I was less than ten older than 5. We were at our semi regular family trip destination in Northern Ontario. You know, Northern Ontario where the mosquitoes outnumber humans 400,000 to 1 and watching black bears crawl through trash at the local dump is considered entertainment. What possible reason could we as a family have for driving all the way up into no man's land you ask? To see my grandfather of course!. My mother had the good sense to move toward somewhere resembling civilization at an early age but my grandfather remained up north and so on an annual/biannual basis we would make the pilgrimage up to see him.
Don't get me wrong, my brother and I loved the place when we were kids. It is just as an adult looking back it lacked a few (read: all) of the creature comforts I have come to know and love. My grandfather was of Polish descent and when I say Polish I mean off the boat Polish. He spoke English certainly but from what I recall it was more a cheap imitation than an actual fluent understanding of the language. Just imagine the cliche Russian spy in any action movie, he sounded just like those guys. Why am I giving you all of this background on my grandfather? Well, his old world ways filtered down to how he lived his life in civilized Canukville (Canada)
In his backyard he had an old rusty bathtub whose exclusive purpose it was to collect rainwater so that he could later dump it into his garden and grow vegetables. I'm not certain if his house had running water but what I do recall is that the toilets inside did not work and never would work. Instead, he fixed that problem by erecting an outhouse in the backyard and lined it with a GLAD garbage bag. What he did with the bag when it got full I'll never know AND I don't want to know.
TO THE POINT ALREADY!!! My grandfather raised rabbits in his backyard and sold them for money (I know it sounds like 1920 but it was 1989). He had two families of different rabbits who lived in two different pens. He let my brother and I play with the rabbits under the explicit instructions that we do not allow the two opposing families of rabbits to mingle whom I've dubbed the Montagues and Capulets. I don't think it was a star crossed lover situation so much as it was territorial but the two families hated each other. Outside of their pen the rabbits were relegated to a larger caged area measuring about 25x5 feet where they would happily much upon grass while my brother and I annoyed the crap out of them.
On one such occasion (I know that you can see it coming) I either forgot to put all the Montagues away before I released the Capulets or in child like wonder (as I referenced in an earlier remembery) perhaps I just wanted to see what would happen if I put an end to the segregated society. To this day it might have been my brother who made the mistake of letting the two families co-mingle. However, since I am the younger brother, it was destined to be my fault regardless if I actually did it or not. All that I remember is that we left the rabbits outside of their pen to run around and went to play with something else.
An hour or so later an angered grandfather and annoyed mother called our names in the way that denotes trouble, not candy and ice cream. What we came upon was a grisly site. One of the larger rabbits a female I believe had one of her ears split down the middle. Little Juliet stared at us with her scary red eyeballs while she sat perched in my grandfather's hand. What followed next was 20 hostile questions that tried to determine which of us was the one who let both families out of the pen at the same time. Somehow we were able to dodge full blame because neither of us legitimately knew who did it. Well, that and the fact that I got my 8 year old cry on which as you know is a very manly thing to do when an adult talks to you sternly. In a huff my grandfather left us filled with rage at the fact that he would have to sell the rabbit off for half price.
To divert attention away from the hostile situation my parents took my brother and I out to pick some wild blueberries. We spent a good part of the day filling a bucket full so that my mother could attempt to make blueberry perogies. Later that day my mother toiled in the kitchen trying to pound out a passable perogie dough (it's harder than you'd think) and the rest of the adults cooked up some of the fresh red potatoes from the backyard. The feast we had that night was marginal at best. The potatoes were under cooked, the pierogies didn't turn out that well, kinda doughy and mushy and the chicken wings were tough and sinewy. Overall it was a pretty bad day but I suppose my brother and I should have felt grateful for not getting into a lot of trouble for hurting poor Juliet.
Fast forward fifteen years, I'm sitting in some nondescript place with my mother having a nondescript conversation. We talked of my grandfather's house and all the good times we had there. I asked her if she remembered the time that we accidentally injured one of grandpa's rabbits. "Sure" she said. "I remember it quite vividly" she said. "Really? I said?" "Yes" she said. "I remember how you kids let the rabbits out of the pens and got one injured. I also, remember, that we told you that the rabbit we ate that night was chicken."
I'm the type of poor person that has to buy toilet paper two rolls at a time. The paper isn't that fancy two ply either. My T.P. is gas station quality, the transparent kind that dissolves on contact with water. I'm the type of poor that Taco Bell seems like fine dining I am financially challenged not to the point where I go starving but to the point where I have to cook food in bulk and eat the same thing over the course of 12 days. I'm not planning on going on a whining rant about how poor I am and how you should feel bad for me, rather I am setting the scene to relay a short story that I think is funny. Dark funny.
A couple of years ago my wife (then girlfriend) got a phone call that her uncle had a seizure, fell on his head and was on life support in the hospital presumed to die imminently.(are you laughing yet?) We got in our car, filled it with it's daily dose of oil and transmission fluid, and drove down the road en route to meet up with my soon to be mother in law. When we arrived at her house it was decided in advance that we were going to take her car because our car had bad rear shocks (read none) so that if anyone sat in the back seat the tires would rub on the wheel wells until the tires blew up.
Cue rain, heavy rain. After we loaded up the luggage into mom's car we shot off like a bat out of hell all the way to the gas station. We pooled our dollars, nickels and dimes and were able to fill the tank. As soon as we went to make our getaway from the gas station every device that used electric current died on the car. The window defroster had always been broken so the only way to see out the windshield while driving on a rainy day was to drive with the windows open. However, on this occasion the window wipers died and stuck at a 45 degree angle against the window. After we popped the hood and pointed at things that could be broken, we collectively agreed that we all didn't know shit about car repair and that unplugging and replugging fuses was probably a bad idea in the pouring rain.
We didn't have the money to rent a car but my wife's aunt's house was on the way. Her aunt had a previous engagement that prevented her from visiting with her dying brother. She did assure us though that if we could make it to her house that we could borrow one of her cars. We decided out of desperation that we would chance driving our car. The ultimate destination of Bakersfield otherwise known as the ass hole of California was about a 5 hour drive but my wife's aunt was only 40 minutes away. So we all piled into the car and clunked along. Every bump in the road slowed the car down about 10 miles per hour and helped contribute to bald spots in our tires but we ultimately made it to my wife's aunt's house.
Upon arriving there we were told that my aunt didn't feel comfortable with lending us her car (i.e. she didn't want my mother in law to drive it) We invited her to come along with us but she refused and instead offered up the option of renting a car for us. My wife's aunt is in a position to do this because they are well off and I suspect my mother in law likes taking advantage of this whenever she can. All money matters have to go through my wife's uncle though who is the bread winner of the house. He is typically tight on spending because his wife is not.
Off we went to the car rental place where my mother in law and my uncle in law did a strange dance of opposing perspective. She attempted to get the largest most luxurious vehicle available while he tried to find the bridge between frugal and compassion. They eventually agreed on a mid sized sedan, a Pontiac G6. After a little more deliberation on what kind of insurance we needed we squared everything away and got on the road in our shiny red Pontiac.
At some point on the trip I started to have a sick feeling. At first I couldn't figure it out but eventually I realized in some perverse way that it was joy. Why joy you ask? This was the first time in months we had gone anywhere. We were driving in a car that had decent performance, 4 doors with working power windows. The cabin was airy and comfortable, it even had cup holders that worked. I began to romanticize what kind of person lives the G6 life? When they buy groceries do they get brand names? Do they know the luxury of filling a gas tank until it's full? Do they have enough money to wash their underwear and their shirts the same week? Better yet, do they own their own property?
When we stopped at a rest stop I asked my wife to take picture of me behind the wheel of the car. I needed to document the fact that I had once driven a mighty newish sedan. Better yet, in Bakersfield there was a suite at the Motel 6 with promises of HBO, extra towels and free coffee in the lobby. FREE COFFEE!!! We were living like kings and it was all because someone was probably going to die. A death sentence for one man became a vacation for us.
My dad has always had weird stalkerish tendencies (by tendencies I mean he's a full blow stalker) When I was a kid I never really noticed it. Thinking about it now he does/did have all the stalker attributes: glasses, mustache, dark hair color, dark eyes.
I recall in later years spending many nights driving around with my dad in my brother's not so inconspicuous red Mustang 5.0, stalking my mother. My dad had the radio blaring Lonestar's "Amazed." He has a penchant for singing along with songs long before he knows the lyrics. Over top of the mustangs low rumble my dad grumbled and struggled through the lyrics until he got to the part that goes: "I don't know how you do what you do, I'm so in love with you, It just keeps getting better.". Why were we following my mother you ask? They had recently separated and my dad suspected my mother of a pre-vorce secondary relationship.
Everyday my mother would go for a "walk" by the shore and on many occasions, my dad, me, the mustang and the country music would follow. Between verses of sad country songs I remember the joy of suggesting to my dad that hanging himself in the basement wasn't a good idea. Why was I there? probably to prevent my rage filled father from running over my mothers potential new BFF, should we find him. At any rate ,we weathered that storm and got through that period of our lives.
Something changed in the father and son dynamic after those day. Ever since I got a peek behind the weirdo curtain he became more obvious in his weirdness. On several different occasions with several different people he would just drive by their houses. Why? apparently just to see if the lights were on. Nothing he ever did got crazier or ventured further then going to a coworkers house or someone he knew personally. A sane person might go up to the house or knock on the door to say hello, but my dad was content with just making the trip and idling outside for a few moments. Perhaps he just needed something to do. Whatever the reason, still kinda creepy.
This brings me to my main point. I don't like encountering people, it frightens me. I am a good talker and can go on for hours but I fear small talk, and I fear tiny instances of judgement or persecution. Since I live in an apartment there is ample opportunity for me to encounter neighbors, neighbors I don't want to speak with. Before I leave the apartment I look out both windows. I listen for rumblings or voices outside. I know exactly what my landlord's car sounds like. I know everybody in our apartment complex and I know what apartment they live in/what cars they drive, but I've met none of them. I know what times they are usually home. I have cataloged all of this information so that I do not have to encounter them outside.
I recently realized, I am indirectly a stalker. No sane person should know the comings and going and daily habits of 20 other people. In my attempt to avoid following humans or being stalked myself I have erected the castle walls of stalkdom. High upon my second floor perch, I look down on the weirdos trying to get a look in my windows, and I have become the weirdo.
Physical violence is a chumps game. Pretend for a moment you don't think that it is morally wrong to beat your spouse or children. Pretend for a moment that you didn't enjoy pounding on your younger siblings when you were a kid. At the end of the day physical violence is going to leave marks. Mom and dad or the police are eventually going to find out that you are a shitty person, and you'll probably get grounded or go to jail. There is a much better way of getting people to do what you want instead of hitting them, and that way is through guilt.
Physical violence requires you to be in close proximity of your victim. If your target is more agile than you they might be able to escape your grasp. Worse, they might be able to outrun you long enough that you grow too tired or bored to give them a savage beating. How can you assert your dominance over something that you can't catch?This brings me back to guilt, mental kung fu. Guilt is a telekinetic energy. It can affect people from great distances and is highly potent from close range. Sciency people in a lab somewhere have deduced that there is enough power in one guilt laden phone call from a disappointed mother to level 15 square miles of earth. Used at close range guilt can ruin 10 years of Thanksgiving and Christmas with aftershocks that resonate into summer vacation, birthdays or any other time that the individual(s) considers sacred.
Picture this: A family member calls and tells you that they are eating pizza. There is no way that you can be there to share in the bliss that is eating pizza. You feel bad because you would like some pizza. You also feel bad because they seem to be enjoying themselves without you. Since you can't bring yourself to their level of enjoyment what do you do? You use guilt. You say to them in a glum tone "I wish I had pizza." You then go on to say "Could you save me some?" Wait for them to stumble through a pregnant "I guess so." Before you add "No, it's okay, you don't have to save some if you don't want to." Checkmate. This simple move has been passed down from mother to mother through the generations. If it's ever been used on you, you are a victim of guilt. The purpose of this move is not to get gratification from eating pizza but to make the other person feel so badly for eating without you that they don't enjoy it.
The only problem with guilt is that the seeds have to be sown early. As soon as you have children or as soon as your baby brother or sister is born you have to start working your magic. The recipe for guilt is as follows:
2 cups of love 2 cups of expectation 3 tablespoons of never quite satisfied 4 drops of vanilla extract add salt to taste.
Guilt is all about feeling inadequate. The more inadequate you can make a person feel without them cracking from the pressure the better. Even if you yourself are too lazy or terrible at the activity you are trying to guilt someone into doing, you must always speak with an air of superiority. Over time the masters of the art of guilt can limit there responses to a particular look or an exhalation of breath. Once you have someone under your guilt spell you may even get lucky enough to have them start guilting themselves. "What would mother say if I didn't make the bed with hospital corners?"
Certainly there are some side effects to the overuse of guilt like depression, thoughts of suicide, low confidence, social atrophy. All in all though the benefits far outweigh the risks, so get out there and guilt someone today!
