're wondering, "Gee Rich, if there wasn't anyone out front telling you when to go, then how did you guys know when to start, and how did you pull it off without one person starting before the other?" Simple. We made sure to arrive with enough time to get ourselves settled and ready to race before 4th period began. The road we chose wouldn't see much (if any) traffic until two o'clock, so it wouldn't be a problem for us to sit in our idling cars until then. One person in each car had a watch synchronized with the school's bell system that way the driver would still get a countdown. With our windows down we could hear the bells clearly and when they went off, so would we. And that's that.
Waiting there, my knuckles white, palms sweaty, all I could think about was winning the race, and celebrating with my friends. Groff sat in back nursing his wounds while Earl counted backwards from ten. Exactly on zero the bell rang.
I slammed my foot down on the clutch. Lifted. Slammed on the gas. Shifted. First gear. Second. Third. Fourth. I was winning! But what about the plan? Had something gone wrong?
I was shifting into fifth when I first heard the sound. A high-pitched, screeching, sound. Metal on metal? It drew closer. I looked out the passenger side window. Throttle and I were neck and neck! How could that be? What about the plan?
"What the fuck Earl?" I yelled and Throttle zoomed past.
Just in time to cross Matthews St. The finish line. I hit the brakes. Thirty seconds later, that screeching sound became unbearable. Still looking out the window I saw a bike rack, full with BMX's and ten-speeds padlocked to it, scrape by. It was attached to a metal chain, dragged by a speeding Dodge Spirit.
Up until this point Groff had had his face in his hands. He lifted it to speak, "You idiot! I told you to attach it to something STURDY!"
Earl shrugged, shook his head back and forth, "You telling me that isn't sturdy? That bike rack's made of wrought iron, man! Look! It's still in one piece!"
The car at a complete stop, I pressed my face into the steering wheel, closed my eyes and asked Groff, "What next, genius?"
He didn't pick up on the sarcasm.
"Plan B" was his response.

Losing sucks. There's no way around it. Losing sucks. Of course there's always the old saying, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" but who really wants to join with a douchebag like Throttle? Not us.
That's why you have a Plan B.
That's why you and your friends find out where your nemesis lives, steal a car, hotwire it, set the cruise control, and ghost ride it into his living room.

On A Neck, On A Spit

Get drunk, lay belly up on the carpet, and listen to these guys.

Five minutes. Not too much to ask, is it? Sometimes five minutes fly by without you noticing it. Other times, like this morning, five minutes can be an eternity; when all you want is five more minutes in bed before starting the day. And when you've had a night like the one I had, five minutes'll make all the difference.

My troubles started yesterday when I went to the library to return that Charlie Huston novel I raved about. Doing so, I poked around a bit in hopes of finding an exciting, eye-catching book. Keep in mind I don't belong to any literary circles or book clubs, so I'm on my own when it comes to finding new material. This is where judging a book by its cover comes in handy. Of course, that goes against the age old adage, but do you think I care? I didn't spend my teen years listening to punk rock for nothing; I'm a fuckin rebel.
Well there I am, parusing the new books section when I spot a novel marked with a local author sticker. Intrigued, I pick it up and read the back cover, instantly killing any notion that I might find something of interest.
For one, the cover was of a warlock with a dwarf on his shoulder, the warlock clutching the reigns of a dragon, and the dwarf holding up an axe, while they rode on toward some cheap knockoff of Valhalla. The dragon was breathing fire and I'm sure the dwarf had a hard-on. Not only that but there was like 19,000 pages between covers! Then there was the title: "Golden Shores of Forbidden Time: Saga of The Ylsclovviaxnoeuergren Part XXXXVIIIVIIMX."

Who reads that stuff? Who sits down and says, "Wow. Nothing revvs my enginge more than a twelve pound book which happens to be the 58th novel in a series of three hundred, whose characters' names I cannot pronounce, will take me six months to finish, and includes ogres, gnomes, dragons, and warlocks."?
Who are you people? And why are there so many books like this cluttering up library shelves?
Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a well-written science fiction/fantasy story just as much as the next person but there's got to be more to it than the whole "let's think of the most fantastical situation,world, galaxy, etc." premise. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to owning over thirty science fiction books/collections/anthologies. Truth is, I'm a sucker for Ray Bradbury and Theodore Sturgeon and whatever I can find published by them (especially the latter) I purchase without question. So don't go thinking I need stories so drenched in "reality" they're soaked to the core with lame-ass CSI scenarios, 'cause I don't. But this book I held in my hands? I couldn't stop myself from thinking, "WTF??", as I read its back cover.

"Blah blah blah has written over blah blah blah novels ranging from topics of blah to blah blah, including blah, blah, and blah." And so on.
Here's where the trouble begins.
I reach the page bottom and see a photo of the author. I recognize him. I've been to the library enough times in the past six years to know that face anywhere; he's the librarian! What luck! To think, here standing in the same room as me, a real live author who I can share my feelings with!
Blood boiling, heart pounding, I lugged that half-ton book over to the information desk and asked him a few questions.
"Excuse me sir. You write this?"
"Why yes, young man. Yes I did."
"That's amazing! Let me ask you something. How long a book like this take to write?"
"Bout a week."
"Well that's good. At least you didn't spend years writing this shit." and I dropped that brick to the floor.
Thud.
There wasn't one person there who didn't hear that book cut the silence like hot farts in a church pew. That smile he wore, dripped off, slowly faded, dissolved into a grimace. All of a sudden I had the feeling I'd done something not too smart. He raised his finger, pointed at me, shaking with enough anger to get the Golden Gate Bridge swinging.
"You dare mock the great Fjyurgrfbenstein? Master of a thousand galaxies, magician envied by millions, rivaled by none? Foolish mortal, I shall show the error of your ways!" and he started unbuckling his belt.
Images of an angry alcoholic dad poppped in my mind.
His right hand went to his button-up shirt and tore at it.
Images of a nutball author/librarian popped in my mind.
Dropping his pants, ripping his shirt off, I saw that Fjyueryj95ebnstein wasn't stripping down to his skivvies, but to reveal a robe instead! A robe which blazed with images of a billion moons, stars, suns, and comets. Chest heaving, Fjyuergrentste5#in let out a roar, stretching his hands in my direction.
Something stung my face.
Thumbtacks? Did he really just throw handfuls of thumbtacks at me? I didn't want to find out, I ran out the door, to the parking lot where I could peel out in the safety of my Honda. My super-fast Honda. If it would start, that is.
The starter must be going, or something, because every now and then when I turn the ignition I get a big fat nothing. Just a click. No engine turning over. Nothing. That was the last thing I needed; an angry magibrarian and a dead car. Before making it out, I heard him shout, in a much deeper, menacing voice, "You shall never escape the wrath of Fjyurgrenstein!"
You must be a real shmuck if you think I'd turn back after that. Once outside I booked it to the Accord, attempted to unlock the doors but, my uncontrollable hands dropped the keys. I heard an evil laugh. He was outside! Snatching the keys I let myself into the car, ducked down, and stuck them in the ignition.
Turn.
Click.
Turn.
Click.
"SHIT!"
That evil laugh of his was closer. I ducked down even further in my seat, however, still able to see him combing the parking lot. "Come out, come out, wherever you are" he said, and I understood what made his voice so deep.
He held to his mouth the brown cylinder you're left with after going through a roll of paper towels. God, I was so queered out. Seconds passed as he walked car to car, peering in windows and windshields. Desperate and running low on time, I tried something unorthodox; I leaned close to the tapedeck and whispered, "Come on baby, be a good girl for Daddy and start. Can you do that?" Then, with my left hand raised I gave the keys another turn. Just as I thought my luck couldn't run out anymore the engine turned over, started, puttered a bit, stalled, went dead.
Fjyurgerentse53in snapped his neck in my direction. He knew where I was! With nothing left to do but run, my hand slammed down the driver side door lock, I hopped to the other seat, bashed my crotch smack dab on the shifter, slid over, opened the door, locked, shut it, and ran for the hills.
By car it takes at least fifteen minutes to reach the library, so it's not like I could get home on foot. Besides, the last thing I needed was for that magibrarian to cast a level 9 Death spell on my Honda; sooner or later I'd have to return for the old girl. I was gonna have to bide my time till things cooled down.
Eight blocks later I found myself standing outside Bill's Beer Barrel, choking for air. The last thing an Old Mill will do is hydrate you but, even with flushed cheeks, gasping, my first thought was to order one. The bartender went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle, popped the cap, and slid it my way.
"This one's on the house, Mac" he said, and I knew he knew I needed it.
"Thanks" I said, my beer raised toward him, my head tipped.
A guy to my right sat and stared all slack-jawed and such. There were a few things I could've said to make him turn his gaze but I figured my smart mouth had gotten me in enough trouble for the day; instead I concentrated on the smooth, cold, crisp beer.
Four bottles, three hours later and it was time I got back to my car. Paying my tab, I nodded to the bartender, stood, and was about to leave when the jerk to my right said, "Nice earrings, queerbate."
2006 and I still can't go two weeks without someone questioning my sexuality for no better reason other than the fact that I've got both ears pierced. (Sorry. I like symmetry.) Any other night and I'd roll over, forget that prick even said anything. Not tonight; I was angry, I was buzzed, and I wasn't in the mood to put up with some douchebag too ignorant to realize it wasn't 1982, that I wasn't George Michaels.
"Fuckbag. Let the records state that while I may not be a fag, I'll sure as hell fuck your ass up" I said.
"Oooh, looks like we got ourselves a tough guy" he countered.
"Tough? You wanna see tough?" I threw my bottle in his face and left.

On Sundays the library closes at 5:30, so for me to stay at the bar till 9 was a bit overkill, however I wanted to be sure Fjyurgrentsteion had enough time to cool off and go home. Boy I had no idea what I was in for.
Sitting on the hood of my Accord, while two minions patrolled back and forth, was the magibrarian. I'm not sure what was scarier, the chanting minions or the clackity clack clacking of their twelve-sided dice. Creeping back into the darkness, I leaned against the building and formed a plan. Getting past him and his goons was going to be tricky; for all I knew they could summon Neo-Bahamut and wipe me off the face of the earth. I closed my eyes and pondered.
Stepping out from the safety of the building I got their attention by yelling, "Hey dipshits! I'm over here!" which, thinking back on it now, probably pissed them off even more; the minions started toward me. Still without a plan I ran the other way around the building, into the light, onto the sidewalk where, because I'd been looking back to see if the minions were gaining on me, I collided with a passing idiot.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't little miss Nolan Ryan run right into my arms for a hug."
Shaking my head, spitting blood from my bit tongue, I looked up to see the prick I'd thrown my beer at leaning over me. Aside from a small bump under his right eye there didn't seem to be any wounds from his recent encounter with a bottle. He knew what I was thinking and answered my question, "You throw like a girl" and I was lifted by the scruff of my neck.
It was then that the minions appeared; seeing me held up by the collar they shrieked a warning to Fyjurgrensterin. There was a sound from above our heads, like the sound a pulley of a clothesline makes when you reel your laundry in. Speeding down from the library roof, on a zip-line, came the magibrarian letting out a fierce, "Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" His landing was pretty smooth until he lost grip on the zip-line, fell, skidded, rolled a few feet and crashed into a tree. I heard him grumble, "god-fucking-damnit piece of shit zip-line" under his breath. Standing up, he brushed the dirt off his robe, raised his pointer finger (the universal "gimme a second" sign) and turned away from us to search through a patch of shrubs. Returning his attention to us we saw the item he retrieved from the bushes; a long brown tube stripped of giftwrap. Speaking into the tube he boomed, "Fjyurgrensteein commands you, put the boy down."
The drunken idiot holding me scoffed, "What the fuck kind of name is that? You foreign?"
"Foreign? Yes. You could say that. I hail from the lost planet of Zenarathia, home to the now-extinct Zenarathian race. Our language is so complex your human tongue would tie itself in knots if you . . ."
"Do I look like I fucking care?" interrupted the drunk.
"Call me Dave" added Fyjurgrenstein.
"That's more like it."
"Now hand the boy over. We have unfinished business to attend to."
"Like hell. This little shit threw a beer in my face. You can have him when I'm done."
"FOOL! Do not anger Fyjurgensterein! This is your last chance! HAND HIM OVER."
"Fucking. Try me" said the drunk and let me loose.
Fyjurgerenstewn again brushed the sleeves of his robe, and with arms outstretched yelled, "Fyujugremstein's wrath knows no bounds! Now you must choke on some Mounds!" and the minions started pelting the drunk with fun-size candybars, hitting his groin and face. Surprised at this, the drunk fell backwards to the ground, kicking his feet in the air until the two ran out of ammo. The magibrarian laughed into his giftwrapper tube and asked, "Had enough?"
The drunk, lying silent, began laughing as well. And then he pulled some Jackie Chan type of move, jumping to his feet from the prone position. He cracked his knuckles, ran his fingers through greasy hair, "Recognize me yet, Dave?"
His mouth agape, the magibrarian looked upon the drunk with new eyes, gasped, "No . . . no . . . it can't be!"
"Ha-ha! Oh it can be! Tis I, Lord Gralmatrore from the conqueror planet of Vlammidon! We destroyed you pathetic Zenarathians on your own turf and now I shall finish the job by exterminating YOU, the last of your kind."
Fyjurgerestein turned white. "Minions! Flee, warn the others! Save yourselves!" And the two were gone.
"Others?" asked Lord Gralmatrore, "Someone's been busy all these years. No matter. I'll destroy them too! But first, I'll deal with you . . . "
The magibrarian shook his head. Then Lord Gralmatrore called out, "BUDWEISER BEER BELCH OF DEATH!" and out came a measly burp. Fyjurgenstein fell flat on his ass, screeching all the way down. "No! No! Not this time Gralmatrore! Not this time!" adding, "Now it's my turn." He threw the brown tube to the ground, crumpling it under his left heel. "WINDMILL OF DEATH WITH BULL HORNS!" and the magibrarian charged Gralmatrore, head bent forward, fists clenched as they circled his upper body. Making contact, the two dropped to the ground and wrestled around.
This continued for a few hours.
It dawned on me that I was free from both those freaks so I walked back to my car, curious whether or not it would start. It did. Hella bitchin' is right. I drove straight home, ready for bed. By the time my head hit the pillow it was well past two-thirty. I was asleep for what felt like minutes when I heard a knock at the door. Fyjurgrentsein! Lord Gralmatrore! They found me!
My eyes popped open. I sat straight up, stiff as morning wood. I looked at the clock. 8:45.
"Time to get up" my brother yelled.
I fell back, shut my eyes.
"Five more minutes" I said and went to sleep.

It doesn't get any better than this.

Shower For The Showers

Will you be watching the meteor showers this weekend? I won't. But for those who will, I share this little article. With information on the Leonid Meteors themselves, when they'll be best viewed, and where, I figure the least I can do is spread some knowledge. Most importantly, there is a little blurb about how to prepare yourself for the event. Take a look.

Preparing for your meteor watch
"No two observers prepare for a meteor vigil the same way. It helps to have had a late-afternoon nap, a shower, and to wear all fresh clothing."

Now I know you're thinking that's just the silliest, stupidest bit of advice one could offer, and to be honest, I would agree with you had I not had a botched meteor viewing experience myself.
It was senior year, my friends and I gathered near a pavilion in this little town park around midnight or so. We were a bit out of sorts; the previous night was spent at a double kegger. Late-afternoon nap? Shit, we slept clear through till 4 PM that day, but in hindsight I can tell you that was a mistake. Feeling haggard and worn down, not one of us had the chance to change our clothes, let alone shower. But was that really important? We didn't think so. I mean, it was just going to be us standing around, craning our necks toward the zenith for a few hours; why bother getting fancied up?
One of things I remember most, though not integral to my story, from that night was I had the intro to Cave In's Juggernaut playing in my head. The combination of those opening notes along with those green streaks flashing by had me headbanging and playing air guitar. Can you say metal?
Perhaps it was the cosmic dust crashing through the atmosphere that caused it but we were engaged in some rivetting conversation; I mean we were touching down on some really deep topics.

-------
"Is it true if you don't beat off enough your balls shrivel and turn blue?"
"Totally."
"Bogus!"
"Tragic, I know."
-------
"Mary Lou's tits are huge!"
-------
"What if those comets aren't really comets but actually missiles shot by invading aliens?"
"Oh my God Groff, I think you're on to something!"
"Duuuuuude, that's soooooo fuckin' trippy!"
"Wow. The universe is amazing."
-------
"Be right back fellas. I gotta take a leak."
-------


And so on. We talked and talked until a noise came from the woods. We shushed, curious to see what was coming. Sure enough, a group of giddy, chatting, girls appeared, five to be exact; Lenore, Sandra, Joanne, Laqueesha, and Mary Lou. At the time Groff was the lady's man of our group, and rightly so since he was the only one brave enough to cop feels off random chicks.
"Let's see if these bitches want to do some horizontal dancing . . . Groff style" he said to us, and adavanced on the girls. I should mention he tried something similar the night before at Big Jeb's kegger and, sadly, struck out. If I were him in that situation, I would've run home to cut myself while listening to Elliott Smith. Not Groff though, he was a trooper. He could hit on a girl, have her tell him to jump off a building, and come back with something witty like, "ummmmmm, how about no?" and shrug the whole thing off. So he walked over to the group and made his move.
"Lovely evening for a stroll. Any of you babes wanna bang?"
Mary Lou, the ringleader, looked him over a moment then, with raised eyebrows said, "Uhhh, are you wearing the same clothes as last night?"
". . . . yeah. So what?"
Mary Lou cast a glance toward her girlfriends, who were now laughing, and started cracking up herself. When they finished Mary Lou said, "Come on ladies, let's go fuck some football players" and away they went. Before disappearing from sight Laqueesha yelled out, "and while you're at it, why don't you fags take a shower?"

Ouch.

Earl still had his middle finger back then so he put it to good use and flipped them the bird. Unfortunately not all of us were able to shirk comments like those off so easily.
Remember me saying that when it came to rejection Groff was a trooper? Well he wasn't this time. Slumping in posture, he sulked over to the pavilion where, leaning his forehead against a support beam, started punching the wood which held him up.
"Why didn't I wear fresh clothes?!? WHY GOD, WHY?" he cried, now on his knees, face aimed at the stars.
That pretty much ended all conversation. After that we stood around in awkward silence until I asked if anyone else wanted to call it a night. Yes. It was unanimous, everyone wanted to call it a night.
We missed the rest of the meteors all because we neither showered nor wore fresh clothing; so please folks, PLEASE, if you're considering watching the meteor showers Saturday night take my advice and do those two things.
Believe me, you'll thank yourself in the morning.

This world is full of sneaky, thieving bastards. I was sifting through a teacher's file cabinet when a little girl approached me, in tears, asking if I'd seen her jacket, that she'd set it down somewhere and was afraid it had been stolen. She gave me a description of it but I told her that no, I had not seen a light-blue satin military coat with a tiger sewn on the back; I assured her I'd keep an eye open though. Still crying, the girl walked out of the classroom and I resumed my search for the Spanish teacher's phone number. I was gonna call Senorita Hot Pants to see if she'd be interested in dating the sexiest man alive; i.e. me.
Though I managed to find some info on a few students who thought it necessary to spray paint "DIE HOMO" on my Accord, I struck out when it came to Senorita Hot Pants; that little kitten knew how to play hard to get, that's for sure. I was stopped by a security guard on my way downstairs. She asked the same question the little girl had pitched so I gave the same response, adding, "Why the hell would anyone steal a jacket in the first place?" Her answer?
"It's a cool jacket."
Fair enough, but things didn't add up. I followed that with another question, "Where's this girl's locker?" Once I knew that, I'd know which custodian to approach for questioning.
Sure enough, it was the second floor, western corridor; Stephan's area.
Make no mistake folks I'm a gentleman, and the recurring sight of that girl, without her jacket, crying, all but crushed me, burnt me up inside, and sent me into a blind fury. Before speaking with Stephan I had to go outside and collect my thoughts via a silent cry.
The clouds mirrored my emotions as lead sinkers of water splashed my shoulders and back; knees pushed to my chest I created a suitable hole to bury my tears in for the twenty minutes spent in that cold rain. As I stood, wiping my face, the thought occurred that just crying would solve nothing. No. If I wanted to help that little girl (and I damn well did) then I had to be proactive. I had to be like Matt Cordell and get to the bottom of things. My head raised toward those crying clouds I said, "I don't know who you are Jacket Thief but I'll find out soon enough. And when I do by God you better have protection, 'cause you messed with the wrong motherfucker. For every tear that girl sheds you'll pay back with tears of your own . . . tears of blood."
Thank God my custodial uniform is baggy and no one can spot the flask I hide in my pocket; what I needed most was a drink and, producing it, took a long, healthy sip of bourbon. Its warmth coursed down my throat and chest loosening me up, relieving my aching joints, drowning out the pain in my heart. "It's go time" I said, and marched down to the break room.

There sat Stephan, his back to me, at the table, no doubt reading some lame book on how best to apply make-up. Me, being the custodial cobra I am, snuck up silently, stealthily, so as not to disturb him. Then, just two paces away, made my presence known. My right hand clutched the back of his neck while my left slammed on the table creating quite the commotion. I could tell he was intimidated, which was exactly what I wanted; I got in his face and began my spiel, "All right Roberta Frost I got questions and you better have answers. There's a little girl, whose locker's in your area, crying her eyes out right now. Know why? Someone stole her jacket. I know how you and Cletus occasionally indulge in a kickback or two; an MP3 player here, a turkey sandwich there; it all adds up Stephan. Now, we can do things the easy way and have you cough up some answers or we can do things my way, which might result in you coughing up a lung. So. What's it gonna be?"
Stephan's eyes darted back and forth, telling me he was busy working out a few lies. Squeezing his neck harder I growled, "Spit it out."
"I don't know nothing, ya hear me? NOTHING!"
"Nothing, huh? How's this for nothing?" I released my grip on his neck, took both hands, shoved them into his armpits, threw my weight onto him, and pinned Stephan to the ground. My knees on his chest, I leaned in and whispered, "Last chance. Speak now . . . or forever rest in peace."
After an over exaggerated gulp Stephan let out a measly, "You don't have the balls."
Ha.
My fingers, still dug deep in the pits of his arms, began moving with the speed and dexterity of a trucker unzipping his fly after twelve cups of coffee in half as many hours behind the wheel.
Holding him down became difficult at this point, Stephan was bucking, writhing, like an epileptic bronco; nevertheless I held tight. Screaming, squealing, laughing, crying, as I tickled him into submission, I knew it wouldn't be long before Stephan's will broke. And then it happened; with a cry that was half gasp, half outburst, Stephan caved in, "I GIVE UP!"
In no mood for tricks, I kept tickling until he yelled again. I stopped, asked if he was ready to talk, and, after promising he would I said, "OK" and gave him a final slap across the face.
"What do you know?"
Still gasping, Stephan sputtered a few indecipherable words; I gave him a minute to regain his breath. He spoke, "The other day I was upstairs mopping after school when I saw this kid; blonde, short, glasses. He was kinda wandering around, looking like he was waiting for me to leave or something. I don't know. It's all so blurry now . . ." his voice trailed off.
"Well clear it up" I said, my hand raised and ready to slap.
"He...he...opened a locker, grabbed something, I'm not sure what, and ran off before I could approach him." Stephan paused. Then, "And that's it. That's all I know."
Not the treasure trove of knowledge I'd hoped to find but a lead is a lead; listening with my head turned away I nodded, confirming to Stephan my belief in his tale. A quick glance at the clock told me it was high time I made it home, on my way out I saw Stephan's cigarettes and lighter on the table. Figuring it would only heighten my badassness, I grabbed one and lit it right there saying, "Thanks. For the story, and the smoke. Bitch." Stephan made me promise not to tell anyone how he pissed himself. I did.
That's when I remembered the smoke detectors. It was hard not to since they were now clanging away at full volume, screaming in my ears. Throwing the cigarette at Stephan's feet I ran outside where I realized something else; if you're a non-smoker, tobacco makes you sick. Doubled over, I threw up chunks of undigested meat and hacked myself into exhaustion. I would have cleared my throat out more thoroughly if it weren't for the firetruck sirens growing louder and louder; hobbling to the Accord I made a clean getaway without any problems. Of course, Stephan could admit to the authorities it was I who set off the alarms, but I knew he wouldn't. I mean, if he didn't want everyone knowing about that puddle of piss in his pants he wouldn't.

It was hard to sleep that night, what with all the work I still had to do, but I managed a few hours. No worries though, a little bit of lost sleep is nothing a cup of strong coffee can't fix.

I hopped out of bed half an hour before my alarm went off, one thing was sure; I was ready to find this kid and make him squeal. No one bothered me about the smoke detector ordeal, as expected, and I made my way upstairs to wait for the suspect. It wasn't long. Walking up the stairs, a skyscraper stack of books in his arms, wearing a green cardigan and the tightest pair of high-water khakis ever known to man was my short blonde suspect, complete with Coke bottle glasses. That was the perp, no doubt about it. All I had to do was give him a few feet of leeway before following, and then I could strike. He must have sensed me because I saw his back straighten, all tense with guilt. Reaching his locker, I dove in for the kill before he even had a chance to lift the padlock. My right fist thumped the metal door. Startled, he jumped backwards. Now, face to face, I clasped both my hands together (as if to serve a volleyball) and pushed his books up from underneath. A flurry of loose leaf papers, homework ditto's and old tests scattered in the air before floating to the floor. Textbooks dropped, squashing a brown paper bag containing authentic geek food; an egg salad sandwich, baby carrots, and vanilla pudding.
I had him cornered. Pushed against the wall, I grabbed hold by the front of his cardigan and lifted him two feet up.
"Now you listen and you listen good, ya snot-nosed punk. I'm gonna ask you one thing. One thing only. WHERE'S THE JACKET? Spill the beans prick. Want everyone to know about your Barbie doll collection? I can make that happen. Don't have one? I can make that happen too. Imagine, it's first period, you open your locker. You need a math book. Instead a bunch of dolls come piling out. Next thing you know, everyone's calling you Nancy, and complimenting you on your fine taste in skirts. How's that sound, punk?"
Talk about a walk in the park. This kid wasn't about to give me half the trouble Stephan had. Even through those glasses, thick like pea soup fog, I could see the tears welling up, yet I wouldn't pity him; those were guilt tears he was crying.
"Save it for the judge Brace-face. Tell me what you did with the jacket."
"Nothing!"
"Ha! Heard that before. Try again!"
"I didn't do anything! I swear!!!"
"Oh yeah? What were you doing snoopin' around here the other day after school? Cold kickin it wit your posse? Isn't that how big time gangsta twirps like you talk these days? (dramatic pause) ANSWERS. NOW."
Then came an interruption.
"Hey! what are you doing to my brother?"
How did I know that voice? One glimpse of her face and I knew. The girl who lost her jacket came running toward us, demanding I put her brother down; my face burning red from embarrassment and anger. Embarrassed I'd nailed the wrong kid. Angry Stephan had given me one, huge, fat, stinking, red herring. The girl told me how she had her little brother check her locker one last time while she asked around about the jacket. Apologizing profusely I helped clean the mess I'd made.
I'm a custodian. I would've had to sooner or later anyway.
Then I went downstairs to have a talk with Stephan.
No one was in the break room which, come to think of it, wasn't all that bad. I could use a little quiet time to piece all this information, or lack thereof, together. The footsteps approaching from behind were soft and evenly paced. A hand placed itself on my left shoulder, then a voice, "So it looks as if we've got ourselves a super sleuth, doesn't it?"
Instant recognition. No need to turn around. "Cletus" I scowled.
"Bingo. And I'm here to tell you to stop searching for the jacket. If you value your job, if you know what's good for you, then you'll stop searching for that little girl's jacket and start doing what you're supposed to, and that's maintaining this building. Understand?"
"I understand. I understand all right. I keep my mouth shut, keep my job, and you continue stealing from these innocent children. You disgust me."
The grip on my shoulder tensed, "Rich. Listen to me. As your supervisor, as your friend, I'm telling you, not asking, to stop the search. This goes deeper than you think. So, for the last time I'm telling you. Stay out of it."
My eyes clenched shut, my teeth gnashed, I made no effort to respond.
"Hey. You look like shit. Why don't you take the rest of the day off, head home, and hop in the shower? Wally'll cover your area, and we'll forget this whole thing ever happened. OK?"
I nodded.
"OK. See you in twenty-four" and the footsteps were retreating, but before they faded away, I asked Cletus, "Why?"
"Why?"
"Yeah, why's it gotta be like this?"
"Dunno. Wish I had the answers, kid. It's just the way it's always been I guess" and he was gone. Five minutes passed and I was too.

Perhaps I did need a shower but I didn't want one. Instead, what I wanted (needed) was a drink. Still in my bright orange jumpsuit I headed to the nearest bar and ordered a beer.

Must have been happy hour, or something similar, when it dawned on me how long I'd been there. The bar, so desolate before, now brimmed over with people; all kinds too, from young frat boys to rich yuppies to weekend warriors and even a few old drunks. I was approached several times by people asking if I was an escaped convict, and depending on my mood at the moment, sometimes said yes, other times no. One of the old drunks struck a conversation with me about how in 2018, "the white man will no longer exist." Only an idiot, I thought, would think something like that. What a dumbass. Didn't he know how wrong his statement was? Didn't he know the correct projected year was 2012? Moron.
Even if the old drunk hadn't a clue as to what he was talking about, I didn't care; I needed something to take my mind off my confrontation with Cletus, and bombed though I was, the alcohol wasn't cutting it. His words kept repeating in my brain, "this goes deeper than you think, this goes deeper than you think, this goes deeper than you think" frustrating me more than those goddamn adhesive strips distributors place across the tops of CD's to prevent shoplifting. All out of leads and running low on patience and perseverance, I tipped my brown bottle of Old Mill and tasted its corn flake goodness. What did Cletus mean? How deep was this ring of terrorist thieves?
"Ain't that right, Mac?"
The old man was still jabbering away at me. I looked at him, about to ask if he'd repeat his question when a flashy material caught my eye. Focussing was a strange talent I now had to reacquire; squinting, I could barely make out the source of that flash. Then it reappeared. Light slashed across someone's back as they passed below a low hanging barlight. THE JACKET!
Blue, satin, tiger patch; it was all there! Forgetting my current state of mind I fell to the floor attempting to jump out the stool I'd sat in so many hours. Pins and needles massaged my throbbing legs but I was determined to catch whoever it was with that jacket. Once on my feet, a new problem presented itself; how do I get through all these jerk-offs? Then it hit me.
Shouting, "I'm gonna puke!!" I managed my way across a sea of Keystone guzzling pricks, ending up arm's length from that tiger patch. One step, two steps, three steps, gotcha!
I had him by the arm. I spun him around. I froze at what I saw.
"YOU?"
The security guard! She was the thief!
"You?" I repeated, "Why? Why would you steal from that little girl?"
Sucking on a Virginia Slim, she inhaled, paused, exhaled a carcinogenic cloud, and, smiling, replied, "It's a cool jacket." She winked.
"You'll burn for this you cold-hearted bitch."
"Keep talking tough little boy and I just might manhandle your crotch."
Now, you have to admit, that's a pretty ambiguous statement however, the wink wasn't. Anytime someone winks at you it's like they're handing out a businesscard that says, 'wanna hump?' so I adjusted my package accordingly, and sauntered over for a smooch.
She flicked her cigarette in my eyes, grabbed my man fruits and squeezed the living hell out of 'em while her other hand collided with my nose. By collided I mean she punched me repeatedly for five minutes or so until boredom set in. After that she spit in my face and walked away. My friend the old drunk had seen the whole scene, and now with the coast clear helped me to my feet and out to the car where I slept.
The next morning I woke with cramped legs, stinging cold in the backseat. Cletus was a bit upset upon hearing I'd be absent from work a second day, but there seemed to be a hint of understanding in his voice when I told him I no longer wanted anything to do with the jacket.
Then it was back to bed, followed by hours of Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Watching all that television numbed my nerves. I accepted defeat. Though it would've been nice to return to that girl her jacket, I knew hero was a role I'd never again play. I made up my mind not to give the experience any more thought.
That's why today at work, when I heard a young boy asking about his lost CD player, I shook my head and kept mopping.

Rich . . . REVEALED!
After months of exposing my innermost thoughts with you all I feel the time has come for me to unveil myself. Here's a picture taken of me before I got my ears pierced.
Enjoy.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STUPID.

Van Halen sucks.