The Ballad of Bill Beasley: An Easter Tale

The following is based on real events … (sort of)

By the time we hit Satsuma the road had already taken us farther than we ever imagined. From the green pines of Newnan to the giant oaks of Creola to the fallen trees of everywhere else (there were a lot of damn trees) the journey from New Orleans to Atlanta and back, through the dark, hopeless abyss from Montgomery to Mobile and into the hazardous depths that test a man’s soul in rural Mississippi (where a man isn’t really a man, he’s a survivor) we drove, nay, we lived. And we met a lot of clinically insane people along the way.

There was the cross-dressing hitcher just outside of Woolmarket, who resurfaced a few days later on the return trip, no longer in drag, standing under the Phenix City overpass (I suppose his Monday dress was dirty and he had to settle for jeans.)

There was the Chik-fil-A employee in Montgomery who scolded me for ordering the Number 1 meal instead of being adventurous and trying the new Fiesta Chicken Wrap.

There was “GOODGRL” from Louisiana and “SR RICO” from Florida and, my favorite, “BSTMSTR” from Ohio, who, I hope and pray, is able to use his power to communicate with animals to reclaim the throne which the evil sorcerer Maax stole from his father King Zed (I’m still very much available, ladies…)

And then there was Bill Beasley.

“We run a classy organization” was their motto. At least that’s what the sign said:

Bill Beasley welcomes you to Shell.

Please enjoy the world’s cleanest bathrooms.

We run a classy organization.

Well, sir, touché. After 20 hours spent in a car over the span of four days, after 1500 miles, after rain, snow and sleet, well, you had me at “Bill.”

Now I’m not one to critique people except that I do it on a daily basis but the idea of a gas station pitching its bathrooms, let alone billing them as “the world’s cleanest,” strikes me as a bit odd. Then again, we were in Alabama.

What I really don’t understand though is how you judge something like that. Did a representative from the Guinness Book make a pit stop in Satsuma one day? Is this some sort of marketing scheme devised by the makers of Mr. Clean and/or Clorox? Certainly this couldn’t be just a bold proclamation, because (judging by the standing water on the men’s room floor) that would be a lie, and, my friend, Bill Beasley is no liar.

I’ll tell you a thing or two about Bill Beasley that the average man might not know. He’s a go-getter, that’s obvious from the moment you set foot on his meticulously landscaped lot (palm trees and all), but what you might not know is that Bill has dreams and that he is just like any other man. If you prick him, he bleeds. If you tell him a joke, he laughs. If you make him watch A Walk to Remember with you, he cries when Mandy Moore dies … hold on, excuse me … one … second.

Technically speaking, Bill works the register at Bill Beasley Shell, but in reality he is so much more than that. Bill is a man of the people, a humanist, a solid American. No corner goes uncleaned by his loving wife Kitty (who may or may not have been having an emotional breakdown in the bathroom … all I could hear was, “He’s done it again! He’s lied to me for the last time! What do I do, dad? What do I do?” … people are so damn quick to judge when they see you with your ear pressed up against a restroom door.)

There’s no cutting corners at Bill Beasley Shell. No paper rack goes unstacked. No candy aisle goes unstocked. No soft drink cooler goes unfilled. Bill cares about the people. He wants them to leave Satsuma with the feeling that they’ve experience something special and so much more than just the dark feeling that you may have just picked up herpes from the toilet seat. Bill wants the people to know he cares.

Like the kid purchasing an energy drink in front of me, for instance.

“Now you drink this slow, now, you hear? I don’t want you little bastards out skating all over my lot all hopped up on sugar.”

“Whatever … you should get some Red Hawk.”

“What the hell’s a Red Hawk?”

“It’s the best energy drink.”

“That there, son, is top of the line. You won’t find a better energy drink on the market … besides, you little brats don’t need any more caffeine in you. That’ll be $2.62 … (the transaction is made) … now get out of my store, son.”

One might think this is a bad thing, to accost your customers, but Bill and I prefer to think of it as brilliant marketing. Always leave them wanting more. More beverage selection. More product information. More verbal assault. This is how leaders are made. Certainly there’s a business plan in that back office somewhere that reads “Step one, Shell Oil. Step two, world.” I can’t think of a better man to run the place, to be quite honest.

I do have to confess to being a bit unnerved however, by the thought of approaching Bill at the register. What do I say? Do we make small talk? Should I say something or wait until he talks? What if he thinks I look disreputable? What if he catches me staring at his lazy eye? What do I do if he has trouble swiping my card? Run, that’s what I’ll do. Just run. Leave the card, leave the Coke, leave my sister in the world’s cleanest bathroom, just take off and never look back. That’s what I’ll do.

“Where you from?”

“Uh, well, I’m coming back from Atlanta.”

“You from there?”

“Yeah, I’ve been living in New Orleans though for about six years.”

“JAM-BA-LAYA!!!”

“Uh … (shocked) … yeah. I guess so.”

“You know they say you’re safer in Iraq right now then you are in New Orleans.”

(Laughing nervously) “Ha, yeah … the crime has been pretty bad.”

“I’m serious, son. It’s more dangerous than Iraq.”

“Right, well, probably not. But yeah, bad.” Please God, help me out of this situation and I’ll never say anything bad about Pat Robertson again.

“Huge f-ing (he actually said it like it reads, “f” and “ing”) mess we got in Iraq. Pardon my French, son (Yes, he really apologized for saying “f-ing.”)

“Uh, right, I guess. I mean it doesn’t look too great.”

“It’s a good thing we’ve got Jesus on our side, right?” What!?!?! Wait, do you hate Pat Robertson too, God? OK, what about the Mormons? I promise not to make fun of Mormons ever again if you’ll get this man to stop.

“Right. Jesus. Yeah.”

“You know, I found Jesus just a few years back. Have you found Jesus, son?”

There is no more horrifying question to hear a Seven Day Adventist ask you, while stopped at a gas station in the heart of the Bible Belt, than “Have you found Jesus?” Desperate, I actually changed the conversation back to New Orleans.

“You know, coming up there was actually a murder on I-10. Only in New Orleans, right?” I’m so ashamed. I turned on my city because I didn’t want to talk The Good Book with a gas station attendant. After a long pause, Bill starts in again.

“You know they oughta just level all those black neighborhoods and start over.” Don’t say it … Don’t say it, Chuck … Crap, I’m gonna say it…

“Well I don’t know if Jesus would want that. I mean, they’re all people too and they’re just trying to get on with their lives the best they can.” I im-e-e-e-e-diately regret this decision.

(Oh, I made Bill angry I think) “Them black folks ain’t nothing but causing all the trouble down there. Jesus wouldn’t go around shooting everyone.” True, Jesus, in fact, does not pack heat.

“Right, well it’s not just them. Everybody’s part of the problem. It’s not really fair to just blame one group.” Give me my card back, Bill. Give me my damn card back! I want out of here! I want to see my family again, I want to laugh, I want to love and be loved, I want to play in a field like people in those whimsical Cialis commercials. Mostly I just want to be anywhere but here. Please give me my card back, so I can go.

“You know they say you give a nig-”

“You know what? I really need to get going, Bill.”

Bill looks almost hurt. I don’t think anyone’s every broken off a conversation with him before. We are in Alabama, after all.

“Alright then,” (Bill finishes ringing up the order as my sister walks from the bathroom and up to me at the register.) “Where are you from, miss?”

“New Orleans.”

“JAM-BA-LAYA!!”

I turn. I run. I leave my sister in rural Alabama. Because there’s only so much a brother will do for his sister.

I was touched by greatness, and I didn't even get herpes

Majorly awesome writer (her words, but I concur), Brooklynite and all-around cool chick Colleen wrote a post this past Wednesday about one of my favorite rockers of all-time: Alice Cooper.

Before I delve any further into this I should point out that it’s not really Alice’s music that makes me a fan; I like “School’s Out for Summer” and “No More Mr. Nice Guy” as much as the next guy I guess, but what really does it for me are the following facts:

• The man was born Vincent Damon Furnier. The name of the band was Alice Cooper. When he decided he wanted to go solo, he didn’t just leave the band, he legally changed his name to Alice Cooper. That takes balls, unlike, say, Sting (The Police) or Kenny Rogers (for whom The First Edition was more like a “Rough Draft”) or Zack Morris (who tried to leave the “…Attack” in his rear-view mirror after receiving some very bad advice from his publicist … seriously, dude, friends for fucking ever, that means nothing to you?)


• Many publications have gone so far as to refer to Alice Cooper “The Nicest Guy in Heavy Metal,” a title which is sort of akin to “The Most Well-Adjusted Inmate in the Maximum-Security Wing” or “The World’s Most Racially Accepting Klansman” … titles that don’t necessarily tell you everything you need to know about someone, but nevertheless inspire genuine curiosity (seriously, what makes Joe Bob DeShawn X tic?)


• And, of course, the following story…

When I was younger I didn’t quite have what you would call a “refined” musical taste, in a sense that my musical collection consisted of some Disney soundtracks, a few School House Rock videos and, for some unexplainable reason, a cassette single of the song “The King of Wishful Thinking” by Go West (“Go west young man … and go gay while you’re at it.”) I’ll admit it, I was a tool with no musical taste, but after several years of bootleg trading, a majority of my time in high school spent scanning the used CD rack at Musicdrome and Wuxtry Records, an R.E.M. show that pretty much changed the way I appreciate music, college and my discovery that there’s cool stuff on the Internet besides porn, I feel comfortable saying that I’ve changed for the better. Now, I’m a tool with great taste in music (who still happens to think three is “Magic Number” so eat it Schoolhouse Rock haters!)

The point being, at the time,12-year old me was ill-equipped to handle the gravity of meeting a rock star. Yes, I’ve always been a smartass and I appreciated what happened at the time for its sheer comedic value, but there was that missing element of musical knowledge/adoration that kept this from being a truly great interaction along the lines of this…



Anyway, the fates were smiling on Applebee’s that day (Note: I almost started the story with this line, but realized the sheer ridiculousness involved in anything “smiling” when referencing Applebee’s, unless said “smile” is in regard to a settlement in the lawsuit being filed over the pubic hair you found hidden inside of your potato skins appetizer tray.) So let’s just start over … my sister Robin had just turned 16 and, while my parents showed her love in the “traditional” sense of the word, there was also a strong “your sister has really been a bitch lately, so we’re doing this to embarrass the shit out of her” undercurrent in every family activity between the years of 1992 and 1995. The “Gloaming Years,” as I like to refer to them, were fun times marked with teen-angst fueled diatribes often ending in “I hate you!” or “You are ruining my life, mom!” or “You have NO idea what it’s like to love a man, Chuck!” (to which I, thankfully, agreed) … God I can’t wait to have a teenage girl of my own.

Robin’s 16th birthday was a subdued affair, not because my parents didn’t want to do anything special for her, but more or less because Robin threatened to firebomb the house if they even so much as hinted at something as lame as a party (again, teenage girls, wonderful people.) So, with what last vestiges of pride they had in them, my parents agreed that there would be no birthday party, but at the very least a dinner with the family was in order. So it was agreed that the family would celebrate, at least until 8:30, my sister’s birthday but, since it was a last-minute peace accord, and it was also Friday night, and we chose to eat in an area near two high schools, an office park, a 24-screen movie theater and Atlanta’s largest mall our options for being seated and served in under an hour were pretty much limited to Applebee’s and Burger King. Being a proud man, my father offered to simply let us eat him instead of suffering the indignity of eating at America’s favorite “One-and-a-half star” dining establishment, but my mother insisted that the act would prove too costly in the long run and besides, he had high cholesterol and that would just lead to my sister accusing him of trying to make her look fat. So Applebee’s it was.

We arrived at The ’Bees in top form. We were hungry, we were scared, we had no other options. We were just your typical average American family crying internally from the pain while pretending to love one another unconditionally over a bowl of warmed-over spinach and artichoke dip. But here’s where it gets a little interesting.

My father was the first to notice Alice Cooper. Not so much because of who he was, but because of what he looked like. “Hey,” my father said as he nudged my mother in the ribs, “get a load of the three-ring circus at the bar.” The “circus,” of course, being Alice and what appeared to be two bandmates and a bodyguard – all still in stage attire (I’m assuming … I mean, do metal acts really dress like that in real life? Do you think Ace Frehley and Paul Stanley walked around in their KISS makeup after a show? Maybe? Do you think they would go to a Chili’s dressed like that? How did I get on this topic again?)

After a considerable amount of time and several bruised ribs, my mother finally responded with a shrug of the shoulders and the suggestion that they were probably just some “gang of no-goodniks” … my mother, everybody.

Not content with her explanation, my father proceeded to ask the waiter what the deal was with the heavily made-up dudes at the bar. Looking at my father as though you might look at a child with autism who starts screaming at the top of his lungs “I am a banana!” our waiter informed us that it was “Alice Cooper, man.” … pause … “You know, ‘No More Mr. Nice Guy’” … dead silence … “School’s Out For Summer” … nothing … “He was in Wayne’s World?” … So, can I start you guys off with something to drink?

And drink we did … OK, only my parents drank. I had a Coke. But maybe the caffeine rush was all I needed because by the end of the meal I was really eager to meet someone famous, as it was my goal at the time to one day be famous enough to get celebrity treatment even if only at Applebee’s (Note to self: you’re a horrible failure) and well, apparently this guy was famous.

Emboldened, but not enough to actually go by myself, I somehow finagled my sister into walking up to the bar with me to ask Alice for his autograph.

For two sheltered, suburbanite kids like us, walking up to Alice Cooper at the bar in an Applebee’s for the sole purpose of asking for his autograph and the sheer adrenaline rush of walking away without having my head bitten off or catching rabies in the process (so I kind of had him confused with Ozzy Osbourne at the time) was like starring in our own personal episode of 24, with the stakes rising and the tension mounting with each passing step.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said meekly, to no response. “Alice?” I ventured bravely and to the horror of my sister who fled the scene and the dismay of the giant black man who my inner-Nancy Drew deduced was Alice’s “protection” against unruly fans.

“What you want, little boy?” uttered the large man, turning in his chair to drive home the point that nobody, and I mean nobody was getting between him and Alice without answering a few questions first.

“Uh, uh…” I stammered.

“Uh, uh … you got a stuttering problem, little boy?” Somehow my memory of this event has turned this man into Mr. T, but I digress. I was too scared to actually speak in complete sentences. My words were short, my sentences choppy, my verbs non-existent.

“Alice (pointing) … autograph … my sister’s birthday,” somehow I managed to pinpoint which one was Alice, I guess it was the aura of excellence, or it could have just been that my hand was shaking so much that I was practically pointing at everyone.

“Go on little boy, can’t you see Alice is trying to enjoy his riblets? Not now!” bellowed the burly man.

Ashamed, dejected, having received the scolding of a lifetime, I slowly trudged back to our booth, where apparently my parents sat oblivious to the fact that a large black man was accosting their child (thanks mom and dad, you WILL be receiving the therapy bills eventually).

But soon my indignation, my shame, my confusion, my glass case of emotions was soon to open up and the fog was soon to lift, for not long after I slumped dejectedly into my seat, I heard my mother cry out in a tone half-excited, half-terrified for the safety of her children, “I think that Alice man is coming over here!”

Indeed he was, Alice Cooper, gentleman rock star that he was had taken the time, mid-riblet basket, to first rebuke his overzealous security guard and then come over to our table for an introduction. My future may hold greater things, like the cure for cancer and the world’s greatest novel or the best damn blog post ever, but until that time, this ranks right up there as the single coolest event in my life. Alice Cooper, the leather, the black eye shadow, the riding crop, came up to my father to say, “Hello, sir, my name’s Alice. I’d like to apologize for the way my friend Tyrone (I swear to God) acted. If you don’t mind, I’d like to pay for your dinner.” My father, being the thrifty man that he is, has never passed up an opportunity for a rock star to pay for his family’s food and enthusiastically obliged.

To this day, there are many things I question about my childhood. Why did I have twin beds in my room, when there was a separate guest room, for instance? Why did we never get a dog after Oggie, our English Shepherd, died? What was the deal with that metallic taste I got after eating my mother’s chicken casserole? But having more questions than answers is OK, because I know, in my heart, that one night, in May of 1995, I touched greatness. I was somebody. And I have Alice Cooper’s signature on an Applebee’s napkin to prove it.

The following takes place between 1983 and 2007…

Never one to believe the statement “bad things come in threes,” instead choosing the more child (and stoner)-friendly School House Rock school of thought that three is, in fact, “a magic number,” I’m typically able to find something good stemming from a string of unpleasant circumstances. Like, for instance, this morning when I a) missed my bus and had to wait out in the cold wearing only an Oxford and a flimsy sweater for the next 30 minutes, b) got on the next bus, sat down and noticed at my feet a pair of tattered, worn-in boxer shorts … boxer shorts … worn-in … on the floor of the bus, c) got off the bus at Poydras, nearly got hit by a car running a red light and, by jumping out of the way, subsequently got a lungful or two of the RTA’s pitch-black exhaust. Yes, under normal circumstances, this would be a bad string of events, but seeing as how the bus exhaust is not meant for most normal human beings or the hardest of all psychotropic users I was in a bit of an altered state and, funny enough, creative mood … I also really wanted some Doritos … like insanely wanted them.

The point is I had no idea what to write about this week, seeing as how the only interesting thing I have coming up is my birthday and I didn’t want to be one of those guys who writes about his birthday on his blog because he secretly hopes someone out there will care and send him a card or well-wishes or some little birthday token or finally tell him she loves him and they’re meant to be together because his writing style is so witty and run-on sentences are sexy and … wait, I forgot where I was going with this. OK, birthday, right. So I’ve decided, since my 24th birthday is coming up and since I haven’t really told you much about myself (just about what I think of other people and how much better I am than them) I am going to regale you all week with 24 themed facts about myself. Also, this is the best opportunity I’ve had to incorporate my favorite TV show, 24, into this blog so far and I’ve been trying to figure out how to do just that for the past three months (which leads perfectly to Fact About Me #1 – I’m single and I need to get out more.)

Anyway, since it’s always much more entertaining to point and laugh at someone than it is to be their friend, I’ve decided to sucker you guys in by revealing 24 horribly embarrassing things about me (note, not the 24 most horribly embarrassing things about me … you won’t be hearing about my magic act on this blog … because that part of me died weeks months years ago.) Anyway, without further ado, and in no particular shameful order, 24 horribly embarrassing things I have done.

1. I once thought I recognized my friend Dave on the streetcar, sat down next to him, punched him in the shoulder and made a your mom joke … only to find out it wasn’t Dave (not that bad, it happens to a lot of people) but instead of letting it go, I figured I would try and make the best of the situation and try and strike up a conversation with the guy. He would have none of it and actually put his hand up to stop me from talking before I finally blurted out, “Look, I’m sorry, OK? I thought you were someone else. You don’t have to be such a dick about it.” The terrified young man turned to reveal a hearing aid in his left ear, shortly before switching seats and getting off at the next stop. To recap, I hit a deaf man, made fun of his mother, called him a dick and probably scared him from riding public transportation ever again. Good job, Chuck!


2. You know how the token dorky guy in any given sitcom/movie (think David Arquette or Screech) has that moment where he comes back from the bathroom happily ambivalent of the long trail of toilet paper stuck to their shoe and everyone laughs? Well it’s not so damn funny when you’re in high school and you’re coming back to geometry class and people start calling you “The Mummy” for the next month and a half. Fucking David Arquette!


3. In my formative, coming-of-age years I had a slightly obsessive crush on a girl I sat next to in homeroom. We’ll call her Kelly B. because that’s what her name is and she doesn’t read this blog, so the shame isn’t as bad as if I were talking directly to her (which, let’s face it, I never would have … eighth grade me = such a pussy.) So I could probably fill up this entire list with stories just about her, but since the therapist tells me to “move on with my life” I’ve decided to stick to the best/worst one here. One Saturday morning, while waiting for a friend at the movies, I decided to pop in next door to the Best Buy-clone, Media Play, and kill a little time. Making my way to the back and the used CD bin, I noticed a familiar figure, Kelly, standing near the magazine rack. Making a quick assessment on how best to “run into” her, I decided to find myself a stallion, a single red rose, some wind to blow my long Fabio-like hair and the balls to ride up to her and say, “Fancy meeting you here, my love, I thought those pirates had me for sure the last time I bid you farewell.” As it was, I had none of those things (balls especially.) So I decided to head directly through the video section because the shortest distance between two points is a straight line (it turns out I had to pay attention in geometry to distract from the taunts.) I made my way through comedy, past drama and, after a short zigzag through Anime caught her eye just as I was entering … the adult video section. I can’t be sure from the ringing in my ears and the voice in my head cursing God, but I believe we had a conversation that went a little like this…
   
   Kelly (tentatively): “Uh, hey, Chuck. What are, what are you up to these days?”
   
   Me: “Um, you know, not too much. Just watching movies … Yourself?”
   
   Kelly (pretending to have a call on her cell phone): “Yep, uh huh,” to me, “Sorry, I’ve got to go. My ride’s here.”
   
   Me: “But I hate porn! I swear! It’s overtly homoerotic!”
   
   …I wish I could say that’s the last awkward encounter I ever had with her. I wish.


4. OK, a shorter one, I once got caught singing along with the radio by my father (not that bad.) I was singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” (bad.) Right around here is where my father started holding his breath until I finally brought a girl home.


5. Farting in public is bad. Farting in front of a girl you like is probably crippling to your chances. Blaming it on the little kid nearby is just childish. I know that now, OK?


6. You and your girlfriend ever get caught by her parents? Was it the first time you ever met her dad?


7. When I was younger, my parents asked my sisters and I what we wanted Santa to bring us for Christmas. My oldest sister, Erin, said she wanted the Barbie Dream House while my other sister Robin asked for a My Little Pony set. Not to be outdone, I asked for both. I got GI Joes, lots and lots and lots of GI Joes. And from thereon out, my father refused to give me anything from the grill that wasn’t rare and still mooing. In hindsight, it was actually the most inadvertently successful thing I ever did as a kid.


8. This one isn’t so much embarrassing as it is annoying to hear retold at every family gathering. When I was a small child (3-4 years old) my mom took a few trips to New York to visit a sick friend, thereby leaving my dad as the only parent at home for, presumably, the first time in 10 years. Near the tail end of one of these trips, the day my mother was to return actually, my father fell asleep while we were watching a John Wayne movie. Bored, I got into a pack of Sharpies my mother had left on the counter by the phone and, learning from an early age to do what TV told me, I started drawing all over myself with them in an attempt to look like the Injuns that The Duke was vanquishing from the prairie. Upon waking up and seeing my new Sharpie tats, my father asked the only question a man in his hopeless and soon-to-be-endangered situation could ask, “Why? Why, son, Why?” To my recollection I assumed I was searching for an answer that would portray a sense of determination and grit, and deep-seated hatred of Communism, like the great John Wayne. “Well partner,” I said calmly, “a man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do.” And thus, the birth of a smartass.


9. This one time, in grade school, I wore hammer pants and a sleeveless t-shirt. Kids can be so fucking cruel.


10. I have been caught watching The Notebook on more than one occasion. I can’t promise I wasn’t crying.


11. The same goes for A Walk to Remember. God damn you, Nicholas Sparks! Why did Mandy Moore have to die?


12. Let’s just say that when you’re a sophomore in high school, and you finally get to dress for your first varsity football game, and you’re so excited and ready to go that you trip running to the sidelines, in full view of everyone, and you get up limping … let’s just say that no one is going to remember if you actually got to play.


13. You know the moment near the end of Footloose when John Lithgow finally lets the kids have a prom and Kevin Bacon and Chris Penn just beat up Lori Singer’s ex-boyfriend and they all go inside and form the world’s happiest, most inexplicable dance circle? Did you ever have anything like that at your high school dances? Did you ever kill the mood by jumping in the center and doing the robot? Um, me neither.


14. I don’t know if anyone noticed but me, but for what I can only assume was my entire first day of work at the present job (we’re talking worst-case scenario here) I walked around with my fly undone.


15. I once bought a Backstreet Boys album because I thought it was the cool thing to do (I should just change this list to “You know how I know, you’re gay?”)


16. I’ve come to near tears trying to order the “Uncle Herschel’s Breakfast” at Cracker Barrel with a straight face. What’s worse, I lost a bet to my friend Darren that I couldn’t order the “Moons Over My Hammy” plate at Denny’s without breaking up. I won’t even tell you how the Baskin Robbins employee responded when I tried to order a scoop of the “Puss N’ Boots Chocolate Mousse” (actually, I will, it was something along the lines of “Damn, cracker, slow down a minute and just point to what you want. That’s right, point.” It was like the Miracle Worker.)


17. I used to believe wrestling was real.


18. In fifth grade, I thought I was “The Shit” for my Urkel impression.


19. I won’t lie to you people, somewhere in my past there was a thimble collection … 32 of 50 states, to be exact.


20. I once tried to do my hair like this


21. If you’re ever house sitting for your sister and brother-in-law and you spill something on your pants and you decide to put them in the washer before they get stained. Make sure you don’t wait for them to dry in your boxers. You never know when your brother-in-law’s parents might stop in to check on things.


22. Listen up, guys, this one is important. If a girl you like ever waves at you from afar. Don’t ever give her the wink and the gun. Don’t do it. It doesn’t work. Wars have begun that way.


23. One last little one, before the grand finale. I have actually asked someone this question, “Do you know how Britney’s movie Crossroads ends? I was watching it last night and they cut it off right before she was about to go to the talent show. I have GOT to find out how it ended.”


24. OK, I did save maybe the most traumatic one for last. Seeing as how this particular incident will haunt me for the rest of my life, let’s not talk about this again after today, alright? So, this story is the story of my first date behind the wheel. Now, surprisingly, I didn’t go on many dates in high school, but by my sophomore year I had been on at least a few, so I wasn’t too awkward by the time I had my license and somehow fooled the state into letting me drive people around. Her name was Britt. She was new at school and by far the cutest person I had ever asked to anything (dates, dances, Civil War reenactments, etc.) We went through all the usual forms of awkward high school courtship: we were lab partners in chemistry, we hung out with people we didn’t really like so that we could hang out together (Rob, I’m talking to you, buddy), we always hung out during study hall, we spent a LOT of time together for two people who were “just friends.”
    
    So after a few weeks of chickening out, I finally bit the bullet and asked Britt out on a date, to which she gleefully said “Yes, of course” in a tone that really said “What the hell took so long? I was starting to wonder if you were gay.”
    
    I had just gotten my license a few months prior and, aside from a few trips to the movies, mall, etc, I really hadn’t had much experience driving anyone around. Much less someone I really liked. I was nervous. My parents were nervous-er. They didn’t have the best faith in my driving ability (you bend ONE axle running over a curb and all of the sudden you’re a bad driver? WTF?) Anyway, that Saturday came and I was all set to go on my date. Arriving sharply at 7, I was greeted by the man she called “Father” and I called “Yes, sir, no touching, I promise.” After a less-than-comfortable talk with YSNTIP about responsibility and curfews and guns, during which he had me sit in a very large papasan chair and stood before me pacing meticulously (you try not looking 10-years old in that situation), Britt was finally ready to go.
    
    A little on edge, I didn’t have much to say on the ride to dinner other than, “Do you like Elvis Costello? He’s cool, this is his CD. Don’t tell your father I looked you in the eyes, OK?” Once we arrived at the restaurant though, things began to loosen up. I began to forget about her father’s gun rack, and we both seemed to be enjoying ourselves. The rest of the evening went fairly smoothly. We went to a movie. We got coffee afterwards and talked forever about the kind of stupid stuff you only talk about when you’ve exhausted everything else and you just really enjoy being with that person. It was a good date.
    
    Then 11 o’clock came around. And I remembered what her father said, “I have a luger. It’s a genuine war relic … have my daughter home by 11:30.” I had to get her home, but the date was going so well I had to go for the kiss. I mean, it would have looked ridiculous if I hadn’t … although it couldn’t look more ridiculous than when I did (ooh, foreshadowing.)
    
    So we pull up to her driveway. I’m very nervous about walking her to her door because of the whole YSNTIP situation and I want to make my move while we’re still in the car. We’re saying our goodnights and, smooth operator that I am, I reach across to kiss her, she moves and I knock the car out of park and into neutral. Kind of a bad thing, since she lives on a hill. Freaking out for a second, I remember what the brakes are and slam down before making it all the way down her driveway. Getting my bearings back, I put the car into park, slam down on the emergency brake and utter, “Hey, I’m sorry” … just as she’s slamming the door shut and running to her front door. Feeling really embarrassed, I try and get out of the car and go explain before she gets inside … except my shoelace is caught on the emergency brake, and I fall to the ground instead.
    
    Dusting myself off, I get back in the car, turn the radio up loud and pull out of the driveway. As I’m making my way out of the cul-de-sac I glimpse a figure peering from behind her living room curtains. He’s watching. And laughing. And enjoying the fact that, like anyone who has just witnessed that scene, his little girl won’t be talking to me much after that. And as I’m driving back home listening to Morrissey and declaring myself officially depressed, I can’t help but wonder if that son of a bitch was polishing his gun.