After exploring his college computer, Matt finally rediscovers an old essay worth publishing on the Proofread. It is about flirting. Or more precisely, how he justifies his obliviousness to flirting. It was written four years ago, but besides who he was dating at the time, not too much has changed.
Check it out here
Enjoy.
Showing posts with label Matt Kuehl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Matt Kuehl. Show all posts
Monday, August 30, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
This Week: The Man Behind the 'Stache
**WOOSH**
This week on... THE PROOFREAD.
**ROCKIN GUITAR RIFF**
Mystery! Intrigue! Mustache!
**FLASHY MONTAGE OF CAR JUMPING RAVINE, GUY FIRING MACHINE GUN, GENERICALLY BAD GUYS LOOKING SCARED**
You won't want to miss this gripping tale of vigilante justice. Stay tuned for... THE PROOFREAD.
**BITCHIN GUITAR RIFF**
CREDITS:
Written by: Matt Kuehl
Starring Sean Connery, Steve Buscemi, Michael Cera
This week on... THE PROOFREAD.
**ROCKIN GUITAR RIFF**
Mystery! Intrigue! Mustache!
**FLASHY MONTAGE OF CAR JUMPING RAVINE, GUY FIRING MACHINE GUN, GENERICALLY BAD GUYS LOOKING SCARED**
You won't want to miss this gripping tale of vigilante justice. Stay tuned for... THE PROOFREAD.
**BITCHIN GUITAR RIFF**
CREDITS:
Written by: Matt Kuehl
Starring Sean Connery, Steve Buscemi, Michael Cera
Mustachio
It was an innocent question.
“Hey, do you have jumper cables?”
I always liked grocery shopping at night. I deplore the evening crowds. And what makes matters worse is that grocery stores aren’t grocery stores anymore, they are warehouses. Those bigwigs in the food industry trick us. You don’t notice the deception because they tile the warehouse floors. Have you ever been in a warehouse with tiled floors? Of course not, but a warehouse is still a warehouse no matter how fancily you decorate the floors. Plus, grocery stores are small. They have burly butchers there named “Fred” or “Rico.” Grocery stores have bag boys. They have fifteen-year-olds, their first job, both jock and nerd, working side by side for minimum wage, doing a job that warehouses figured out they could make the consumer do for free. If you want definitive proof that your “grocery store” is a warehouse, look up. They may trick you into thinking they are a grocery store with their fresh fruits and vegetables, decorative end caps, and those “tiled floors,” but those ceilings are too tall. If you see high ceilings, and you aren’t in a church, library, or auditorium, by logical deduction, you must be in a warehouse. Grocery stores are personal. They are California condors, and at the same time, fossils. If you want to find a grocery store, take a stroll through small town, main street USA. You won’t find one there, but you’ll find an antique store inhabiting the shell of one.
“Who the hell doesn’t have jumper cables?” I thought to myself. It’s winter and it gets cold enough here, the kind of cold where you might open up your freezer and stick your hands inside just to warm them up. Everyone needs jumper cables. And just because everyone has them isn’t an excuse to rely on the fact that everyone should have them.
Did mention I deplore crowds more than I deplore warehouses with identity issues? I shop at night because I hate to wait in line; I am disgusted when I have to push through crowds. Pushing through crowds to get the discount cereal or pickles — disgusting. No doubt, Washington wasn’t wasting his time wrestling with the masses to get five tomatoes for a dollar. And though I am not giving birth to a country, I would like to think the one thing Washington and I have in common is that we wouldn’t waste time fighting over something as silly as produce at the super market.
I hate the mobs. I get furious at the guy who takes seventeen items into the fifteen-items-or-less lane. I get angry at the elderly man who examines each apple for flaws. I get jealous of the mother who shops with three small children. Why can’t I multitask like her? She manages to get 99 percent of the food she sets out to buy while watching and multitasking a bunch of uncoordinated, miniature humans. Shopping with old kids makes sense. No bag boy at the warehouse, you make the kids do it. Good for building character and all that jazz. But little kids, I know those moms just can’t leave them at home, but I don’t have such fortitude. If presented with the option, I’d order out all the time. I would change the emergency speed dial on my phone to a place that delivered submarine sandwiches. Hungry, yelling kids who need a healthy dinner. Now that’s a real everyday emergency.
“Yeah, I got jumper cables. Give me a second to put away the rest of the groceries.”
“Ya need help?”
“Sure, buddy.”
So I go there at night. But I must admit that the place creeps me out. It’s like a haunted house with coupons. Barren. Cans, freezers, one cashier, and a couple of stock boys. Are they really apparitions though? You glance down an aisle and you might see one by chance, but if look twice, they are gone. Don’t go searching for cornstarch at night; you’ll find an ivory billed woodpecker before you find a stock boy or the cornstarch. If food warehouses sold those creepy dolls with glass eyes, I would go grocery shopping during the day, or have that submarine sandwich place on my emergency speed dial, too. I have never seen a possessed doll kill a person with a group of witnesses; I would take some comfort in knowing that the millions of other urban day hunter-gathers were protecting me solely by existing.
“Okay, let me grab those cables. Where’s your car?”
He just breathes heavily. And of course I am weirded out, so much so that I would prefer the crowds or doll-lined shelves of a warehouse. At least they didn’t breathe like him. Grocery warehouses have all types of breathers, though. Huffers, puffers, wheezers, suckers, panters, double panters, mouth breathers, inverse mouth breathers, largemouth bassers, spittlers, lippers, snake lungers. That’s the problem. Everyone who breathes has to eat, and everyone who eats has to buy food at the grocery warehouses. Exceptions may exist. There are probably some rich inverse mouth breathers out there that have butlers shop for them, but 99 percent of the time, you could identify every phenotype of breather on Earth at any day of the week at a grocery warehouse. But when do these diverse fauna of breathers shop? During the day. That’s why I shop at night. I bemoan crowds along with the choruses of breathers.
“Fuck.”
Why didn’t I notice that there weren’t any other cars in this parking lot? He grabs hold of my wrist tightly and pulls me closer to him. I want to scream. Did he grab my tongue as well? If I were a mother, this wouldn’t have happened. Mothers have motherly instincts. They detect danger. They are like bats with an echo location that specifically bounce back off of trouble. That’s why when you are young, mothers know if you are running with scissors or just about to light a funeral pyre for a Darth Vader figure in your backyard. But they don’t even have to go and find you, they just yell from a faraway land, and if you fear their wrath, you stop. Plus, mothers have children. They don’t like crowds, but they aren’t stupid. Mothers don’t shop with their kids at night. If I had children, this wouldn’t have happened. Or if I was George Washington, I would go Valley Forge on his ass.
A voice calls out.
“Are you okay?”
Jumper Cables and I turn in surprise; he instinctively covers my mouth with his hand. A shadowy figure stands in the street light.
“Yeah… everything is cool. Just, ummmm, a lover’s quarrel with the misses.”
The eyes stare. They do not seem convinced.
“Get outta here you fucking lurker,” Jumper Cables said.
A friend of mine once called him a lurker, too. Lurker. No one uses that word anymore except when describing Internet stalkers. But that is what he does. He lurks. That’s how he finds crime. However, you know where you find the most lurkers? Food warehouses. Especially on free samples day. Usually it’s bachelors, cheap ones, but I have seen a woman or two lurk; they make the best lurkers. It’s pathetic. To the experienced food lurker, a successful sample lurking is an accomplishment. They fall asleep at the end of the day with a rewarding feeling in their heart, but also with hunger pains. Why? Because even after 1,000 samples, you still only ate about three-and-a-half ounces of food. If you want a sense of accomplishment, how about you donate blood? At least then you’ll save three lives AND get a juice box and three-and-a-half ounces of cookies.
“Are you okay?”
The figure moves closer, revealing a tan, weathered face, with silver hair and masked eyes. I notice his hands. They are weathered too, his fingernails cracked, like one who has worked or suffered. In one of his tempered hands though — his right, he carries a red fire extinguisher.
”Wait, is that him?” I think.
I first read about him on the rare occasion when I went grocery shopping during the day. There was a party, and since I procrastinated till the afternoon prior, I needed to go the food warehouse in the daytime to get supplies. I fought through the crowds. I swerved past the slow walkers. I dodged some motorized scooters to get my five tomatoes for a dollar, I didn’t fight for them, I just waited for an opening, like Washington would. I got my food, and since I had seventeen items and I wasn’t a skank that would go into the fifteen-items-or-less line, I take my place in one of the normal queues, the kind so long that women give birth in them because, hell, they’ve waited there so long, why lose their place now? As my food spoils in the cart, I notice a headline: “Man eats over 300 poinsettias, breaks world record.” “How festive,” I thought, “and right around Christmas, too.” Then my attention was grabbed by something less stupid: “Page 8: The Legend of Mustachio, as told by his ex-neighbor.” Anyone named Mustachio must be a cool dude. So I took a peek.
He asks again.
“Are you okay?”
He steps farther into the light, and I can finally notice it: The mustache.
The article I read, the one on page 8, went something like this:
“‘Mustachio, this city’s newest vigilante, has a sordid history, like any vigilante,’ says Mustachio’s former neighbor. ‘I never really talked to the guy. Maybe I should have when I look back at it, but the guy kept to himself. Kind of an old guy — tough looking, with a mustache. I don’t think he spoke English. Like, you’d see him and all he would ever say was ‘Are you okay?’ and I’d say ‘Yes, I’m fine.” Then he’d smile and go on with his business. He didn’t look like a moron or anything. Maybe he was, like, a refugee or political prisoner. He just didn’t speak English. I even tried a little bit of Spanish, but no luck. Anyway, he kept to himself, except for a dog. He loved this scrappy-looking dog. It had pointy ears, a long tail, and the mange. I don’t know if he owned the dog. But he always gave him food, and the dog hung out on his stoop.
One day some young punks, real no-good-nicks, kick the dog. Mustachio sees, goes out there and starts yelling up a storm in some kind of foreign tongue. The kids don’t like that, so you know what they do? They come back that night, drunk or high, and bone his dog. Bestiality. Disgusting, man. Just sick. And on top of that, they then douse the dog in bacon grease and start it on fire. Mustachio, who was woken up by the barking, goes out and sees his dog ablaze. He panics, turns on a garden hose and sprays down the dog. But you know what happens when you put water on a grease fire? It flares up. The dog is a roaring fireball and, of course, is scorched to death. Mustachio can’t do anything but watch. I don’t know if he cracked after that or what. But that’s when I think he swore a life of vigilantism; one week after the burning, a few of the men suspected of the crime were found bludgeoned to near death and covered in a fine white powder. That’s some messed up junk, man.’ ”
Cables grips me tighter than ever. Am I sensing fear? Had he read the same newspaper, skipped the front page and turned to page 8? Maybe he was normally a night shopper just like me and saw the article in a spot of boredom one evening. Or was he a day shopper? I bet a guy like him is a food lurker, always eyeing for an opportunity to take advantage of a situation.
“Are you okay?” the mustached lips ask again.
“Why the fuck do you keep asking that, old man?”
I stood silent. He looked on at me, his eyes penetrating the lies of my assailant; he is not fazed by Cable’s growing anger. The mysterious man’s nostrils flared, the air ruffling the hairs of his great silver mustache.
“Are you okay?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Are you okay?” he repeats.
Cables is still holding me. I assumed the fucker would probably leave a bruise, but I’d be lucky if that was all that happened to me. He readies himself to attack the old man.
“Are you okay?”
Cables clenches his teeth. He is about to lunge.
Finally, I shook my head from side to side; a muffled sound snuck its way out of my mouth.
“No.”
There is a loud rushing sound. A white fog envelopes the assailant and me, and from within this cloud I hear the clang of metal; the vice entrapping my wrist is limply unlocked. A body falls to the ground. The smoke hasn’t cleared when I hear a ripping sound. I’d find out later that it was duck tape; the police found him, legs bound together, one hand taped over his mouth, the other hand taped onto his wrist. A hand grabs mine; it is rough, but gentle and caring. Two of us emerge from the dissipating vapor. The mustached man escorts me inside, walks up to the lonely cashier and dials 911 on the register’s phone. He makes the clerk speak to the police. We wait together. When he hears the sirens, he departs the store, reentering the shadows from whence he came.
Several weeks pass. I am a lot less shaken up than before, but I don’t mind the mouth breathers, the mothers, or the food lurkers of the food warehouse. Maybe I never gave them a chance. Perhaps they are good people... no, they are as irritating as ever. But it’s the kind of irritating you appreciate. Like a brother or great uncle who’s kind of annoying and you hate when you experience it, but then holiday get-togethers become oh-so-boring when they are dead or off at college.
Today, before visiting the food warehouse, I visit another warehouse — a home improvement store. I don’t hate them as much. They don’t have identity issues like grocery stores; they rarely tile their floors. Sometimes people like to say these warehouses are home improvement centers, but you know if you walked up to the building and said, “Hey, are you a warehouse?” It would respond, “The sign out front says I’mma center, but yeah, I’mma warehouse, you got a problem with that?” and I’d say “No, dude.” But I would be perplexed that a building spoke and had a Brooklyn accent. Regardless, the home improvement warehouse knows that it’s like my grandma used to say: “You don’t put a leotard on an alligator.”
Anyway, I am standing in line, bucket of paint in hand, when I hear a commotion a couple registers over.
“Sir, you must take this back to the hardware department,” the cashier says.
“Okay.” The man hands him money.
“Sir, this is the floor model. If you go back to the hardware department, one of our employees can assist you.”
“Okay.” The man looks confused and gestures to give the money back to the cashier.
The people behind him are getting visibly upset. I am still curious.
“Sir, please get out of the line and go back to the hardware department.”
“Okay.” The man is looks really confused; he gestures again in vain.
“Damn. Probably another immigrant. Why can’t they just learn some fucking English like everyone else?”
My curiosity piques. I get out of my line (yes, I know it’s sacrilege to abandon your line during peak business hours) and walk over. The young employee is frustrated. His job probably sucks (he does work in a warehouse), and he wants as few hassles as possible. The man stands there confused. He is his holding his money out; he must be thinking “this is just like before.” Yet, he doesn’t understand what the problem is now.
Then I notice everything. The silver hair. The weathered face. The tempered hands. An upper lip garnished with a simple yet magnanimous ‘stache. Damn. You can’t fake that kind of facial hair. Mustaches like his aren’t grown, they are earned. They are little prickly medals placed under the nose by a divine entity, a symbol for the rest of us of their nobility. A badge reserved for only the most worthy of our fathers and grandfathers.
But his eyes are sad. He’s trapped, being verbally beaten into submission by some high school chump. And no amount of extinguisher bashing would help him escape.
I stroll over.
“Hey, dude. What’s going on?”
“This idiot gramps here took the floor model fire extinguisher off the shelf and he is too stupid to go back and get the right one.”
“An honest mistake from a member of America’s Greatest Generation. Why haven’t you fixed the problem?”
He rolls his eyes. “He no ‘speaka the Engles’,” he says condescendingly.
Something in me snaps; I can feel the Valley Forge roaring up inside me.
“What’s your name, kid?”
I grab the kids name tag, it say “Ramesses.”
“Like King Ramesses II? Of Egypt? What kind of hippie-pagan parents name their kid Ramesses?” I take a deep breath. “Wait, Ramesses, I need to focus. If I don’t focus, I am going to rant about how I hate warehouses and food warehouses. I hate them with a fiery passion but now is not the time and place.”
“Here’s the deal. This ‘old guy’ here is a friend of mine, and I will guarantee that if a surgeon removed nine-tenths of his brain, he’d still be five times smarter than a young prick such as yourself, sans the ability to speak English. Do you see that little phone there, like the one that has probably been next to every cash register you have worked at and will work at, which, at this rate, will be an incredible number? Instead of being a stupid fuck, how about you take a proactive step, call hardware, and have one of your wood-stain sniffing friends bring up the right one. If not, I’ll take it up with your manager. I am sure he or she wouldn’t be happy to hear that you were berating a well-behaved customer with a pocket full of cash, especially during a recession.”
He picks up the phone, talks to someone on the other end, and soon another pimply greenhorn comes with the correct product.
“$124.48, sir.”
I look up at the old man, smile, and say one of the few words I know he will know.
“Okay.”
He smiles, hands the money to the cashier, and soon gets his change.
“The man prefers paper, Ramesses and thank you much, much for your coerced friendly service. Today could be a great new turning point in your life of mediocrity.”
The two of us step out together, and we both realize we probably shouldn’t go back to that store for awhile. We turn to each other. I know we both have a lot to say, but there’s that language barrier thing. We are silent. But then I ask him.
“Are you okay?”
He smiles again and says, “Are you okay?”
I smile back; he must remember me.
“Yeah, I am okay.”
“Hey, do you have jumper cables?”
I always liked grocery shopping at night. I deplore the evening crowds. And what makes matters worse is that grocery stores aren’t grocery stores anymore, they are warehouses. Those bigwigs in the food industry trick us. You don’t notice the deception because they tile the warehouse floors. Have you ever been in a warehouse with tiled floors? Of course not, but a warehouse is still a warehouse no matter how fancily you decorate the floors. Plus, grocery stores are small. They have burly butchers there named “Fred” or “Rico.” Grocery stores have bag boys. They have fifteen-year-olds, their first job, both jock and nerd, working side by side for minimum wage, doing a job that warehouses figured out they could make the consumer do for free. If you want definitive proof that your “grocery store” is a warehouse, look up. They may trick you into thinking they are a grocery store with their fresh fruits and vegetables, decorative end caps, and those “tiled floors,” but those ceilings are too tall. If you see high ceilings, and you aren’t in a church, library, or auditorium, by logical deduction, you must be in a warehouse. Grocery stores are personal. They are California condors, and at the same time, fossils. If you want to find a grocery store, take a stroll through small town, main street USA. You won’t find one there, but you’ll find an antique store inhabiting the shell of one.
“Who the hell doesn’t have jumper cables?” I thought to myself. It’s winter and it gets cold enough here, the kind of cold where you might open up your freezer and stick your hands inside just to warm them up. Everyone needs jumper cables. And just because everyone has them isn’t an excuse to rely on the fact that everyone should have them.
Did mention I deplore crowds more than I deplore warehouses with identity issues? I shop at night because I hate to wait in line; I am disgusted when I have to push through crowds. Pushing through crowds to get the discount cereal or pickles — disgusting. No doubt, Washington wasn’t wasting his time wrestling with the masses to get five tomatoes for a dollar. And though I am not giving birth to a country, I would like to think the one thing Washington and I have in common is that we wouldn’t waste time fighting over something as silly as produce at the super market.
I hate the mobs. I get furious at the guy who takes seventeen items into the fifteen-items-or-less lane. I get angry at the elderly man who examines each apple for flaws. I get jealous of the mother who shops with three small children. Why can’t I multitask like her? She manages to get 99 percent of the food she sets out to buy while watching and multitasking a bunch of uncoordinated, miniature humans. Shopping with old kids makes sense. No bag boy at the warehouse, you make the kids do it. Good for building character and all that jazz. But little kids, I know those moms just can’t leave them at home, but I don’t have such fortitude. If presented with the option, I’d order out all the time. I would change the emergency speed dial on my phone to a place that delivered submarine sandwiches. Hungry, yelling kids who need a healthy dinner. Now that’s a real everyday emergency.
“Yeah, I got jumper cables. Give me a second to put away the rest of the groceries.”
“Ya need help?”
“Sure, buddy.”
So I go there at night. But I must admit that the place creeps me out. It’s like a haunted house with coupons. Barren. Cans, freezers, one cashier, and a couple of stock boys. Are they really apparitions though? You glance down an aisle and you might see one by chance, but if look twice, they are gone. Don’t go searching for cornstarch at night; you’ll find an ivory billed woodpecker before you find a stock boy or the cornstarch. If food warehouses sold those creepy dolls with glass eyes, I would go grocery shopping during the day, or have that submarine sandwich place on my emergency speed dial, too. I have never seen a possessed doll kill a person with a group of witnesses; I would take some comfort in knowing that the millions of other urban day hunter-gathers were protecting me solely by existing.
“Okay, let me grab those cables. Where’s your car?”
He just breathes heavily. And of course I am weirded out, so much so that I would prefer the crowds or doll-lined shelves of a warehouse. At least they didn’t breathe like him. Grocery warehouses have all types of breathers, though. Huffers, puffers, wheezers, suckers, panters, double panters, mouth breathers, inverse mouth breathers, largemouth bassers, spittlers, lippers, snake lungers. That’s the problem. Everyone who breathes has to eat, and everyone who eats has to buy food at the grocery warehouses. Exceptions may exist. There are probably some rich inverse mouth breathers out there that have butlers shop for them, but 99 percent of the time, you could identify every phenotype of breather on Earth at any day of the week at a grocery warehouse. But when do these diverse fauna of breathers shop? During the day. That’s why I shop at night. I bemoan crowds along with the choruses of breathers.
“Fuck.”
Why didn’t I notice that there weren’t any other cars in this parking lot? He grabs hold of my wrist tightly and pulls me closer to him. I want to scream. Did he grab my tongue as well? If I were a mother, this wouldn’t have happened. Mothers have motherly instincts. They detect danger. They are like bats with an echo location that specifically bounce back off of trouble. That’s why when you are young, mothers know if you are running with scissors or just about to light a funeral pyre for a Darth Vader figure in your backyard. But they don’t even have to go and find you, they just yell from a faraway land, and if you fear their wrath, you stop. Plus, mothers have children. They don’t like crowds, but they aren’t stupid. Mothers don’t shop with their kids at night. If I had children, this wouldn’t have happened. Or if I was George Washington, I would go Valley Forge on his ass.
A voice calls out.
“Are you okay?”
Jumper Cables and I turn in surprise; he instinctively covers my mouth with his hand. A shadowy figure stands in the street light.
“Yeah… everything is cool. Just, ummmm, a lover’s quarrel with the misses.”
The eyes stare. They do not seem convinced.
“Get outta here you fucking lurker,” Jumper Cables said.
A friend of mine once called him a lurker, too. Lurker. No one uses that word anymore except when describing Internet stalkers. But that is what he does. He lurks. That’s how he finds crime. However, you know where you find the most lurkers? Food warehouses. Especially on free samples day. Usually it’s bachelors, cheap ones, but I have seen a woman or two lurk; they make the best lurkers. It’s pathetic. To the experienced food lurker, a successful sample lurking is an accomplishment. They fall asleep at the end of the day with a rewarding feeling in their heart, but also with hunger pains. Why? Because even after 1,000 samples, you still only ate about three-and-a-half ounces of food. If you want a sense of accomplishment, how about you donate blood? At least then you’ll save three lives AND get a juice box and three-and-a-half ounces of cookies.
“Are you okay?”
The figure moves closer, revealing a tan, weathered face, with silver hair and masked eyes. I notice his hands. They are weathered too, his fingernails cracked, like one who has worked or suffered. In one of his tempered hands though — his right, he carries a red fire extinguisher.
”Wait, is that him?” I think.
I first read about him on the rare occasion when I went grocery shopping during the day. There was a party, and since I procrastinated till the afternoon prior, I needed to go the food warehouse in the daytime to get supplies. I fought through the crowds. I swerved past the slow walkers. I dodged some motorized scooters to get my five tomatoes for a dollar, I didn’t fight for them, I just waited for an opening, like Washington would. I got my food, and since I had seventeen items and I wasn’t a skank that would go into the fifteen-items-or-less line, I take my place in one of the normal queues, the kind so long that women give birth in them because, hell, they’ve waited there so long, why lose their place now? As my food spoils in the cart, I notice a headline: “Man eats over 300 poinsettias, breaks world record.” “How festive,” I thought, “and right around Christmas, too.” Then my attention was grabbed by something less stupid: “Page 8: The Legend of Mustachio, as told by his ex-neighbor.” Anyone named Mustachio must be a cool dude. So I took a peek.
He asks again.
“Are you okay?”
He steps farther into the light, and I can finally notice it: The mustache.
The article I read, the one on page 8, went something like this:
“‘Mustachio, this city’s newest vigilante, has a sordid history, like any vigilante,’ says Mustachio’s former neighbor. ‘I never really talked to the guy. Maybe I should have when I look back at it, but the guy kept to himself. Kind of an old guy — tough looking, with a mustache. I don’t think he spoke English. Like, you’d see him and all he would ever say was ‘Are you okay?’ and I’d say ‘Yes, I’m fine.” Then he’d smile and go on with his business. He didn’t look like a moron or anything. Maybe he was, like, a refugee or political prisoner. He just didn’t speak English. I even tried a little bit of Spanish, but no luck. Anyway, he kept to himself, except for a dog. He loved this scrappy-looking dog. It had pointy ears, a long tail, and the mange. I don’t know if he owned the dog. But he always gave him food, and the dog hung out on his stoop.
One day some young punks, real no-good-nicks, kick the dog. Mustachio sees, goes out there and starts yelling up a storm in some kind of foreign tongue. The kids don’t like that, so you know what they do? They come back that night, drunk or high, and bone his dog. Bestiality. Disgusting, man. Just sick. And on top of that, they then douse the dog in bacon grease and start it on fire. Mustachio, who was woken up by the barking, goes out and sees his dog ablaze. He panics, turns on a garden hose and sprays down the dog. But you know what happens when you put water on a grease fire? It flares up. The dog is a roaring fireball and, of course, is scorched to death. Mustachio can’t do anything but watch. I don’t know if he cracked after that or what. But that’s when I think he swore a life of vigilantism; one week after the burning, a few of the men suspected of the crime were found bludgeoned to near death and covered in a fine white powder. That’s some messed up junk, man.’ ”
Cables grips me tighter than ever. Am I sensing fear? Had he read the same newspaper, skipped the front page and turned to page 8? Maybe he was normally a night shopper just like me and saw the article in a spot of boredom one evening. Or was he a day shopper? I bet a guy like him is a food lurker, always eyeing for an opportunity to take advantage of a situation.
“Are you okay?” the mustached lips ask again.
“Why the fuck do you keep asking that, old man?”
I stood silent. He looked on at me, his eyes penetrating the lies of my assailant; he is not fazed by Cable’s growing anger. The mysterious man’s nostrils flared, the air ruffling the hairs of his great silver mustache.
“Are you okay?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Are you okay?” he repeats.
Cables is still holding me. I assumed the fucker would probably leave a bruise, but I’d be lucky if that was all that happened to me. He readies himself to attack the old man.
“Are you okay?”
Cables clenches his teeth. He is about to lunge.
Finally, I shook my head from side to side; a muffled sound snuck its way out of my mouth.
“No.”
There is a loud rushing sound. A white fog envelopes the assailant and me, and from within this cloud I hear the clang of metal; the vice entrapping my wrist is limply unlocked. A body falls to the ground. The smoke hasn’t cleared when I hear a ripping sound. I’d find out later that it was duck tape; the police found him, legs bound together, one hand taped over his mouth, the other hand taped onto his wrist. A hand grabs mine; it is rough, but gentle and caring. Two of us emerge from the dissipating vapor. The mustached man escorts me inside, walks up to the lonely cashier and dials 911 on the register’s phone. He makes the clerk speak to the police. We wait together. When he hears the sirens, he departs the store, reentering the shadows from whence he came.
******
Several weeks pass. I am a lot less shaken up than before, but I don’t mind the mouth breathers, the mothers, or the food lurkers of the food warehouse. Maybe I never gave them a chance. Perhaps they are good people... no, they are as irritating as ever. But it’s the kind of irritating you appreciate. Like a brother or great uncle who’s kind of annoying and you hate when you experience it, but then holiday get-togethers become oh-so-boring when they are dead or off at college.
Today, before visiting the food warehouse, I visit another warehouse — a home improvement store. I don’t hate them as much. They don’t have identity issues like grocery stores; they rarely tile their floors. Sometimes people like to say these warehouses are home improvement centers, but you know if you walked up to the building and said, “Hey, are you a warehouse?” It would respond, “The sign out front says I’mma center, but yeah, I’mma warehouse, you got a problem with that?” and I’d say “No, dude.” But I would be perplexed that a building spoke and had a Brooklyn accent. Regardless, the home improvement warehouse knows that it’s like my grandma used to say: “You don’t put a leotard on an alligator.”
Anyway, I am standing in line, bucket of paint in hand, when I hear a commotion a couple registers over.
“Sir, you must take this back to the hardware department,” the cashier says.
“Okay.” The man hands him money.
“Sir, this is the floor model. If you go back to the hardware department, one of our employees can assist you.”
“Okay.” The man looks confused and gestures to give the money back to the cashier.
The people behind him are getting visibly upset. I am still curious.
“Sir, please get out of the line and go back to the hardware department.”
“Okay.” The man is looks really confused; he gestures again in vain.
“Damn. Probably another immigrant. Why can’t they just learn some fucking English like everyone else?”
My curiosity piques. I get out of my line (yes, I know it’s sacrilege to abandon your line during peak business hours) and walk over. The young employee is frustrated. His job probably sucks (he does work in a warehouse), and he wants as few hassles as possible. The man stands there confused. He is his holding his money out; he must be thinking “this is just like before.” Yet, he doesn’t understand what the problem is now.
Then I notice everything. The silver hair. The weathered face. The tempered hands. An upper lip garnished with a simple yet magnanimous ‘stache. Damn. You can’t fake that kind of facial hair. Mustaches like his aren’t grown, they are earned. They are little prickly medals placed under the nose by a divine entity, a symbol for the rest of us of their nobility. A badge reserved for only the most worthy of our fathers and grandfathers.
But his eyes are sad. He’s trapped, being verbally beaten into submission by some high school chump. And no amount of extinguisher bashing would help him escape.
I stroll over.
“Hey, dude. What’s going on?”
“This idiot gramps here took the floor model fire extinguisher off the shelf and he is too stupid to go back and get the right one.”
“An honest mistake from a member of America’s Greatest Generation. Why haven’t you fixed the problem?”
He rolls his eyes. “He no ‘speaka the Engles’,” he says condescendingly.
Something in me snaps; I can feel the Valley Forge roaring up inside me.
“What’s your name, kid?”
I grab the kids name tag, it say “Ramesses.”
“Like King Ramesses II? Of Egypt? What kind of hippie-pagan parents name their kid Ramesses?” I take a deep breath. “Wait, Ramesses, I need to focus. If I don’t focus, I am going to rant about how I hate warehouses and food warehouses. I hate them with a fiery passion but now is not the time and place.”
“Here’s the deal. This ‘old guy’ here is a friend of mine, and I will guarantee that if a surgeon removed nine-tenths of his brain, he’d still be five times smarter than a young prick such as yourself, sans the ability to speak English. Do you see that little phone there, like the one that has probably been next to every cash register you have worked at and will work at, which, at this rate, will be an incredible number? Instead of being a stupid fuck, how about you take a proactive step, call hardware, and have one of your wood-stain sniffing friends bring up the right one. If not, I’ll take it up with your manager. I am sure he or she wouldn’t be happy to hear that you were berating a well-behaved customer with a pocket full of cash, especially during a recession.”
He picks up the phone, talks to someone on the other end, and soon another pimply greenhorn comes with the correct product.
“$124.48, sir.”
I look up at the old man, smile, and say one of the few words I know he will know.
“Okay.”
He smiles, hands the money to the cashier, and soon gets his change.
“The man prefers paper, Ramesses and thank you much, much for your coerced friendly service. Today could be a great new turning point in your life of mediocrity.”
The two of us step out together, and we both realize we probably shouldn’t go back to that store for awhile. We turn to each other. I know we both have a lot to say, but there’s that language barrier thing. We are silent. But then I ask him.
“Are you okay?”
He smiles again and says, “Are you okay?”
I smile back; he must remember me.
“Yeah, I am okay.”
Monday, December 28, 2009
How to Stop Worrying and Love the Dance
This week, Matt takes us to the North Country for a tale of intrigue, attraction, and dead animals on the walls. Not only does he flash some fly footwear; he also manages to bring the poignancy. Enjoy it--I did.
The Net
by Matt Kuehl
I believe they were deer hunters. Not the .30-06 (thirty-aught-six) kind, though; rifle season opener was quite some time away. This breed preferred fletching and string over barrels and steel. Perhaps this affinity for bows was due to the more sporting nature of arrows, or the adrenaline high that comes from steadying and releasing the draw. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because hunting with a bow means you can slay a large, antlered mammal at least one whole month sooner.
I don’t have problems with hunters. My father is a deer hunter. So was my grandpa. My friend Tom, god rest his soul, was a hunter, too. A school janitor by trade, he hunted locally during winter and kept game meat in his seasoned pickup truck, wrapped up in butcher’s paper to give to friends. In the summer, he vanished from his home in the lonely suburb in northern Minnesota and migrated somewhere down south, living off the land and hunting game. Hunters, much to the objections of hippies, can be good people. And as an ecologist, I can appreciate the balance they can provide to an ecosystem.[1]
However, that night I didn’t find these hunters in deer stands or hunting shacks. From a naïve perspective, if they weren’t in the forest with a quiver in hand, they were out of their element. But if one remembers that hunters are people too, they were exactly where they should be. Rustic oak-stained tables, a plethora of neon domestic beer displays, deer heads, moose heads, fish heads (and bodies) taxidermied and hanging on the wall, this was a bar made for them — a place where men (and the occasional woman) could come together to relax, talk about the trade, and get piss drunk. The Net was a Mecca for hunters in northwestern Minnesota, which then makes you wonder why the fuck we were there.
While one of us slaughtered a deer with a car grill and several hundred pounds of speeding metal, for the most part, none of us were hunters. We were college-age teaching interns.[2] Our purpose: Travel from the big city university to a country high school, bringing our fresh knowledge of science with us. Typically, most of our time was spent teaching biology, chemistry, or anatomy in the classroom, but occasionally, as part of our internship program, all us interns met at Itasca State Park for pedagogical training. During the day we worked, learning teaching technique or listening to professors lecture about research. At night, though, like all teachers secretly did, we partied.
One session, instead of staying back at the cabins,[3] we decided to explore what the local establishments had to offer. The locals weren’t unfamiliar with our kind. Itasca State Park is home to a well-known university research station, so there is an annual summer influx of undergraduate student researchers. However, once autumn came, the college students were gone, and a new blaze orange demographic[4] migrated into the rural countryside.
The door swung open, a group of small bells clanged, and we took a seat at the only table able to accommodate us: a larger table, close to the karaoke machine, in the middle of the joint. A pair of staring eyes accompanied every half-drank bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the bar. These were not glares, however, but more confused looks followed by the thought, “I wonder if they are having car trouble.” While this was not home for any of us, I felt particularly out of place for one major reason: I was the only one wearing sandals. And not your basic sandal either. I was wearing the sandal equivalent of Ugg boots.[5]
For your entertainment and mine, let me indulge in a related tale. Four weeks before the events at the Net, I joined a Tae Kwan Do class and suffered some immediate setbacks to my goal of becoming a professional kick boxer. Three days into the classes, I bruised my toe doing some type of cool roundhouse kick. Not one to be discouraged by pain, after recovering, I jumped back in to practice.
Several days after I restarted my training, fate again tested my convictions as a martial artist: I demolished my other big toe, again at Tae Kwan Do. This time, I am sad to admit, I didn’t break it while performing an awe-inspiring, soaring jump kick. Actually, I was trying to kick a ball during some bizarre Tae Kwan Do ball exercise and I smashed my toe into the ground. For the few of you who are smart enough to read, but are somehow not intelligent enough to understand levels of physics even barnyard animals have mastered, foot vs. ground always results in foot’s defeat. Man may be able to destroy the Earth with nuclear weapons, global warming, or perhaps a giant drill that reaches to the core, but the Earth will never lose to a man’s foot. The spoils of my defeat: a toe so broke, so swollen, I could not fit it into shoes.
As the season was autumn and I wasn’t a hobbit, I needed a substitute shoe that could accommodate my Hulk-like digit. Something with an open toe seemed the most suitable for my condition, but the timing of my fracture was not on my side. Stores in northern Minnesota tend to be seasonal, and summery footwear is in short supply in fall. As a result, the only thing I could find that would accommodate my foot was a pair of brown women’s flip flops from Target. The ambiguous nature of brown may have saved me from some strange looks or innocent childish harassment about my choice in sandals, if not for the faux sheep’s fur insole. They were girly, which is perhaps okay if you have a broken toe and two X chromosomes, but when you are a 20-year-old boy surrounded by drunken tough guys who probably just skinned a deer in some dude’s garage, a manly steel-toed boot is preferred.
Once our table ordered their first round, the other patrons knew we were there to stay. Truthfully, where else could you go out here in the wilds of Minnesota? The six of us, three girls and three guys, started out by playing cards. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty lame thing to do, but when you are as awesome as we were, you can play cards and not be hassled. Nobody had noticed my unorthodox footwear selection, and surprisingly I wasn’t too worried. I probably would have been a lot less anxious if I were drunk (I was underage and the designated driver) but the present company made things fun and relaxing.
“That chick is pretty hot.” An unfamiliar voice interrupted my conversation with one of my friends.
I laughed. “Yeah, you should go introduce yourself,” I said jokingly to the man. In a matter of seconds, however, he did exactly that.
Soon enough, I would find out that his name was John, he was a plumber, and while he didn’t need to tell me, the blaze orange cap and vest were sufficient evidence that he was a hunter. John was a cool, confident guy, the type that a jealous person would call an arrogant bastard. He drank. A lot. But I could tell that besides his slightly slurred speech, his confidence level and personality were not affected with varying degrees of booze. The hot chick that he was referring to was my friend and co-worker, Virginia. While I wouldn’t disagree with him on the “hot” part (though I personally would have phrased it in a more sophisticated way), her real charm was her carefree and charismatic spirit. She was the kind of girl who could pull a cigarette out of a man’s mouth, lecture him on the dangers of smoking, and after it was all through, leave the guy smiling. Sure, he would light up again, but he would at least wait 20 minutes to do so.
John and Virginia soon were talking. He was being an ass, which would have been annoying if she didn’t so effortlessly put him in his place; perhaps that is what some people consider flirting. I, on the other hand, didn’t mind observing; this was comedy gold. Eventually, as if proving this mysterious band of strangers meant them no harm, his cronies came over to chat with us as well. While not nearly as cool or confident as their kingpin, they turned out to be interesting people nonetheless; one guy and I turned out to be best buddies after we discovered our shared respect for law enforcement.
Time passed and people were drinking beer and singing country songs as I dwelled on the uniqueness that was probably a usual night at this bar/off-sale liquor store in rural Minnesota. Then John and his buddies came up to me.
“Which one of these girls are you going to hit on?” John asked
I laughed at his directness. “What are you talking about?”
“There are all these girls here and you are not hitting on them.”
“Well, we work together. It would be kind of awkward.”
“What kind of shit are you talking about?”
“Plus, hitting on girls at a bar really is not my style. I am a little classier than that.”
“Fuck. You don’t know how to pick up a girl do you?”
Again I laughed. “Okay, so let’s say I am a little young and naive. How about some tips from a master?” I said jokingly.
“Okay, lesson one: simple math. Six of you came here tonight. Beat up the two guys and you have three hot chicks to yourself!”
The party continued, people got drunker and drunker, and we were letting the good times roll on at the Net. John was giving me drunken advice throughout the night about how to hit on girls, most of which was the cliché junk I can’t really imagine myself, or anyone who didn’t want to be slapped, doing. Also, from all the attention that we had garnered, I was amazed (and relieved) that no one had noticed my effeminate footwear.
Toward the end of the night, someone selected a sappy slow song from the jukebox. Old couples grinned and began swaying with each other, while lonely old drunks shed a metaphorical tear into their Buds. Virginia was talking with some of our friends. I just stood there, wishing for something a little bit more upbeat. John came up to me.
“Go dance with her.”
“With who?”
“Virginia.”
“This isn’t high school.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, she’s cool.”
“Can’t you tell that she is waiting for you to grab her and sweep her off her feet?”
“No, that isn’t my style.”
“Fuck. What is your style? Stop being a pussy!
“What, I just go up and ask her?”
“No, just grab her and start dancing.”
“I can’t just grab her. That just seems way too rude.”
“Girls like her won’t beg.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
“Look at the way she looks at you. She wants you.”
I contemplated his words. Each fading second brought me closer to some sort of redemption from this lecturing. While I believed there was chemistry between Virginia and me, I also didn’t want to ruin a good thing. We were good friends. Perhaps that is where I was always conservative like that. I had seen friendships get ruined by advances and such; I didn’t want to fall victim to the same trick.
“Come on, do it,” he said.
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I am a married man, and besides, she wants you.” He urged me on. “Do it!”
I wondered what would happen if I screwed it up.
“Get out there and do it you pussy!”
Or if she said no.
“This is your chance, man.”
Would it make everything different?
“Don’t live in regret.”
Was there really a more opportune moment to come?
“Eye of the Tiger.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on son, go out and grab her!”
And I didn’t ask. I came to her, wrapped one arm around her, and dipped her. She looked surprised, but then genuinely smiled. I can’t remember what she said to me, but I believe she called me by my full first name, the way that she endearingly used to do. The dance was simple. And even though it lasted only part of a song, and even though it was amongst crusty old chairs and ash trays, the stained glass beer chandeliers, and with a broken toe that was not yet prepared to walk, let alone dance, it was beautiful. Looking and perhaps hollering on with his two friends, John knew his mentorship had been successful. His student didn’t beat up two guys and get three girls, but he did get a dance with an incredible woman, a victory that they celebrated, of course, with beer.
************
Five years have passed since the events at the Net. While I sit here alone drinking a coffee, working as a teacher in a school and a community not so different than the one in northern Minnesota, I can’t help but think back on those days, and her, with affection; she is the one that taught me to appreciate coffee, you know. Virginia, John, the Net — I haven’t seen them in five years now. And while I don’t think that we were right for each other, I don’t regret dancing with Virginia that night; I don’t regret being less conservative than I usually was, and I don’t regret chancing it in the company of the camouflage and blaze orange patrons that night.
After all this time, I think I am finally beginning to understand the hidden truth to John’s teachings that night.[6] In five years, I have seen many important friendships come, and while they don’t necessarily end, they go. In this migratory society, the ones you play it safe with, shy from, or grab on to, more often than not, they leave you all the same; this is the unfortunate reality of growing up. But even if this is true, the memories you make with the ones you did reach out to, they aren’t generic or stale or filled with what ifs or should’ves. They are like your trophy bucks, the ones this system tried to deny you, but the ones you took back because you decided it was worth doing something crazy, like sitting in a tree stand for several hours and then taking the shot, or going out in women’s sandals. And oh man, are these memories beautiful. They sound twangy, or ache like a fractured toe, or taste of mocha. The Net is what life feels like when, to paraphrase John, you stop being a pussy and grab on. And sometimes, if you are lucky, you’ll find someone who is willing to grab back, too.
[1] When I get a flamethrower and a katana, you are on my list, Australian cane toad invasion.
[2] Side note: Being a teacher or intern teacher and a hunter are not mutually exclusive activities. However, we were generally more interested in DNA than 12-point bucks.
[3] No alcohol was allowed at the research station, which I am sure would be contested by many of the greatest scientific minds in the world.
[4] Prey for those of the blaze orange species may also include ducks, pheasants, grouse, and for the lucky few that get a permit, moose.
[5] While considered a hearty winter boot by some, they are most often worn by (slutty) girls in miniskirts.
[6] And even if John believed their use was only for trying to score with chicks, the hidden truth is real nonetheless.
I believe they were deer hunters. Not the .30-06 (thirty-aught-six) kind, though; rifle season opener was quite some time away. This breed preferred fletching and string over barrels and steel. Perhaps this affinity for bows was due to the more sporting nature of arrows, or the adrenaline high that comes from steadying and releasing the draw. Or maybe, just maybe, it is because hunting with a bow means you can slay a large, antlered mammal at least one whole month sooner.
I don’t have problems with hunters. My father is a deer hunter. So was my grandpa. My friend Tom, god rest his soul, was a hunter, too. A school janitor by trade, he hunted locally during winter and kept game meat in his seasoned pickup truck, wrapped up in butcher’s paper to give to friends. In the summer, he vanished from his home in the lonely suburb in northern Minnesota and migrated somewhere down south, living off the land and hunting game. Hunters, much to the objections of hippies, can be good people. And as an ecologist, I can appreciate the balance they can provide to an ecosystem.[1]
However, that night I didn’t find these hunters in deer stands or hunting shacks. From a naïve perspective, if they weren’t in the forest with a quiver in hand, they were out of their element. But if one remembers that hunters are people too, they were exactly where they should be. Rustic oak-stained tables, a plethora of neon domestic beer displays, deer heads, moose heads, fish heads (and bodies) taxidermied and hanging on the wall, this was a bar made for them — a place where men (and the occasional woman) could come together to relax, talk about the trade, and get piss drunk. The Net was a Mecca for hunters in northwestern Minnesota, which then makes you wonder why the fuck we were there.
While one of us slaughtered a deer with a car grill and several hundred pounds of speeding metal, for the most part, none of us were hunters. We were college-age teaching interns.[2] Our purpose: Travel from the big city university to a country high school, bringing our fresh knowledge of science with us. Typically, most of our time was spent teaching biology, chemistry, or anatomy in the classroom, but occasionally, as part of our internship program, all us interns met at Itasca State Park for pedagogical training. During the day we worked, learning teaching technique or listening to professors lecture about research. At night, though, like all teachers secretly did, we partied.
One session, instead of staying back at the cabins,[3] we decided to explore what the local establishments had to offer. The locals weren’t unfamiliar with our kind. Itasca State Park is home to a well-known university research station, so there is an annual summer influx of undergraduate student researchers. However, once autumn came, the college students were gone, and a new blaze orange demographic[4] migrated into the rural countryside.
The door swung open, a group of small bells clanged, and we took a seat at the only table able to accommodate us: a larger table, close to the karaoke machine, in the middle of the joint. A pair of staring eyes accompanied every half-drank bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon sitting on the bar. These were not glares, however, but more confused looks followed by the thought, “I wonder if they are having car trouble.” While this was not home for any of us, I felt particularly out of place for one major reason: I was the only one wearing sandals. And not your basic sandal either. I was wearing the sandal equivalent of Ugg boots.[5]
For your entertainment and mine, let me indulge in a related tale. Four weeks before the events at the Net, I joined a Tae Kwan Do class and suffered some immediate setbacks to my goal of becoming a professional kick boxer. Three days into the classes, I bruised my toe doing some type of cool roundhouse kick. Not one to be discouraged by pain, after recovering, I jumped back in to practice.
Several days after I restarted my training, fate again tested my convictions as a martial artist: I demolished my other big toe, again at Tae Kwan Do. This time, I am sad to admit, I didn’t break it while performing an awe-inspiring, soaring jump kick. Actually, I was trying to kick a ball during some bizarre Tae Kwan Do ball exercise and I smashed my toe into the ground. For the few of you who are smart enough to read, but are somehow not intelligent enough to understand levels of physics even barnyard animals have mastered, foot vs. ground always results in foot’s defeat. Man may be able to destroy the Earth with nuclear weapons, global warming, or perhaps a giant drill that reaches to the core, but the Earth will never lose to a man’s foot. The spoils of my defeat: a toe so broke, so swollen, I could not fit it into shoes.
As the season was autumn and I wasn’t a hobbit, I needed a substitute shoe that could accommodate my Hulk-like digit. Something with an open toe seemed the most suitable for my condition, but the timing of my fracture was not on my side. Stores in northern Minnesota tend to be seasonal, and summery footwear is in short supply in fall. As a result, the only thing I could find that would accommodate my foot was a pair of brown women’s flip flops from Target. The ambiguous nature of brown may have saved me from some strange looks or innocent childish harassment about my choice in sandals, if not for the faux sheep’s fur insole. They were girly, which is perhaps okay if you have a broken toe and two X chromosomes, but when you are a 20-year-old boy surrounded by drunken tough guys who probably just skinned a deer in some dude’s garage, a manly steel-toed boot is preferred.
Once our table ordered their first round, the other patrons knew we were there to stay. Truthfully, where else could you go out here in the wilds of Minnesota? The six of us, three girls and three guys, started out by playing cards. In retrospect, this seems like a pretty lame thing to do, but when you are as awesome as we were, you can play cards and not be hassled. Nobody had noticed my unorthodox footwear selection, and surprisingly I wasn’t too worried. I probably would have been a lot less anxious if I were drunk (I was underage and the designated driver) but the present company made things fun and relaxing.
“That chick is pretty hot.” An unfamiliar voice interrupted my conversation with one of my friends.
I laughed. “Yeah, you should go introduce yourself,” I said jokingly to the man. In a matter of seconds, however, he did exactly that.
Soon enough, I would find out that his name was John, he was a plumber, and while he didn’t need to tell me, the blaze orange cap and vest were sufficient evidence that he was a hunter. John was a cool, confident guy, the type that a jealous person would call an arrogant bastard. He drank. A lot. But I could tell that besides his slightly slurred speech, his confidence level and personality were not affected with varying degrees of booze. The hot chick that he was referring to was my friend and co-worker, Virginia. While I wouldn’t disagree with him on the “hot” part (though I personally would have phrased it in a more sophisticated way), her real charm was her carefree and charismatic spirit. She was the kind of girl who could pull a cigarette out of a man’s mouth, lecture him on the dangers of smoking, and after it was all through, leave the guy smiling. Sure, he would light up again, but he would at least wait 20 minutes to do so.
John and Virginia soon were talking. He was being an ass, which would have been annoying if she didn’t so effortlessly put him in his place; perhaps that is what some people consider flirting. I, on the other hand, didn’t mind observing; this was comedy gold. Eventually, as if proving this mysterious band of strangers meant them no harm, his cronies came over to chat with us as well. While not nearly as cool or confident as their kingpin, they turned out to be interesting people nonetheless; one guy and I turned out to be best buddies after we discovered our shared respect for law enforcement.
Time passed and people were drinking beer and singing country songs as I dwelled on the uniqueness that was probably a usual night at this bar/off-sale liquor store in rural Minnesota. Then John and his buddies came up to me.
“Which one of these girls are you going to hit on?” John asked
I laughed at his directness. “What are you talking about?”
“There are all these girls here and you are not hitting on them.”
“Well, we work together. It would be kind of awkward.”
“What kind of shit are you talking about?”
“Plus, hitting on girls at a bar really is not my style. I am a little classier than that.”
“Fuck. You don’t know how to pick up a girl do you?”
Again I laughed. “Okay, so let’s say I am a little young and naive. How about some tips from a master?” I said jokingly.
“Okay, lesson one: simple math. Six of you came here tonight. Beat up the two guys and you have three hot chicks to yourself!”
The party continued, people got drunker and drunker, and we were letting the good times roll on at the Net. John was giving me drunken advice throughout the night about how to hit on girls, most of which was the cliché junk I can’t really imagine myself, or anyone who didn’t want to be slapped, doing. Also, from all the attention that we had garnered, I was amazed (and relieved) that no one had noticed my effeminate footwear.
Toward the end of the night, someone selected a sappy slow song from the jukebox. Old couples grinned and began swaying with each other, while lonely old drunks shed a metaphorical tear into their Buds. Virginia was talking with some of our friends. I just stood there, wishing for something a little bit more upbeat. John came up to me.
“Go dance with her.”
“With who?”
“Virginia.”
“This isn’t high school.”
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Yeah, she’s cool.”
“Can’t you tell that she is waiting for you to grab her and sweep her off her feet?”
“No, that isn’t my style.”
“Fuck. What is your style? Stop being a pussy!
“What, I just go up and ask her?”
“No, just grab her and start dancing.”
“I can’t just grab her. That just seems way too rude.”
“Girls like her won’t beg.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.”
“Look at the way she looks at you. She wants you.”
I contemplated his words. Each fading second brought me closer to some sort of redemption from this lecturing. While I believed there was chemistry between Virginia and me, I also didn’t want to ruin a good thing. We were good friends. Perhaps that is where I was always conservative like that. I had seen friendships get ruined by advances and such; I didn’t want to fall victim to the same trick.
“Come on, do it,” he said.
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I am a married man, and besides, she wants you.” He urged me on. “Do it!”
I wondered what would happen if I screwed it up.
“Get out there and do it you pussy!”
Or if she said no.
“This is your chance, man.”
Would it make everything different?
“Don’t live in regret.”
Was there really a more opportune moment to come?
“Eye of the Tiger.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on son, go out and grab her!”
And I didn’t ask. I came to her, wrapped one arm around her, and dipped her. She looked surprised, but then genuinely smiled. I can’t remember what she said to me, but I believe she called me by my full first name, the way that she endearingly used to do. The dance was simple. And even though it lasted only part of a song, and even though it was amongst crusty old chairs and ash trays, the stained glass beer chandeliers, and with a broken toe that was not yet prepared to walk, let alone dance, it was beautiful. Looking and perhaps hollering on with his two friends, John knew his mentorship had been successful. His student didn’t beat up two guys and get three girls, but he did get a dance with an incredible woman, a victory that they celebrated, of course, with beer.
************
Five years have passed since the events at the Net. While I sit here alone drinking a coffee, working as a teacher in a school and a community not so different than the one in northern Minnesota, I can’t help but think back on those days, and her, with affection; she is the one that taught me to appreciate coffee, you know. Virginia, John, the Net — I haven’t seen them in five years now. And while I don’t think that we were right for each other, I don’t regret dancing with Virginia that night; I don’t regret being less conservative than I usually was, and I don’t regret chancing it in the company of the camouflage and blaze orange patrons that night.
After all this time, I think I am finally beginning to understand the hidden truth to John’s teachings that night.[6] In five years, I have seen many important friendships come, and while they don’t necessarily end, they go. In this migratory society, the ones you play it safe with, shy from, or grab on to, more often than not, they leave you all the same; this is the unfortunate reality of growing up. But even if this is true, the memories you make with the ones you did reach out to, they aren’t generic or stale or filled with what ifs or should’ves. They are like your trophy bucks, the ones this system tried to deny you, but the ones you took back because you decided it was worth doing something crazy, like sitting in a tree stand for several hours and then taking the shot, or going out in women’s sandals. And oh man, are these memories beautiful. They sound twangy, or ache like a fractured toe, or taste of mocha. The Net is what life feels like when, to paraphrase John, you stop being a pussy and grab on. And sometimes, if you are lucky, you’ll find someone who is willing to grab back, too.
[1] When I get a flamethrower and a katana, you are on my list, Australian cane toad invasion.
[2] Side note: Being a teacher or intern teacher and a hunter are not mutually exclusive activities. However, we were generally more interested in DNA than 12-point bucks.
[3] No alcohol was allowed at the research station, which I am sure would be contested by many of the greatest scientific minds in the world.
[4] Prey for those of the blaze orange species may also include ducks, pheasants, grouse, and for the lucky few that get a permit, moose.
[5] While considered a hearty winter boot by some, they are most often worn by (slutty) girls in miniskirts.
[6] And even if John believed their use was only for trying to score with chicks, the hidden truth is real nonetheless.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The Greatest Story Ever Told Ever
It’s dark. I am panting. However, I know I shouldn’t. Panting is for dogs. And the walking dead. Shadows conceal us, but they can never be trusted. If rays of moonshine from behind a cloud or the light of a motion sensor intervene, the darkness will abandon you. What is worse out here amongst the dark and the eyes: the enemy you can trust, or the friend you cannot?
For now we are okay. Our enemies forget what it is like to be small and young. They don’t check for us everywhere; they don’t think we can hide behind the air conditioner. The longer we hide, though, the more powerful they become, and the more likely I will die, or worse, become one of them. Finally, an opportunity arises. The plan is risky, but the gamble is a calculated bet with a splash of divine intervention that loads the dice. This is the plan of legends, the type that turns peasants into heroes, heroes into legends, and makes the heavens envy man, if only for a brief moment. In a few minutes, our fate will be decided. As people shout names of our friends, we will soon be amongst the dead or will stand proudly on base, the winner of another night’s game of olly olly oxen free.
Hiding games like “hide-and-go-seek” and “olly olly oxen free” are perfect for children.[1] First, children are small, agile, and as a result of being mostly cartilage and having more bones than adults, they can hide and contort themselves into seemingly impossible shapes. Most kids like to hide, too. Perhaps hiding’s appeal stems from a vestigial instinct from our primitive ancestors (e.g. little prehistoric kids’ adaptation for hiding from saber-toothed cats and other carnivorous organisms), but regardless, this trait makes kids kickass hiders. The beauty of hiding games is their sheer simplicity. First, hiding games can be played everywhere.[2]Also, to paraphrase a great scholar, hiding games are “cheap as free.” Even Milton Bradley won’t attempt to box and market it; there is nothing to buy. The poor and the rich are true equals in the realm of hiding games. However, the trait that defines hiding games as the ultimate childhood activity is this: Everyone has at least one glory story. For some, this is a tale of how they hid in a pile of leaves for an hour, or how they scaled a roof to dangerously reach a goal their parents would not have approved of if there was adult supervision. There are as many ways to win as there are kids. For one glorious game in our youths, we were the kings and queens of hide-and-go-seek. Each child has his own story.
Not to brag, but my tale of glory rivals the ingenuity of that kid from The Shining,[3] though my story involves significantly fewer bleeding elevators. Let me set the scene. The location is a small suburban town during a summer night in 1991 or 1992. The only reason that I can be specific with the year is because the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles happened to be at the height of their popularity, and in response, I was wearing a black T-shirt with a neon Ninja Turtles screen print. That night, like many warm, not-so-late summer nights (my bedtime was well before 10:30 back then), the neighborhood boys all met up to play a hiding game called olly olly oxen free. We usually went to one particular neighbor kid’s house up the street for one reason only: He had the best backyard — dark, lots of trees and bushes, and connected with several other people’s backyards. My house was not an option, since our family had an unscalable six-foot-high wooden fence surrounding the perimeter of our backyard, a small Great Wall of Minnesota if you will. Good for protecting our home from invading Mongols, but bad for olly olly oxen free.
Before each night began, we always met to discuss the rules. In retrospect, these discussions were pointless. As kids, rules added an official feel to each game. This wasn’t simply a game of pretend; this was an intense competition. In a similar vein as those pregame meetings, I will describe the basic rules of that night’s game as a refresher for those of you who haven’t been a kid for a while, and because of the many existing regional variants[4] of olly olly oxen free.
As usual, there are two sides, the hiders and seekers. The seekers range from two to four people; the remaining kids, hide. The object of the game varies depending which side you are on. If you are a seeker, find the hiders and tag them; if you are a hider, get to “base.” Base, much like obtaining the Triforce in the video game Legend of Zelda, is the only way to truly win the game. But unlike the Legend of Zelda, base was not nearly as magical as a floating golden triangle; rather, it usually was something like a pole or a car. Oh, and of course, though this rule is a given, seekers could not “guard base.”[5]
The rules were straightforward that night, too. The host of the game decided his deck would be base. I preferred the tree; its 360-degree radial symmetry afforded easy access to victory from any angle. The deck base was more cumbersome to reach. A hider had to take a single set of stairs located in a conspicuous location, or climb over railings; either way I knew I could make do. The rules were like every other night’s rules, with one exception. To remove a hider from play, a seeker only needed to see you and shout your name.
This last-minute rules modification posed a serious handicap for me and the hiders. No longer could I rely simply on my ability to dart between bushes and nimbly leap over chain-link fences to escape my predators, as in games past. Achieving victory would require much more. There was no objection to the new rule, though; we just wanted to play. We divided into hiders and seekers. I was a hider. The seekers closed their eyes and dreaded countdown began. We fled.
The hiders left in a group. This pack mentality is how the first seconds of our games always started out. This group mentality is an effective strategy for prey animals like zebras and sardines. However, children are devils. They are not loyal like our animal brethren. Besides, packs mentality may work well in the Serengeti, but we were a different type of prey. We continued to run. None of us were counting, but we knew with each footstep we took, both sides were a few more counts closer to the beginning of the hunt.
We reached the opposite side of a house, and quickly, bodies began creeping into various hiding places. Some moved toward the coverage of dense foliage, wedging themselves within the branches and leaves, others to the shadows. However, not every bond was broken. Partnerships hold potential. In this case, a boy, whose house was in front of the water tower, and I team up. We move toward those veiled open spaces. A hider must constantly debate between visibility and flexibility. Hiding in bushes, under cars, or in old boats provides the best cover, but at the price of mobility. The consequences of discovery are high in those places, capture is inevitable. However, while detection is easier for those hiding in the shadows of trees and houses, escape for the hider is easier as well. Since we were both the same age, size, and speed, we preferred the shadows. Unlike the others, we could always rely on our speed to save us.
But perhaps, not in today’s game. In traditional olly olly oxen free, we could use our combined agility and tactics to outwit an indecisive seeker. More often than not, the person with too many choices will choose none at all. We sat silently. And we heard the names. I, for the life of me, can’t remember those names, but I remember the cringe, the little drops of cold sweat on my brow. Each name heard was a lost comrade, a fellow lost to the voice of the seekers, tagged out by sound. We waited. The two of us were young, but too mature to act hastily. We knew we couldn’t hide forever, though. Even if we could, we both wanted to get to the base. A stalemate was the true mark of a kid who never lived.
Another minute went by. From the beginning, I knew I was at a disadvantage that night for one reason: Ninja Turtles. While I believed that the faces of Leonardo, Michelangelo, Donatello, and Raphael enhanced my strength and agility,[6] none of these provided the camouflage I desired. If exposed, my neon-print Ninja Turtles shirt would make me instantly recognizable. We sat pondering. The stars came out, but the sky became darker and darker. I refused to believe Ninja Turtles could ever betray me. They always won. They were ninjas and the good guys, after all. If countless episodes of their cartoon taught me anything, it was that pizza was king, “cowabunga” was the greatest catchphrase ever, and you could wear bright-colored bandanas and have shells equivalently as bulky canoeing backpacks and still be the stealthiest ninjas the world has never known.
I cannot recall exactly when, but at some moment of heavenly inspiration, I channeled the fictional cosmic energy of either Donatello, Raphael, or a combination of the two. Perhaps they could help me win. Donatello was indeed the smartest ninja turtle. He was a strategist. While the others would try to beat the enemy with force, he usually devised a plan to outwit the enemy, (typically with machines[7]). Raphael was cool and rude, but also a straight shooter. When he wanted to go out on the streets in the 1990 film Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, he didn’t get intimidated by the fact that he was a giant green mutant in a half-shell. He put on a trench coat and went incognito. The power of Leonardo or the groovy moves of Michelangelo wouldn’t win this game. A Raph and Donny mindset could, though.
Still entrenched in shadows with my mentors in mind, I discovered the ultimate strategy: I would become someone else. Speed and anonymity were the ultimate defense. If they didn’t know my name, my opponents’ weapons were useless. However, I couldn’t be a stranger. I needed to be someone they knew. At this point, I realized the great temporary sacrifice necessary to win, but I believed (and still do to this day) that my Japanese reptilian guides understood. I took off my shirt and told the boy to give me his.[8] Like Raph becoming your average Noir-looking detective in 1990s New York, my friend would be my disguise and his disguise would be me.
Next, we crept from the darkness. While we were fast, we could still be caught by the quick, older boys. With the logic of Donny, we decided to stalk the seekers. Finding them was easy, but staying hidden took skill. We had disguises, but we couldn’t reveal ourselves too quickly. Instead we found a point at which we were far enough away so they could see our shirts, but not our faces.
We planted ourselves in position. I stood out in the open with my back to them. My friend hid. The plan wouldn’t work if we were together. If they saw both of us and shouted both our names, the disguises wouldn’t matter; it was vital that only one person was spotted. Soon the seekers came. And soon they saw me. I sprinted and they chased while shouting a name.
“John!”
Their words were not my name.
“John, John, John.”
They kept shouting that name over and over and over. As I ran, my friends slipped behind them a reached the base.
“John!”
The seekers, in their hubris, kept chasing me. Perhaps, they wanted to catch me, tackle me, and hold me down until I confessed to cheating.
“John!”
I ran though. The loophole would soon be exposed. I ran past an oak tree, between a white truck and a basketball hoop.
“John!”
Then down a grassy hill alley. I wouldn’t stop to reveal the genius of my reversal, my great doppelganger foil.
“John!”
Finally, I ducked around the corner of the house. The deck was in sight. And no one was around except for a few of the captured, and my friend. As I stepped onto the varnished wooden steps of victory, I was greeted by four other familiar neon-printed faces. From that day on, I knew at least two things to be true, in my heart: This would go down as the greatest game of olly olly oxen free ever, and what I always suspiciously knew was confirmed true — Ninja Turtles could do anything.
[1] Perhaps barring those with physical impairments, though I won’t put anything past them; they often have mad skills.
[2] Except perhaps the vacuum of space, but with no air there, kids would have more to worry about than lack of places to hide.
[3] Spoiler Alert: The little boy in “The Shining” finally escapes a crazy (more so than usual), ax- wielding Jack Nicholson by walking backwards in his own snowy footprints and then hiding. Jack follows his tracks only to find that they just stop, and the kid is nowhere in sight. The kid escapes while Jack gets confused and goes crazier; Jack freezes to death in his madness.
[4] While I have not written a thesis on the evolution and regional diversification of hiding games throughout the continental United States, I encourage someone to do so. That would make for one hell of Ph.D. defense.
[5] Duh.
[6] Just like racing stripes make any car faster.
[7] As the theme song says, “Donatello does machines.”
[8] Of course his shirt was 50 times less cool than my Ninja Turtles shirt since his shirt was not a Ninja Turtles shirt.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
About Kuehl
Matt Kuehl is your typical brown-hair, blue-eyed boy that has been endowed with the soul of Charles Bronson. As two souls sharing one body, Matt and Charlie travel the world solving maladies and conundrums the only way they know how: through vigilantism, writing, and a sock filled with quarters. Matt Kuehl is an original co-founder of the University of Minnesota's Premiere Podcast, The Proofread; he currently resides in northern Japan where he teaches the youth to "stick it to the man", English style.
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