My bosses gave me the option to fly down to Sarasota to work half of a tractor commercial shoot for John Deere. Having come off a very stressful fashion show and even more stressful dealings with women I was game. The catch was I was going to have to drive back with all the gear through the south. A bloody mess of red states. I agreed. I figured at worst I would just reverse Sherman's march to the sea and burn the south on my way home.
The shoot was all right. I did as little as I could and talked up the cutest Venezuelan tractor operator that ever lived. My bosses, a married couple of extreme dysfunction, dragged the shoot out and me and my co-worker John didn't get on the road till three in the afternoon.
I used to describe John as an old hippie but he had convinced me otherwise. See John would consider himself a "freak" of the sixties. Which is to say that he partook in the drugs and sex but really didn't stand for too much. He continued to eat meat and never cared much for recycling. John's the same age as my father. A pure Irish man and encyclopedia of knowledge ranging from dark ages history to personal growth psychology. I figured we would have a decent time.
We pulled out of Sarasota by three. As we moved along the highway and the sun sank into the western sky it became apparent that our trailer lights were not working.
"God damn it. Fuck. Shit!" John complained.
"Hey relax man," I replied. "Let's just stop in Gainesville."
"I know what you're up to," John replied.
"What do you mean?"
"You just want to get us stuck in some college town so you can get laid."
"Nah."
"Oh yeah. I know how you operate."
"All right, you've got me."
We pulled into a gas station and I found the nearest U-Haul center. It was seven miles down the road; right through the heart of the university. We took the mess down there and after some poking and prodding the guys got the trailer figured out.
When we returned to the freeway, we searched for a decent dinner. We settled on a Japanese steakhouse. One of those kinds where the chef does s big show in front you while you drink and wait for him to stop spinning eggs on his knives.
After dinner we went back to the hotel and drank the rest of his girl friend's vodka. He lectured me on my generation's apathy towards politics and fingered me to write some sort of "Times They Are A Changin''" album and inspire my peers to take the country back. I've always wanted to be Bob Dylan, so I agreed.
After John went to bed I walked down to the lobby and ordered up a cab. After a good half-hour of lying on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes, my ride to the heart of the University of Florida party strip arrived.
Having visited many college campuses around the country while traveling for work, I've learned they are pretty tough crowds to break into. I mean, everyone wants to meet that someone and get laid but they end up sticking with the safety guys they know. You are better off stumbling off the freeway into a chain bar and grill and picking up the waitresses.
But this is what I had to work with. So I went to the Salty Dog, sat down and ordered up cheap beer and nursed cigarettes.
A couple girls came up to me and asked me why I looked so sad. I really wasn't sad, but I'd gotten down that Dylan scowl so well that it seemed to draw them out. I'd asked each of the girls what the area code was here so they would understand that I wasn't from around here. It was a good conversation starter that established me as a stranger to their town.
While I was at the bar a tall blonde stood next to me with what appeared to be some sort of half boyfriend. He was dead ringer for Sean Penn. Nose and face although he had a shaved head and an alligator polo shirt. More of an anti-Penn. I mean he grabbed her hip in desperation but she couldn't fully commit herself t his attention. She seemed to be quite interested in me. She and her boyfriend were with a gorgeous Philippine girl and an average Floridian putz.
I continued to work my beer and kept to myself. The blonde girl and I shared an ashtray. She leaned over to me and began talking.
"What's your name. What are you studying?"
"Human nature." I replied. Then I told her my name.
"Hi. I'm Lauren. Are you in school?"
"Nah, I was shooting a tractor commercial down in Sarasota and am on my way back home."
"Wow. That must be fun."
"Oh yeah."
"I've always wanted to be an actress," blah, blah, blah she continued.
"Great. So I suppose you go to school here?"
"Yeah," Penn was eyeing me.
"What are you studying?" I smiled at Penn.
"Anthropology." I thought of my best friend, long gone, who was into the same thing.
"But my mother is going to make me go to law school." She added.
"Do you want to go to law school?"
"No. But you've got to please the people that pay your way."
"I guess."
"Yeah I know."
"Fuck law school. You should do your own thing. I mean my brother went through law school and it completely changed him. He ended up voting for Bush."
"I voted for Bush," she admitted.
"Why on earth would you do that?" She went into a long speech on changing presidents during war. I asked her about a president who got us into a fucked up war and she refuted. I told her we shouldn't talk about politics and she agreed. A booth in the bar opened up and she invited me over.
So the four of them; Lauren the blonde, Sean Penn the boyfriend, Kirby the Philippine goddess and Nick, the guy filling out a double date. I sat on a stool that intruded on the general bar bath toward the bathroom. Not a great seat but at least I'd rounded up some company.
Kirby asked me many questions and was somehow impressed by my working on tractor commercials. I played along and the evening seemed to be going well. Sean Penn, like all morons got so hungry that he had to leave and get a sandwich. I say never interrupt a night of drinking with food. It just slows you down. While he was gone I sat in the booth next to his girlfriend. When he returned I gladly gave up my seat to him and returned to the stool.
Lauren and Kirby continued bombarding me with questions.
"You must make a lot of money?"
"Oh yeah."
"Must be fun and exciting?"
"Oh yeah."
"I wish I could do something like that. Instead I'm going to sell stocks."
"Terrible, terrible. You should give it up. Get into the pictures like the rest of us."
Eventually Kirby complained that she had to go to the bathroom. The bar had turned into a mob and I offered to take her there. Sbe followed. On the way back from the bathroom I saw Nick the putz headed for the bathroom. I gave him a brotherly nod and wished him luck.
Back at the table I took Nick's seat and got up next to Kirby. She looked like a young Catherine Zeta-Jones and I was smitten. Sean Penn sat across from me. He leaned across the table and spoke.
"You should get up." He said with conviction.
"Why?" I replied.
"That's Nick's seat."
"Yeah but Nick is in the bathroom. I've seen that line. He won't be out for like twenty minutes."
"You need to get up now!"
"I'll give him his seat back when he returns. Don't worry."
"You don't understand. You need to leave now."
"What, the bar?"
"Yeah."
"Why man? I don't get it?"
"Cause I don't like you and you're a faggot!" The girls at the table began to try to calm him down. I meditated on the precise way he called me a faggot. Granted I was dressed a little strange. I wore a navy blue "Olive Twist" orphan hat and a Gun's n' Roses T-shirt but I was hardly a faggot. See he was really upset at the interest his girl friend had in me. What really caught me by surprise was that I'd been working on the Philippine girl all night.
"Hey man. Where is all this hostility coming from? I've got no problems with you. I don't see why you're pulling this on me."
Sean Penn got up and said, "I'm leaving." I laughed. His girlfriend followed him out the door. Kirby leaned into me.
"Maybe you should go. I'm really sorry but he gets like this." I defended myself in vain and explained I hadn't done anything. It didn't matter. The situation was already fucked. Lauren came back.
"You should leave. I'm sorry. He's going to kick your ass?"
"Kick my ass? I doubt it."
"Trust me, please leave. I'm so sorry. He gets like this.
Nick returned and I offered him my seat. He didn't want it.
"What's up?" asked Nick.
"He's acting like an idiot."
"As usual." I knew this guy had to be put in his place. There was a moment of silence and everyone looked at me.
"Shit okay." I got up took the pitcher of beer and moved to the pool table. Drunks were sprawled out on top of it. I leaned against a corner pocket and finished all the beer.
I had to drive the next morning so I decided to give up on the evening. As headed out of the bar I notice Sean Penn glaring at me. He felt he had won and maybe he did. That burned me.
As I passed him I couldn't help but pause. I thought about how Lauren told me to leave because if I stuck around I would get my ass kicked. I wasn't into that idea. So in my prolonged moment of thought about my place and existence on this planet I got an urge.
I stopped and elbowed Sean Penn in the back of the head. He fell forward and then got up and faced me. The girls were stunned.
"Sean Penn you ain't!" I called out with a southern accent.
"You and me outside! Now!"
"Bring it on," I did my best George Bush. I turned and quickly headed out the door pushing through the hoochies and frat boys. When I got out the door I immediately sidestepped to the left so he couldn't see me right away when he came out.
When he did come out he looked around unsure. He turned towards me, probably still not seeing me and I popped him with a right jab to that drooping Sean Penn nose. He fell back into a crowd of girls all talking on their cell phones. They screamed and I ran. I'd kept the taxi's number and dialed once I got buried into a sea of people at an intersection.
After milling around and considering making a go of the evening, I gave up and got in the taxi. I told my story to the cabby and he told me about his battle against the man over a thirteen dollar parking ticket.
At the hotel I vomited cheap beer and Japanese steak. When I awoke the next morning my head was heavy but I thought, "At least I'm leaving Gainesville."
Gainesville
great story
well told; interesting plot; a descriptive and entertaining slice-of-life piece. satisfying too, just like some of mc's stories.
in my life of course guys like your sean penn are experienced fighters who never fail to kick my ass, but of course this story is about you and not about me.
the story is about the south too, which will annoy myke, not without justification. i think your attitude towards the south is arrogant and unfair but understandable, similar to the radical and unconstructive but factually justifiable
http://www.fuckthesouth.com/
in my life of course guys like your sean penn are experienced fighters who never fail to kick my ass, but of course this story is about you and not about me.
the story is about the south too, which will annoy myke, not without justification. i think your attitude towards the south is arrogant and unfair but understandable, similar to the radical and unconstructive but factually justifiable
http://www.fuckthesouth.com/
-
sara
BF Jake, you've inspired me. And I do really like the story it's great -- but Martino is right, Sean Penn types do win in fist fights.
Leave it To Beavers
“They have hamburgers the size of trashcan lids,� Pete said, impressing me with both his original metaphor and his lack of pretense.
My father, who is retired, had asked Pete, the shuttle driver, where we could go for dinner.
“It's a gold mine,â€? he said of the Creeper Café. “I mean, you could drive into Abbingdon for an overpriced meal, but why would you want to?â€?
Good question, Pete, I thought.
We were spending the weekend in Damascus, Virginia at the Green Cove Inn. The inn is a converted school house on “the mountain� as the locals call it; it's known to the less knowledgeable as White Top Mountain. We'd missed the peak of the leaves season. In early October, my boyfriend and I had been busy driving around the South and attempting to rally support locally for Kerry. At that point in time, we could not have cared less about the peak of any season in backwater Virginia.
But my mom went ahead and made the reservation for the first weekend in November anyway. She was worried about me, so was my boyfriend and dad. They thought that I was having a nervous breakdown, and I sort of went ahead and confirmed their fears when I walked into work one morning, disheveled and strung out, handed my keys to the janitor, and said, “I quit.�
I returned three days later because my boss is nicer than most human beings should be and wrote my three day absence down as sick leave. It's strange how resignation works. He wouldn't accept mine until I talked to him, so I went back to work.
Where does a nervous breakdown begin? I don't know. I know where one ends though.
My dad drives like a maniac, and I can't smoke in his car. I mean, I probably could smoke in his car. He is that gracious, but I'm not that bratty. So usually when I go on trips with him and my mom, I drive separately. But on the phone Thursday night, my mom said, “You're going to ride with us, right? It'll be fun, hugh?�
And I said, “Okay. It will be fun.�
I have quite a few fabulous childhood memories, but one of my all time favorites is of a trip we took to Lover's Leap and beyond.
I was ten years old, my brother twelve. We both had matching afros – this was something that our mother had allowed us to do – I think we asked for it. I refuse to look at any pictures from that trip because we were quite possibly going through our “ugliest kids on the planetâ€? phase. I rely on my memories to gussy us up and the pictures, oh, god, no!
It was late fall, and the day was grey. We had driven around the curves of the Jeb Stuart Highway without incident. Actually, there were incidents.
One involved me combing my fingers through my dad's hair. It is silky, like mine is when I'm not trying to be something I'm not. As much as my dad had enjoyed it, I think I enjoyed it more. It was the moment that I realized that he and I had something in common, something that made us different from my mom and brother who have dense, dark thickets covering their heads, naturally. Our hair, mine and my dad's, was just between us.
Another incident, is more appropriately called a battle, and not the Battle of Bull Run, which we had learned about on some other trip earlier in our fall, this one occurred on the plush, valor back-seat of the sedan. It was the Battle of Back Seat Space, a silent and fierce conflict fought behind our enemies' heads. They sat listening to Don McClean singing about Vincent Van Gogh and depriving us of KISS. We were angry and we took it out on each other. Sock-footed and long-legged, we quietly jabbed thighs, pinched biceps, and bent back fingers until we were too tired to struggle and fell asleep drooling on each other, a tangled heap of sibling compromise.
When I awoke, I looked out of the window and noticed that we were somewhere else in Virginia that I ‘d never seen. The trees were black against the colorless sky. We passed farmhouses whose stone chimneys pushed out ribbons of smoke. Grey outcroppings of limestone dotted the fields, and I opened my copy of Hound of the Baskervilles and read about the lonely moors until the daylight completely faded.
My brother was unable to come with us on our trip to Damascus. Wishing us well, he told my mom, “It's going to be freezing cold anyway.�
He's usually right about everything, which is endearing and annoying at the same time. It was in the mid-sixties all weekend, anyway.
Pete and his boys loaded our bikes along with those chosen by the fifteen other tourists who were ready to earn bragging rights for biking a seventeen mile trek. None of us were planning to mention that it was all down hill.
We traveled up the mountain passing the waxy leaves of hundreds of rhododendrons. I was surprised to see them because I'd only seen this type of plant in nurseries. It had never occurred to me, I don't know why, that they grew out “there� somewhere, all on their own. My father, who in retirement has become quite the horticulturalist, explained that the explorers who had first come to this part of Virginia called them “the hells� because that was what it was like trying to get through them.
Marianne, who is a special ed teacher from Tennessee here on retreat with her church group, said that she could only imagine how beautiful they are in the spring.
I liked Marianne, maybe because she taught special ed, but I don't think so. It wasn't the church thing either. It was her toothy, infectious grin and her desire to share with Vicky, the fried-blonde sour puss in front of us, where to go to get the best coffee. Evidentially, Marianne skipped the unit on adjectives because “best� applied to at least five different coffee shops in and about Bristol. I liked her most for that.
Vicky frowned and fought the fun, coffee-loving Marianne with every medical reason for refraining from caffeine and sugar – something about cholesterol. I jumped in asking Vicky if she worked in the medical profession.
“No, I'm a substitute teacher. My husband sells ad-space. He'd give himself a heart attack if I let him.�
Marianne was intrigued and turned her attention to Douglas to find out exactly what “selling-ad space� meant.
I turned my attention to the window. My boyfriend was photographing the bicycle rack as it bounced along behind us on the windy road.
When we reached the top of the Virginia Creeper trail, we unloaded the bikes. I rolled up the bottoms of my jeans and hopped on the seat of my bicycle. We were in the sunlight, and I felt warm and comfortable.
My boyfriend looked at my bare ankles. I was wearing sneakers and no socks. He frowned. It was a knowing frown.
“Where are your socks?�
“I don't need them. It's warm.�
Pointing at the opening of the path, which was lined with pine trees and conifers, he said, “Sweetheart, it's going to be at least ten degrees cooler in there.�
I shrugged and road as fast as I could toward the opening.
We biked for about a half hour and then stopped to take pictures of the bridge that connected two sides of a gorge. My ears had gotten cold despite the fact that I had let my hair down. My boyfriend took off his stocking cap and gave it to me.
He pointed at the debris that lay in the river bottom, and then at the metal cables attached to the bridge. The cables were fastened to rocks on the bank.
“That's so the bridge won't wash away again.�
I really did not see the point, but I had passed physics with a “D� only because my lab partner knew how to fake data.
My boyfriend, never a faker, could explain the principles without being taught physics. His grandpa had built a portion of the power lines that ran through the foothills of the Appalachians, so knowing why cables were necessary were part of his family's tradition.
We rode on for another hour or so and decided to take a break in the grass near an old farm house. We lay down and let the sun warm our faces.
“Are you cold?� my boyfriend asked.
“Just a little bit.�
“What's cold?�
“My nose and neck.�
“I could tell. Your nose looks like a gin blossom.�
“Gee, thanks.�
He leaned over and kissed it, “It's cute.�
I rolled over and put my head on his tummy. We cuddled and listened to the sound of the other bikes rolling over the gravel path in front of us.
I raised up once to see a basset hound on the front porch of the house staring at the cyclists. I looked back and forth between the dog and the people and then settled my eyes on one lady. She was on a cell phone. I thought about her for a moment. My brain began with its line of questioning, How does she get service out here? My boyfriend rubbed my back, and I laid down and thought about nothing.
A few minutes later we were back on our bikes and passing a marsh. The water had risen so high on one side of the trail that only the top of the barbed wire fence was visible. We got off of the bikes to explore. On the other side of the path was a downed cherry tree. My boyfriend pointed to the indentions that were near the center of the break.
“A beaver's responsible for that,� he explained. “And he's a tough bastard.�
“What do you mean?�
“This tree is hard wood, and it's fairly thick.� He picked up another piece of wood that had the same marks. Running his finger across them, he said, “These are from his teeth. It's taken a hell of a lot of work to get this tree down.�
I was fascinated. I remembered a film that I had been forced to watch in elementary school. It was made in the early 60's and shown to us on a reel. The film was accompanied by a record that the teacher had to stop or flip when the appropriate tone sounded. Because we were in an “economically depressedâ€? area, we had watched all films this way. This one, dated and grainy as it was, made a huge impression on me. It was about the changing seasons, and the nuclear family was in a lot of scenes. I guess to give the “factsâ€? of nature a nice sociological setting. Like I said, it was made in the 60's when strange psychology was testing its theories all over the place. The nuclear family lodged in my brain instead of the facts of nature – good job.
Throughout my adolescence I thought that at some point I would turn into an adult and presto! There'd be the world of early 60's suburbia – it hasn't happened yet.
There was a beaver who built a dam in the film, and I'm sure an implicit lesson about industry or something like that. And here I stood on a bike path with my partner, nearing thirty with not even half a nuclear family, and we were more like Father Knows Best than June and Ward, but there we were staring at evidence that some things from that film do exist.
Leave it To Beavers
“They have hamburgers the size of trashcan lids,� Pete said, impressing me with both his original metaphor and his lack of pretense.
My father, who is retired, had asked Pete, the shuttle driver, where we could go for dinner.
“It's a gold mine,â€? he said of the Creeper Café. “I mean, you could drive into Abbingdon for an overpriced meal, but why would you want to?â€?
Good question, Pete, I thought.
We were spending the weekend in Damascus, Virginia at the Green Cove Inn. The inn is a converted school house on “the mountain� as the locals call it; it's known to the less knowledgeable as White Top Mountain. We'd missed the peak of the leaves season. In early October, my boyfriend and I had been busy driving around the South and attempting to rally support locally for Kerry. At that point in time, we could not have cared less about the peak of any season in backwater Virginia.
But my mom went ahead and made the reservation for the first weekend in November anyway. She was worried about me, so was my boyfriend and dad. They thought that I was having a nervous breakdown, and I sort of went ahead and confirmed their fears when I walked into work one morning, disheveled and strung out, handed my keys to the janitor, and said, “I quit.�
I returned three days later because my boss is nicer than most human beings should be and wrote my three day absence down as sick leave. It's strange how resignation works. He wouldn't accept mine until I talked to him, so I went back to work.
Where does a nervous breakdown begin? I don't know. I know where one ends though.
My dad drives like a maniac, and I can't smoke in his car. I mean, I probably could smoke in his car. He is that gracious, but I'm not that bratty. So usually when I go on trips with him and my mom, I drive separately. But on the phone Thursday night, my mom said, “You're going to ride with us, right? It'll be fun, hugh?�
And I said, “Okay. It will be fun.�
I have quite a few fabulous childhood memories, but one of my all time favorites is of a trip we took to Lover's Leap and beyond.
I was ten years old, my brother twelve. We both had matching afros – this was something that our mother had allowed us to do – I think we asked for it. I refuse to look at any pictures from that trip because we were quite possibly going through our “ugliest kids on the planetâ€? phase. I rely on my memories to gussy us up and the pictures, oh, god, no!
It was late fall, and the day was grey. We had driven around the curves of the Jeb Stuart Highway without incident. Actually, there were incidents.
One involved me combing my fingers through my dad's hair. It is silky, like mine is when I'm not trying to be something I'm not. As much as my dad had enjoyed it, I think I enjoyed it more. It was the moment that I realized that he and I had something in common, something that made us different from my mom and brother who have dense, dark thickets covering their heads, naturally. Our hair, mine and my dad's, was just between us.
Another incident, is more appropriately called a battle, and not the Battle of Bull Run, which we had learned about on some other trip earlier in our fall, this one occurred on the plush, valor back-seat of the sedan. It was the Battle of Back Seat Space, a silent and fierce conflict fought behind our enemies' heads. They sat listening to Don McClean singing about Vincent Van Gogh and depriving us of KISS. We were angry and we took it out on each other. Sock-footed and long-legged, we quietly jabbed thighs, pinched biceps, and bent back fingers until we were too tired to struggle and fell asleep drooling on each other, a tangled heap of sibling compromise.
When I awoke, I looked out of the window and noticed that we were somewhere else in Virginia that I ‘d never seen. The trees were black against the colorless sky. We passed farmhouses whose stone chimneys pushed out ribbons of smoke. Grey outcroppings of limestone dotted the fields, and I opened my copy of Hound of the Baskervilles and read about the lonely moors until the daylight completely faded.
My brother was unable to come with us on our trip to Damascus. Wishing us well, he told my mom, “It's going to be freezing cold anyway.�
He's usually right about everything, which is endearing and annoying at the same time. It was in the mid-sixties all weekend, anyway.
Pete and his boys loaded our bikes along with those chosen by the fifteen other tourists who were ready to earn bragging rights for biking a seventeen mile trek. None of us were planning to mention that it was all down hill.
We traveled up the mountain passing the waxy leaves of hundreds of rhododendrons. I was surprised to see them because I'd only seen this type of plant in nurseries. It had never occurred to me, I don't know why, that they grew out “there� somewhere, all on their own. My father, who in retirement has become quite the horticulturalist, explained that the explorers who had first come to this part of Virginia called them “the hells� because that was what it was like trying to get through them.
Marianne, who is a special ed teacher from Tennessee here on retreat with her church group, said that she could only imagine how beautiful they are in the spring.
I liked Marianne, maybe because she taught special ed, but I don't think so. It wasn't the church thing either. It was her toothy, infectious grin and her desire to share with Vicky, the fried-blonde sour puss in front of us, where to go to get the best coffee. Evidentially, Marianne skipped the unit on adjectives because “best� applied to at least five different coffee shops in and about Bristol. I liked her most for that.
Vicky frowned and fought the fun, coffee-loving Marianne with every medical reason for refraining from caffeine and sugar – something about cholesterol. I jumped in asking Vicky if she worked in the medical profession.
“No, I'm a substitute teacher. My husband sells ad-space. He'd give himself a heart attack if I let him.�
Marianne was intrigued and turned her attention to Douglas to find out exactly what “selling-ad space� meant.
I turned my attention to the window. My boyfriend was photographing the bicycle rack as it bounced along behind us on the windy road.
When we reached the top of the Virginia Creeper trail, we unloaded the bikes. I rolled up the bottoms of my jeans and hopped on the seat of my bicycle. We were in the sunlight, and I felt warm and comfortable.
My boyfriend looked at my bare ankles. I was wearing sneakers and no socks. He frowned. It was a knowing frown.
“Where are your socks?�
“I don't need them. It's warm.�
Pointing at the opening of the path, which was lined with pine trees and conifers, he said, “Sweetheart, it's going to be at least ten degrees cooler in there.�
I shrugged and road as fast as I could toward the opening.
We biked for about a half hour and then stopped to take pictures of the bridge that connected two sides of a gorge. My ears had gotten cold despite the fact that I had let my hair down. My boyfriend took off his stocking cap and gave it to me.
He pointed at the debris that lay in the river bottom, and then at the metal cables attached to the bridge. The cables were fastened to rocks on the bank.
“That's so the bridge won't wash away again.�
I really did not see the point, but I had passed physics with a “D� only because my lab partner knew how to fake data.
My boyfriend, never a faker, could explain the principles without being taught physics. His grandpa had built a portion of the power lines that ran through the foothills of the Appalachians, so knowing why cables were necessary were part of his family's tradition.
We rode on for another hour or so and decided to take a break in the grass near an old farm house. We lay down and let the sun warm our faces.
“Are you cold?� my boyfriend asked.
“Just a little bit.�
“What's cold?�
“My nose and neck.�
“I could tell. Your nose looks like a gin blossom.�
“Gee, thanks.�
He leaned over and kissed it, “It's cute.�
I rolled over and put my head on his tummy. We cuddled and listened to the sound of the other bikes rolling over the gravel path in front of us.
I raised up once to see a basset hound on the front porch of the house staring at the cyclists. I looked back and forth between the dog and the people and then settled my eyes on one lady. She was on a cell phone. I thought about her for a moment. My brain began with its line of questioning, How does she get service out here? My boyfriend rubbed my back, and I laid down and thought about nothing.
A few minutes later we were back on our bikes and passing a marsh. The water had risen so high on one side of the trail that only the top of the barbed wire fence was visible. We got off of the bikes to explore. On the other side of the path was a downed cherry tree. My boyfriend pointed to the indentions that were near the center of the break.
“A beaver's responsible for that,� he explained. “And he's a tough bastard.�
“What do you mean?�
“This tree is hard wood, and it's fairly thick.� He picked up another piece of wood that had the same marks. Running his finger across them, he said, “These are from his teeth. It's taken a hell of a lot of work to get this tree down.�
I was fascinated. I remembered a film that I had been forced to watch in elementary school. It was made in the early 60's and shown to us on a reel. The film was accompanied by a record that the teacher had to stop or flip when the appropriate tone sounded. Because we were in an “economically depressedâ€? area, we had watched all films this way. This one, dated and grainy as it was, made a huge impression on me. It was about the changing seasons, and the nuclear family was in a lot of scenes. I guess to give the “factsâ€? of nature a nice sociological setting. Like I said, it was made in the 60's when strange psychology was testing its theories all over the place. The nuclear family lodged in my brain instead of the facts of nature – good job.
Throughout my adolescence I thought that at some point I would turn into an adult and presto! There'd be the world of early 60's suburbia – it hasn't happened yet.
There was a beaver who built a dam in the film, and I'm sure an implicit lesson about industry or something like that. And here I stood on a bike path with my partner, nearing thirty with not even half a nuclear family, and we were more like Father Knows Best than June and Ward, but there we were staring at evidence that some things from that film do exist.
-
TragicPixie
- Mile High Club
- Posts: 831
- Joined: Tue Jan 27, 2004 4:19 am
- Location: St. Louis, MO
- Contact:
They don't win if they're drunk. I've never been in a barfight, but as McC and Sloth can attest, I always talk about wanting to get in one when I'm pissed. I hope if I ever do get in one that it's the beginning of the evening, rather than the end, because I'm more likely to come out on top if it's early.
I think if there ever is a Pax convention, a bar brawl is a must. Us against them, whoever "them" is. I'd love to watch Tommy throw a few rugby head butts around while McC and Sloth suck down everyone's drinks.
Mark would be throwing records like Chinese stars (nothing worthwhile, of course), Pixie would flash her tits at the bad guys to distract them, and Me and Jake would hit them while Tom scares off the remainder with his physique and freakish growing.
I think if there ever is a Pax convention, a bar brawl is a must. Us against them, whoever "them" is. I'd love to watch Tommy throw a few rugby head butts around while McC and Sloth suck down everyone's drinks.
Mark would be throwing records like Chinese stars (nothing worthwhile, of course), Pixie would flash her tits at the bad guys to distract them, and Me and Jake would hit them while Tom scares off the remainder with his physique and freakish growing.
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Tommy Martyn
- Mile High Club
- Posts: 887
- Joined: Mon May 19, 2003 8:01 am
- Location: a desk
I went out on the razzle Friday night and,wouldn't you know it, there was almost an altercation on the dancefloor. I was expected to be the back up in this situation, but only found out that there had been an incident the next day.
I loved the gainsville story. Isn't it true that Sean Penn types win fights but Sean Penn doesn't. Hasn't he been slapped by photographers. Remember kids, he is just a bloke who wears make up and dressses up for a living.
I loved the gainsville story. Isn't it true that Sean Penn types win fights but Sean Penn doesn't. Hasn't he been slapped by photographers. Remember kids, he is just a bloke who wears make up and dressses up for a living.
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sara
Yes, I liked the story too, Tommy -- I love Tour too MC -- it's really good, really!!
As for my story I misspelled Abingdon -- I just checked, and for Christ's sake I just got back from there a couple of weeks ago -- crap!!!
Good point about Sean Penn, Tommy.
So what's the story on this altercation and what exactly is "to go out on the razzle" that's an interesting phrase.
As for my story I misspelled Abingdon -- I just checked, and for Christ's sake I just got back from there a couple of weeks ago -- crap!!!
Good point about Sean Penn, Tommy.
So what's the story on this altercation and what exactly is "to go out on the razzle" that's an interesting phrase.
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sara
sara, i liked your story too: it created a lot of pictures in my mind. for my taste i found it slightly hard to handle that it brought up some important matters, such as your nervous breakdown, without really getting into them. but that was probably your intention; i suppose you wanted the story to be like a painting or like a short movie.
back to bf jake's piece, am i the only person who associates gainesville with mad magazine?
back to bf jake's piece, am i the only person who associates gainesville with mad magazine?
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sara
well, everyone said that I had a nervous breakdown, but I didn't really think it was -- I called it more a crisis of conscience -- and had to deal with some shit concerning my job -- I dealt with it.
You know I read that writers suffer from more psychological crap than other people -- everyone I know was like -- get out of your head -- so I did.
Jake it was the fact that your narrator seemed to not know any southerners -- and I do, so I wanted to show not tell, what it's like to be among the people of the south, from my point of view.
You know I read that writers suffer from more psychological crap than other people -- everyone I know was like -- get out of your head -- so I did.
Jake it was the fact that your narrator seemed to not know any southerners -- and I do, so I wanted to show not tell, what it's like to be among the people of the south, from my point of view.