For the first time in as long as I can remember, I awoke this morning as a non-smoker. Or at least that was my intention...
A few weeks back I wrote on here about my three life-changing goals I have mapped out: quit smoking, get back to the gym/eat more healthy & get out of debt. I have myself three separate dates to begin each, but never mentioned them to anyone. If I failed, or worse yet, never even attempted to start, then I really didn't want any more disappointment that what I would've dished out upon myself.
Yesterday was supposed to be my "prep day" for goal number one: cleaning, wiping down the mini-blinds, basically ridding the house of the aroma of stale cigarette smoke that has undoubtedly accumulated on every surface but unnoticed by me. But instead of cleaning, yesterday I awoke with sudden need to get things off my chest. I don't know if I had possibly had some sort of a dream to make me feel this but all morning, I felt a desperate need to write.
So, stealing a page from my friend, Rob's self-help manual, I sat infront of my computer and began to write a letter. A letter to a long-ago ex-boyfriend who had controlled my life. A form of "Therapy E-mail" as Rob likes to describe it. I really had no idea where the letter would take me or what I would write about. Nor did I have any clue that I would wind up sitting there at my desk for nearly two hours typing feverishly and reliving details from a relationship a lifetime ago. Least of all, I never realized the feelings of anger and hatred that would rise and swell inside me and spill out onto my computer screen.
By the time I had finished I was emotionally drained, but I didn't feel finished yet. There was still more to be said about a few other things going on in my life. So, I turned back to my computer, opened my email program and wrote a long winded letter to my friend, Scott, up in Maine.
When that letter was finally complete, I felt even more drained. I was seriously wanting a cigarette and my pack had already been finished off about an hour earlier. It was mid-afternoon and my original plan was to finish the pack of cigarettes I had that day (trying to spread them out into the evening) and that would be that. No more smokes. During the course of the day, I would be cleaning non-stop. But after writing for over 2 hours on my blog and then writing another long emotionally draining letter to Scott, the last thing I could think of was cleaning and the ONLY thing that dominated my mind was the need for a smoke.
I quickly grabbed a shower, got dressed and headed out the front door. I bought a pack of Marlboro's and walked the city streets, trying to clear my head. I found myself soon heading towards Uncles and quickly ducked inside for a beer. It was still early and I knew no one would be there, at least no one I really cared about. However, the place was loud with afternoon drunks and Willy's voice bouncing off the mirrored walls was enough to give me the feeling that my eardrums were about to begin bleeding, so I finished my beer and continued my walk.
Without even remembering how I got there, I found myself staring into the dark waters of the Delaware River, twenty blocks from my house. I stood on the cement banks and stared. A PATCO train slowly crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge. Joggers passed by me on the brick pathway. A sailboat lazily drifted downriver, its occupants basking in the afternoon sunlight. I stood there, unmoving, for about five minutes, taking everything in, the sounds, the smells, the sights. Across the river in New Jersey, past the waterfront development, I could make out the hazy treeline of some distant hill beyond Camden's city limits. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the warm summer air fill my lungs. When I opened my eyes again, everything was the same. I really didn't know what to expect; maybe some sort of revelation, some clue as to what I was doing here. But everything was as it was; no clearing of the mind, to great idea, nothing. So, Like Forrest Gump when he reached the Atlantic Coastline, I simply turned around and headed back towards the city.
Needless to say, no prepwork was done to help me with Goal #1. The furthest I had gotten with that yesterday was a few loads of laundry, emptying and washing out my ashtrays and making the decision that, for the remainder of the day, any smoking will be done outside on the stoop. No great battle plan, but it was a start.
So...back to this morning, this first day of this first goal...
My alarm sounded at six a.m. and my eyes opened. I reached out and hit the alarm off. I was a non-smoker and I felt as if I could take on the world!
The feeling, unfortunately, lasted a fraction of a second when I remembered the 1/2 pack of cigarettes lying on the table downstairs in the livingroom. I can almost feel them taunting me; urging me out of bed to share with them that first cool drag of the morning which would ultimately set the tone for each drag thereafter. I can imagine the pack dancing across the back of the sofa, long female stockinged legs in high heeled shoes tapping across the back cushions, a provocative little twist of toe on the pillow, mimicing one stamping out a cigarette on a sidewalk. I can almost hear them calling out to me, begging me to smoke them. Their chorus of tiny voices sounding much like the high pitched giggles that first drifted out from deep within the colorful bushes to greet Dorothy when she took that long ago trip.
I needed coffee, but coffee would only encourage the smoking. They go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly, Abbott and Costello, Shaggy and Scooby.
I eventually fell back to sleep.
I awoke a half hour later to my phone alarm going off. I quickly silented the second alarm and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. I decided that my need for coffee was driving my desire for a cigarette, so I wasn't going to get out of bed to make any. I was just going to stay here until the time came to get into the shower. If the craving got too strong, I would simply force myself to nap for a few minutes.
Most people find this odd, but it's a habit I had long ago adopted from my mother. We are both slow morning risers and each set our alarm clocks hours before we actually need to be up. This gives me the opportunity to lounge around in bed while the coffee's brewing, watch the morning news and not have to worry about rushing to take a shower and get out the door. So forcing myself to take little naps to avoid the urge to smoke, even if it is making me miss my much needed morning coffee, wasn't such a major issue. I still had at least 90 minutes before I had to leave the house.
(To be continued...)
**author's note** unfortunately, by the time this is posted, I will have already failed my goal of the day. I really don't feel all that bad. I've been up since 6am and I had one cigarette at 6:30-PM All of this writing about the desire to smoke actually made said desire that much stronger. I'll talk about that more tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
A Letter ...
Dear Don,
In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.
I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.
This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.
We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.
We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.
The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.
Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.
Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.
Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.
When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.
When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"
"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.
"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.
"How do you know him?"
"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."
"What? Do you want him again?"
I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"
"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.
You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.
***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.
Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.
So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"
"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."
"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."
"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"
"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."
The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.
Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."
"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."
"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."
I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.
So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.
Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?
I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.
People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.
So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.
That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!
Chris
In my starting efforts to try and better myself as a person, physically, spiritually and emotionally, it seems clear that I must travel back in time to try and figure out where some of my inner turmoil had begun. I cannot possibly blame you entirely, but there are several issues in my life that can be directly or indirectly traced back to you, our relationship and my avoidance of you after our break-up. Even the house I currently live in can be traced back to you since I started living here with a friend I had made after beginning to hang out at the 247 bar in order to avoid seeing you at Woody's. You were my first real boyfriend, but I don't think in the five years we were together I can actually say that I truly loved you and I realize now that I was nothing more than a possession to you.
I can remember seeing you way back 20-23 years ago in the CSR bar when we were both underage, me with long curly hair sitting alone at the bar and you coming in with your much older boyfriend, your hair spiked in that long forgotten '80s style wearing loud colored shirts to match. We never really spoke, but i thought you were attractive. It was a few years later when you finally came up to me and began talking. I had always been shy but you, being the loud opinionated Italian/Irishman that you were, didn't care. We hung out as friends for a few weeks before we started dating. Little did I know that you were also dating someone else at the time, but you soon broke up with him and started going out with me. I realize now how volitile the relationship was from the get-go, but the weaker part of me was just happy to be in a relationship and that, I realize was my first huge mistake.
This all goes back to 1986. I know that because in the early summer of that year I purchased my first "new" car, a 1987 Chevy Beretta, bright red with tinted windows and custom pinstripe done by a childhood friend who did detail work in a car dealership. I know that because late in that summer, we had our first physical altercation and, as materialistic as the reason may have been, I had my true first opportunity to bag the relationship, but instead I made my 2nd huge mistake. I allowed you to manipulate me and allow me to blame myself.
We were down in Wildwood staying with your family and you, me and your two cousins, Julie and (I forget the older sister's name) went out barhopping. We all got alittle drunk and I really don't remember what started it all, but I got so pissed off at you that I flicked my cigarette at you and it bounced off your cheek. You came at me with such force and anger that I was sure an all-out brawl would ensue. But, as luck would have it, the bartender behind me saw the entire thing, leaped over the bar and grabbed you before you got to me. Ironically, it was you to be escorted out of the place while your cousins tried to calm me. I kept trying to tell your cousins that you were doing something to my new car, but they assured me that they knew you better than me and that you were just outside cooling off. They tried to get me to dance, but I had to see for myself.
We left the bar and headed for the parking lot. There you were, standing beside my car. You immediately started to apologize for overreacting, but I ignored you and carefully circled my car, scanning every inch of the bright red surface. It didn't take me long to notice the broken antennae and soon after the huge 2 foot long scratch going down the center of my hood. I remember staring at you and asking you point blank what had happened? I remember you trying to tell me that this was how you found the car. I remember your cousins telling you that that was bullshit; that I was just inside the bar telling them that you were out here doing something to my new car. Yet you kept denying it.
The ride back to the beachhouse was silent until you finally screamed out from the back seat that yes...it was you. I simply said, "I know" and continued driving.
Back at the beach house, the rest of your family was sound asleep. You apologized again and said that you would pay for the damages. You asked me if I was leaving. I wanted to so bad, just pack my car and drive home right then and there, never to lay eyes on you again. But it was also 3 in the morning and I had been drinking, so instead I continued to give you the silent treatment. You got up and walked out of the house and headed down to the beach.
Part of my silent treatment had been to keep my anger in check. The last thing I wanted was to raise royal hell with you and wake the entire family. So I followed you out to the beach, readying my self for battle. Instead, after yelling and screaming out there under a blanket of stars, I was suddenly on my knees crying and begging for YOUR forgiveness for being MAD. I still don't know how you managed to do that to me, but I remember you coming over to me and giving me a hug and, thinking about it still so vividly in my mind, I know now that that was your whole intention, to manipulate me into believing that my actions IN the bar led YOU to do damage to my car.
Over the next several months, I started to lose my longtime friends. Not so much lose them than give them up for you and YOUR friends, people I had nothing in common with. My waking hours were either spent at work (where you called me several times a day to make sure I was actually there) or your place. I stood by and watched my life slowly deteriorate and become your's. Our weekend nights out at woody's started fairly early and ended early because you had the need to pound back 3 or 4 shots of Jack Daniels within the first hour of being there and, in most cases, by 10:30 or 11 we were back at your place lying in bed and watching tv. You would get a 2nd wind and roll a joint or smoke a bowl. I would take acouple hits and roll over and go to sleep.
When you DID manage to make it through the night, we often went to the Bike stop. Several times there I would leave to go to the bathroom only to return and see you in a darkened corner feeling someone up. And what do I do? I turn the other cheek.
When I actually came across someone from my past, a guy I had a couple dates with a few years earlier, you were in the bathroom. We were upstairs at woody's and I was talking to this guy and you came out of the bathroom, grabbed the beer I was holding for you and stood there between us, defiantly. You stared at him and you looked back at me. "Who's this?"
"This is an old friend of mine, Dave. Dave, this is my boyfriend, Don." Dave reached out his hand, but you looked down at it and then back up at him and didn't say a word. I remember the look Dave had given you, but more importantly, the look he gave me. "Chris, it was good running into you. Good luck." And with that, he turned away.
"What did he mean by that?" You demanded.
"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why so rude?" I shot back.
"How do you know him?"
"I dated him...when I was 18!" I turned and walked away, livid. "Thanks for being such an ass to someone I haven't seen in 4 years."
"What? Do you want him again?"
I stopped right in the middle of the flight of stairs leading back down to the first floor. People trying to get by grumbled, but I ignored them. I Looked back at you and suddenly opened up with both barrels: "Let me get this right! I have to sit back and watch you flirt with complete strangers and feel them up and make out with them in the basement of the bikestop, but I come across an old friend and something has to be going on between us??? You're a fucking idiot!!!"
"You tell'm, girlfriend." someone in the passing crowd shouted. Who knows, it could've been Dave himself, but it was enough to make me see that I was causing a seen. I turned and continued down to the first floor and out of the bar.
You apologized and insisted on going back to Dave and apologizing to him, but I wouldn't allow it. I never saw or spoke to Dave again.
***cybernote to Dave DiPietro: it's been about 18 years since this occurred, but please accept MY apologies for having such an asshole as a boyfriend.
Another episode that clearly stands out in my mind, Don, was my best friend's wedding. We were about a year into our relationship and by this time, Mark had been another childhood friend that I let go because of you. But I still lived at home, across the street from him and was invited to his wedding, which so happened to be taking place down the street from your house. I stopped over to see you before heading to the wedding and told you I would see you later in the day. Instead I called you from the reception and told you that I was going to go to a party at Mark's parents' (across the street from where I grew up and lived). You grumbled and bitched and asked what were you supposed to do, just sit home and wait? I explained that I hadn't seen these people in a long time and I wanted to catch up. None of them knew that I was gay, let alone seeing another guy and I planned on keeping it that way.
So there we were, 15 or 20 of us out infront of Mark's house, laughing and drinking and remembering the good times. Then, from across the street, I heard my mother calling. It was after midnight and she was quite upset. "Don's on the phone. What the hell is he doing calling at this hour?" I picked up the phone and you were already screaming at me. "Where are you?"
"I'm at Mark's house. Why?"
"No you're not. I drove down your street and didn't see you."
"How can you miss us? We're the only house on the block with a bunch of bridesmaids in ugly dresses hanging out in the front yard."
"Well I'm going out for a DRINK!"
"Go then. I hanging out with my friends."
The next morning you called telling me you broke your wrist because you punched a wall after I made you so upset. I later found out that you punched a wall in the adult bookstore, putting a hole right through the drywall.
Don, we were in a bad relationship for over five years and for nearly four of those, I wanted out, but didn't know how. It had finally ended though on the day before Easter. I was in the middle of a project and was getting frustrated with myself and you wanted to go out. I said that I wasn't going to go out, but you were getting angry with me. I finally said, "Look, this just isn't working. Go out. Have a good time and leave me to what I have to do."
"Are you breaking up with me?"
"C'mon. I'm not happy. You're not happy."
"Fine!" And you hung up. I was actually relieved. It wasn't the reaction I was expecting, but at least another fight wasn't taking place. By this time all of our conversations were nothing more than arguements in different tones. But a few minutes later, you called me back. I figured it was going to be more apologizing and trying to work things out, something that I had no intention of doing. Not this time. I've apologized enough for your actions. Instead, you said the strangest thing: "I just want you to know that, if anyone asks, I'm telling them that this break up is YOUR fault."
"Fine, Don." I replied, exhausted. "Tell them whatever you want. I really don't care anymore."
I thought that that was the end of it, but was I in for a rude awakening. You once told me: "Don't ever cheat on me. I will find out." It was a strange comment to make, considering that, although our sex life was all but completely gone after the first 2 years, I was completely monogomous as I am in any relationship I'm in. But, Don, no truer words were spoken. For months and even YEARS after our break-up, I was running into people you had fooled around with behind MY back. Thinking back, I can remember you taking secretive phone calls in the other room.
So there you have it, Don. You were right. I WILL find out. I knew long before this letter was written. I have avoided you for a few years after our break-up because I was afraid that I would just out and out KILL you right there on sight. I started hanging out on the other side of town, met a new group of people. Kept our relationship secret and from there, through a series of paths, both good and bad; right and wrong, here I am, writing to you...FINALLY...after 16 years, to tell you how much I hate you. I hate you for manipulating me. I hate you for cheating on me. I hate you for making me give up all the friends of my youth. I hate you for so many things, but most of all, Don...I hate you for making me hate MYSELF.
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to manipulate me
I hate myself for ALLOWING you to make me give up my friends
I hate myself for KNOWING all along, on some level, that you were cheating on me and not nipping it in the bud.
I hate myself for PUTTING UP with this shit for five years.
I hate myself for WAITING 16 YEARS to tell you this
I hate myself for BURYING it only to let it surface and repeat itself in all but ONE reltationship since. And in that one relationship in which it didn't happen...
...I hate myself for THINKING that a relationship couldn't actually BE any other way.
Don, it wasn't until just this very second that I realized how much I actually buried my emotions where you were concerned. I write this letter and think: my God...did this actually HAPPEN to me?
I don't think that I will EVER see true happiness. Not in this lifetime. Time does not heal all wounds. In many cases, it just scabs over and scars, leaving you with a neverending reminder of the pain that once was. It's been 16 years and the hate, although buried deep down, is still there and is still strong. I will always carry the burden of having known you and will, more importantly, always carry the burden of losing my identity and my self worth.
People tell me I'm bitter and it's a name I have given myself. I am currently (as stated in the opening of this letter to you) trying to overcome it. Although you will never see this letter, it's out there as proof that I am finally letting it out. I am accepting my part in that mess of a relationship and that I am tired of granting your request of taking blame for our break-up. Although it's been a long time, it was a good 2 years after our break-up that I was able to break free of the whole "Don and Chris" label. Whenever people asked what happened, I bit my tongue and simply said things just didn't work out. It wasn't until much more recently that I am able to say that a good deal of who I am today was because of the emtional abuse that you put me through, but I still left everything vague. Now it's out, at least a couple of key examples of the MANY.
So, Don, it's been a long time coming, but I'm here to tell you that I will not let you win in the end. You have manipulated me for too long and I'm just seeing that now. It's going to stop. So let me just give you one last piece of advise before I forever put this behind me and try to finally make pease with myself and get on with my life.
That little piece of advice: GO FUCK YOURSELF!
Chris
Thursday, July 26, 2007
To Kill a Mockingbird ...
The Old City Section of Philadelphia can be a very interesting area of town to work, play and relax. The architecture ranges anywhere from the original colonial structures dotting narrow cobblestone paths to Georgian and Victorian facades bordering streets like mismatched dominoes to large warehouses converted into overpriced lofts, while maintaining their Old City charm while holding on to their identities by keeping the names of thier original uses, like the Chocolate Works or the Hoopskirt Factory. Rising up from the rubble of some of the fallen and forgotten foundations, you can now see glass and steel reflecting the sunlight and giving those fortunate enough to afford it, a spectacular and unobstructed view of the office towers in Center City a mile west.
Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.
Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.
I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.
But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...
The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.
That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.
Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.
I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.
But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.
With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.
"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.
The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.
I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.
***
(last night)...
After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.
I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.
My heart raced...
My breathing shallowed...
My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...
I scream...
After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.
And I burst out laughing.
The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.
The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
But this is a close second....
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Tourists flock to this part of the city for the nation's history, found anywhere from Independence Hall and the Betsy Ross house to the new Liberty Bell Pavilion and the great fortresslike structure that is the National Constitution Center. Restaurants are packed, most days from open to close as visitors wait anxiously for their turn on the Duck Boats or the London double decker tour busses. The clip clop of a countless array of horse drawn carriages can barely be heard above the scripted tourguides telling riders the significance of The Real World House.
Walking the streets is much better than trying to navigate your way around siteseeing traffic, unless of course, you happen to be late for work or on your lunchbreak on a beautiful summer afternoon and suddenly find yourself on the tail end of a tourgroup of 30 to 50 people all stopping to snap pictures of a church steeple or a park bench that just so happens to have proof (read off of a bronzed plaque) that some founding father once sat there to clean the mud off his shoes.
I enjoy my casual morning strolls from the bus stop to work. Oftentimes, when the morning air isn't too thick with the building humidity of the day, I will walk from home, taking a different route each time and discovering things I have never seen before even after more than ten years living in Center City. It was upon one of these walks that I found myself suddenly attacked, without provocation. No, it wasn't a mugger. No, it wasn't a gang of misfit teens.
But I can honestly say that I now feel what it must've been like to be Tippy Hedren all alone in that little rowboat...
The other day, I was doing my usual walk from the bus stop, up 4th street to Arch, and decided to cut through the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House, a large 2-story brick building that takes up nearly an entire city block. Within the confines of the 8 foot bricked wall surrounding the grounds there are nice little garden areas with benches scattered about where you can sit and have lunch or escape from the noise of traffic passing down Arch Street.
That morning, however, I was doomed to cross the angry path of an overprotective mockingbird keeping a watchful eye on her nest.
Little did I know that mockingbirds build their nest low to the ground, under or in closely packed shrubs. I sort of found this out the hard way when I passed through the iron gates from 4th street and headed up the brick pathway that would lead me out through a matching set of gates directly across from work. I wasn't ten feet inside the walled garden when, above me and to my right, I hear a loud and obnoxious screech. There, ontop of a lightpost, is a mockingbird, it's head bobbing feverishly in my direction. It screeched again and took up toward the roof of the meetinghouse.
I ignored it and continued on my way, the tiny sound of the plastic grocery bag brushing against my leg is the only sound reaching my ears on an exceptionally quiet morning. As I rounded the corner, I suddenly got a chill up my back. It may have happened before the actual incident or it may have been simultanious. I couldn't be sure. All I know was that there was a soundless rush of air that passed by my left ear and I quickly spun around to catch the tail of the mockingbird disappearing up into the tree over me. I stopped and stared up, thinking that this bird did not just try to fly into me.
But there it was, out on a branch staring down at me, screeching and pointing with his head and....well...mocking me. I decided that I don't care how little that thing was, there was no way I was running. I stood there for a minute staring back up into the tree, watching the bird bounce from limb to limb until...and I can't tell if it was my imagination, but...it zeroed in on me. I stared in amazement as the bird spread his wings and took flight. Then, when its path was clear, it close its wings tight against the side of its body and, with a screech that I can only imagine sounding like the last sound to escape the mouth of a Kamikaze pilot, this demonbird came at me like a heat seeking missile.
With barely a second to react, I arched my back to try and get out of its path and swung my plastic bag up infront of me at the same time. The bird, as if pulled by a wire, suddenly did a sharp right turn just inches from my head and took off up into the tree again.
"Shit!" I shouted with a nervous laugh.
The bird perched itself once again on the branch and screeched, readying itself for another attack. It flew up and out of the leaves and came down towards me like a heavy stone, this time turning away higher up and landing once again on the roof.
I must've really looked like a fool out there in the middle of the garden, standing in the sunlight like a contortionist with turret's. I realized that I probably did look like a fool by the reaction to the group of hot firemen standing infront of the fire house on Arch Street, looking back in my direction and smiling. I took one last look up towards the roof and noticed that the bird was gone. Wary of another attack, I grabbed my plastic bag (and what little pride I had left) and headed to work.
***
(last night)...
After a couple hours of speaking to my friend, Rob, on-line, I headed downstairs to watch a special call "Ghost Adventures" or some such crap. It was a 2 hour special on the Sci-Fi channel and turned out to be pretty cheesy. Although there were a couple of clips that kinda got my blood crawling. It also happened to be at this point that Rob decides to call me on my cell.
I was lying on the sofa, shirtless, the phone resting on my stomach, set on vibrate. Glued to the television, I watched in awe as the makers of the documentary had caught, on film, bricks and boards in the basement of this supposed haunted hotel in New Mexico flying off of the floor and into a wall. The cameramen were so startled that they went off screaming down the corridor, their cameras capturing nothing more than out of control light and shadow.
My heart raced...
My breathing shallowed...
My vibrating phone comes to life on my stomach...
I scream...
After answering the phone and telling Rob what just happened, we chatted alittle bit about phone problems and he said he was going to bed and watch a DVD. It dawned on me that I still had 3 DVDs from Netflix that I've been holding onto for a couple of weeks, but I couldn't remember what they were. With him still on the phone, I opened each envelope and read the titles.
And I burst out laughing.
The last envelope held the most appropriate movie title, considering my ordeal on the grounds of the Quaker Meeting House.
The only thing better would've been Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.
But this is a close second....
To Kill a Mockingbird.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Three Dates Are Now Set ...
Life in a Nuthouse is a thing of the past, both figuratively and literally. The original name of this blog was to establish the ups and downs, comings and goings and ins and outs behind the walls that was The Post Bar. But the bar is all but completely gone. It is officially under new ownership and, although no one knows exactly when, it will close, be remodeled and re-open sometime in the future. It won't be the same and who knows if the old crowd will return or whether it will have the same sorted drunken drama as it did over the last several years, but it is no longer a "nuthouse" as my blog title once stated.
I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.
I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.
I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.
So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.
This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.
So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.
And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.
Speaking of rants...
About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.
I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!
Thanks!
Chris
I have also removed the sub-heading of this blog because I think it's about time that I, along with the Post, need improvements, changes and a fresh start. No longer will my heading read bitter and middle aged. I'm 40 years old and it's time I reevaluate my life and my attitude. I have tried to rid myself of my bitter attitude in the past, but I have jokingly been labeled that for more than five years now and it's time for it to end. I don't like being told that my bitterness is why people like me or people I just meet already know me as bitter before even getting to KNOW me. It's going to be hard and it'll probably take a long time, but the last thing I would want to be remembered for was the fact that I spent my entire adult life seemingly resentful of all those around me.
I figured the best way to start down this new path was to make three changes in my life; three large changes that will ultimately improve my life and make the transition alittle easier...eventually. I have the dates set up and recorded on my calendar and there's no erasing them.
I will not announce these dates to anyone. They will be my own personal goals and start times. My self-esteem is low and always has been. The last thing I would want is to announce my dates to my friends (or in this case the entire cyberworld) and then either a: fail, or b: not start at all. I will be hard enough on myself if failure should occur and really do not need those around me to remind me that I have failed, or to show disappointment in my failure. I will say this though: 2 of the 3 goals are right around the corner.
So now the actual goals:
* First: Quit smoking
* Second: Get back to the gym on a regular basis (after re-joining). Included in goal number 2 will be to re-evaluate my eating habits as well. Something I've never looked at.
* Third: Get entirely out of debt.
This part, although there are thousands of people who are worse off than myself, seems to be the toughest hurdle. I've always had a roommate or housemate up until about 3 or 4 years ago. And at that time, when I started living by myself, I was at one of the lowest points of my life and I really didn't give a rat's ass about anything, myself included. Truly, the only reason I'm alive today and writing is that I have seen what suicide had done to my family in the past and I didn't want that to happen again. So, instead, I planted a fake smile on my face and perservered. It's not that I'm thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars in debt. In fact, I'm far from it. It just seems that, just when I think I'm gaining the upper hand, something falls apart. So, with each paycheck, more and more money winds up being spread thinner and thinner. Now, at work, sales are way down across the board (but it seems like there's an upsurge once again). However, due to my pay structure, it looks like it will be a couple to several more months before I'm ahead of the game again.
So there you have it; my three life altering goals. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it...along with your support (my friends), maybe some guidance or suggestions when needed and, most importantly, understanding. There may be times when I will not be joining in in any of the reindeer games simply because the funds aren't there. Just understand and accept.
And by the way, there are some people out there (y'all know who you are) who have been an ear to talk to and I have gone after it like a hungry pitbull at times. I thank you and appreciate your allowing my rants.
Speaking of rants...
About this blog. As a sidebar sort of a goal, I am going to try to get back on this thing and keep it up to date. It may be rantings. It may be updates on the progress with my goals. It may be nothing more than talking about what mundane things I did that day or week.
I guess that's it for now. I'll be in touch!
Thanks!
Chris
Monday, July 09, 2007
This is the first time in quite awhile that I'm actually writing anything and I realize that some of my friends may be shocked, But something happened to me last night and, although it happened four years ago, I've never written about it. I figured what better time than now, when it's fresh in my mind again.
Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.
I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).
One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.
I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.
I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:
* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...
I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."
I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.
I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.
One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.
Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.
"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.
"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.
"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.
"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.
The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.
He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.
Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?
The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.
"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.
I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.
He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.
It's amazing what goes through your head...
He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.
I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.
"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."
His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.
I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.
I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.
I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.
I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."
It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...
Also, for some reason, I'm not able to title this (what is going to wind up being) drawn out story, so forgive me ahead of time.
I met my friend out for a couple of drinks at Uncles last night. We had both agreed ahead of time that it was going to be a quick night for the two of us; nothing more and a few beers (and the ritualistic shot). I arrived a few minutes before him and settled down with an ice cold bottle of beer (monkey piss to some who shall remain nameless). All in all it started out as a enjoyable, yet uneventful night. We shared some talk, laughs, shots. I received a nice box of fudge brought back from the shore (but stuffed into a Wawa bag--I haven't quite figured that one out yet).
One brief topic that came up was how a former housemate of mine entered my house unexpectedly (he had moved out a few months before) at 3 in the morning. It freaked me out so much so that I nearly crashed a lamp over his head as I heard him moving upstairs towards my bedroom. Considering what had happened to me a few months before (that story is what I'm now leading up to) it was a terrible thing for him to do to me at such an early hour.
I mentioned this to my friend last night and he wanted me to save this story and go into detail later. I happily agreed and he soon moved across to the other end of the bar to speak to another friend of his who had entered some time earlier.
I ordered another beer and made some brief conversation with the off-duty bartender who was sitting next to me. At one point, I took a swig from my bottle and looked across the bar to the cash register. I realized it was past midnight when the digital display read 7-9-7. I stared at the numbers for a few more seconds wondering the significance. Suddenly a chain reaction started to take place in my head:
* Who's birthday is it?...
* No ones
* Yes it is...
* No...
* It's something...
* Friend's, family's?...
* Crap! Anniversary...
* Mom & Dad...
* Remember to call or mom'll be pissed...
* She worries about you when you don't call...
* She'll think something happened...
* Like that other time...
* When that guy...
I suddenly felt my heart begin to pound harder as my eyes locked in on that digital readout before me. My mind raced back over the years. Images began to form in my head. Then came the voice, whispering once again in my ear. Deep, rough, angry:
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you..."
I suddenly didn't want to leave the bar. I knew it was in my head, but my body wouldn't move for a moment. I looked around the bar at the faces. People were laughing and joking. The music was blaring. Everything started to blend together as the mirrored walls closed in around me.
I closed my eyes and pushed it away. When I opened them again, things were back to normal. I figured it was now or never. I took one last swig of beer and got up to leave. My friend was at the bar near the exit and I told him I freaked myself out and was leaving. We have plans today and he said he was leaving in a couple minutes himself. I walked out the door and headed home.
One half of me kept telling me to grab a taxi, but I needed the air to try and clear my head, so I walked the 8 or 9 blocks to my house, all the while that night replayed itself over and over in my mind, not letting go. What freaked me out even more was that, outside of the bar I had just left, everything was identical to that night...including the date.
Four years ago, I had left another bar after deciding that I wasn't going to drink too much. Just a beer or two. I needed to get up the next morning for a job interview. It was a hot, muggy night and, as I made my way down the quiet Center City streets, I kept thinking about the coolness of my bedroom. After about ten minutes, I turned the corner onto my quiet tree-lined street. I reached my house and pulled my keys out and unlocked the security gate. I unlocked the inside door and stepped into my vestibule. I turned around, keys in hand, to close and lock the gate when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement to my left.
"Are you Michelle?" A voice asked. (I don't actually remember the name he used, but it was a girl's name.
"What?" I replied to the figure drawing nearer. My hand was on the gate and I was swinging it closed, key in hand and ready to lock.
"Are you Michelle?" He repeated. He was now at the foot of my stoop.
"No." I answered. My key was just touching the lock on the gate.
The above dialogue lasted less than 5 seconds. There was no alarm in my head. I was going through my normal procedure of locking the gate. But that brief exchange was all he needed to make a move.
He grabbed the gate and pulled. My hand was still gripping and, as I tried to pull it shut again, my mind could not grasp what was going on.
Who is this guy?
Do I know him?
Doesn't he know I don't look like a Michelle?
The alarm started to ring loudly in my head as we struggled with the gate, but at the same time I couldn't understand what was actually happening. Everything was happening so quickly. Only about ten seconds had now passed since this guy first spoke, but everything was happening in slow motion. He pulled hard on the gate and I felt it being torn out of my grip.
"Get in!" He shouted, stepping into the doorway.
I screamed for help as I reached my hands out infront of me to try and push him back outside. I still remember the oversized 53 on his chest; white numbers on a back blue football jersey.
He pushed me further into the house and kicked the door closed with his foot, all the while holding onto the neck of my t-shirt and pulling me closer to him. I yelled again, hoping someone was walking by my open window...but when I looked towards the window, I saw the fan on the floor and the blinds closed. It had rained earlier that day and I had shut the window. I mentally kicked myself.
It's amazing what goes through your head...
He through me down onto the floor and I felt his full weight ontop of me. I struggled to break free and I tried to scream again. I was lying face down on my livingroom floor and I felt his thick fingers begin to wrap around my neck. I tried to scream again, but when I took in a lungfull of air, his fingers tightened.
"Don't scream. I don't want to hurt you." His words were harsh in my ears. His breath was hot.
I didn't listen. I tried to scream again, but as his fingers tightened around my throat even further, all that escaped my lips was a throaty gurgle. I felt my eyes begin to water and white spots soon replaced my vision of the television stand a few feet infront of me.
"Shut up!" he barked through clenched teeth. "I told you, I don't want to hurt you."
His fingers relaxed, but as one hand completely released itself from my neck, the other held their position, threatening me.
I pleaded, both to him and to God. My words were soft and caught between sobs. The weight of this guy (who was actually about 190 or so pounds) felt like a car ontop of me. I felt his free hand searching my pockets, pulling my wallet out.
I suddenly remembered my grandfather's high school ring, a gift the previous Christmas from my mother. It had never been off of my finger and it suddenly dawned on me that, although small and of little value except to me, it was in plain view of my attacker. I struggled to pull my hand inside and under my chest.
I didn't have any money on me which, on one hand, was a good thing. He wasn't going to take anything, but my pride, dignity and feeling of security within my own home. It wasn't until he flipped me over that I realized he may take something else.
I was now on my back. My attacker was straddled across my chest. Both of us were breathing heavy. He reached into one of his pockets of his baggy black pants and said to me: "Let's see what you got upstairs."
It was then that I saw the knife he had slipped out of his pocket...
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Joey, do you like movies about gladiators? ...
I've never been a great fan of the old gladiator movies from the '50s and '60s, but times seem to have changed for me.Last night I popped in my latest DVD from Netflix and propped myself up on the sofa to watch Troy. I was absolutely blown away!! Five decades ago, in order to make an epic battle scene, you needed hundreds and hundreds of extras. Nowadays, a small handful would do and computers add the rest, giving the impression of thousands of shirtless armored warriors all muscled up and sweating, their adrenaline pumping through...through their...
...
...oh...
Sorry 'bout that...anyway... I'm not a huge fan of Brad Pitt, both as an actor and a "sex symbol". Sure, he's handsome, but he never really did anything for me. Until now...
From his days as a lean muscular hitchhiker in Thelma and Louise to this muscular mean looking warrior (achilles), you can tell that he took the image of this roll seriously. All pumped and bulging and...and... (be right back)...
Other highlights of the film: Nathan Jones in the opening scene. Sure, he gets killed without much more than a few grunts as his credited lines in the movie, but seeing him part a sea of soldiers as he is selected to do a one on one battle, his massive torso towering over his fellow warriors as his 6'7" frame steps out into the open, his shaved head glistening in the midday sun, his chest heaving...his...his...(later that day...)
...and Eric Bana, what more can be said about that body, that
dark curly hair, that sexy beard... I just wanna go all Greek on his ass!So there you have it...my review of Troy. Let's see, did I leave anything out?
Oh yeah...
The story was good too...
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Who, Me?...Bitter? ...
I prefer cynical...
| You Are 60% Cynical |
 Yes, you are cynical, but more than anything, you're a realist. You see what's screwed up in the world, but you also take time to remember what's right. |
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Tour of Jury Duty ...
I performed my civic duty today when I visited the Philadelphia Criminal Justice Center as part of a 700+ person jury pool for upcoming trials. But what started out as my obligation as a resident of this city soon turned into an 8 hour stretch of boredom and fighting hemorroidal flare-ups caused by countless hours of waiting...and waiting...and waiting...The mailing notice informed me to arrive there by 8:15 am so, after stopping at the Wawa for a large cup of coffee, I walked amoung the morning rush of office dwellers and package delivery guys, making my way through the glass and concrete corridors of Center City. It was a bright, sunny, remarkably mild (for November) morning and the walk was relaxing, until I reached Market Street and heard the deep bong of the city hall clock tower echoing off the curtains of glass and steel rising up on either side of me. I remembered from the last time I suffered through Jury Duty that getting into the place was a chore in itself, what with the long lines and metal detectors...and this was before 9/11. I quickened my step from 20th Street, crossed the granite park on the west side of city hall, grimaced at the shabby looking Christmas tree being decorated by city workers, and cut through the central courtyard of the French/Victorian style landmark, passing under the towering portico that led me to Market East.
It was ten minutes after eight when I arrived at the main entrance to the Criminal Justice Center. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't overly crowded in the lobby. I handed in my cell phone and turned the corner to go through the metal detectors, where I was instructed to remove my coat, pockets and belt and place them on the conveyor belt which takes my items through the x-ray machine. After redressing, I gathered up my coffee and reading material and turned the next corner, being directed into a small lobby where someome greeted me, collected my notice with my identifation number and pointed me toward the waiting room through the double doors (taking special time to tell me of the wide range of breakfast food and beverages in the adjoining room).
8:15am...
I find an available seat in a large room with rows and rows of seats, filled with people of all ages, races and religions, all with one thing in common: they couldn't figure a way out of this. Sipping on my Wawa coffee, I fill out the 2-page questionaire using the #2 golf pencil provided to me. I then fold it and wait for my name to be called.
8:45am...
Still waiting for my name to be called.
9:15am...
About two-thirds of the room has been vacated, the former occupants on their way in groups of 40-60 people to the criminal courtrooms on the upper levels or to the civil courtrooms in city hall across the street. I look around to see who's left. A scattering of people (at least it looks like a scattering, but there are still a couple hundred people in the room) are trying desperately to occupy their time with books, newspapers, small talk with their neighbors or watching local television programming on the flat screen tvs suspended from the cieling.
9:45am...
I begin to wonder what would happen if I wasn't called. Around that same time, a young black woman sitting a couple seats away from me leans over and asks me that very same question. "You'll be called." I reply. "It's just a matter of time."
10:00am...
The woman who calls the names arrives at the podium with a fresh list in hand. She announces that the following list of people will be needed for jury selection in a criminal trial upstairs. There will be 60 people called, but we were to remain seated until all names are called.
10:06am...
My name is finally called. I'm juror number 36.
10:10am...
We are asked to line up with numbers 1 through 40 to the left of the main entrance and 41 through 60 down the center aisle. We are instructed to form a line 2 wide and that our juror numbers are not needed for any particular order. As we lined up along the wall, I looked out into the room and saw about 20 or so people still seated. They were going to be the last ones called.
10:12am...
The court officer moved down the line silently counting us jurors, her fingers dancing in the air before her like an airline stewardess taking a head count. She then counted the center aisle and paused. "We're missing someone from over in this line and we have an extra in that line." I checked my number just to make sure I'm in the right line. Yup.
"Please check your numbers and make sure you're where you're supposed to be please." The court officer instructed. "Numbers one through forty in this line, forty-one through sixty in the center aisle."
10:13am...
Counting again, the court officer moves more quickly through the lines. Everyone has checked and rechecked their numbers, assuring her and themselves that they are in the correct line.
10:13:37am...
The court officers grabs her list and begins reading off names. Within the first couple names called out, an audible, exhausted sigh comes from behind me. A black girl, probably no older than twenty, with a butt that could shelter a small village, realizes she's in the wrong line. Among the soft snickering and aggrivated groans of the other jurors, the girl moves across the room to the correct line.
10:14am...
The court officer informs us that, in just a moment, we would be led upstairs to the courtroom. She exits the waiting area to get further instructions.
10:14:10am...
The court officer returns: "That trial has been cancelled, please take your seats and we'll send you to the next one available."
10:20am...
The last group of twenty (who were sitting in their seats while we were all up in line) are called, gathered and led out of the room, leaving us 60 potential jurors sitting anxiously in our seats. Another court officer enters the room and tells us it'll be about 10-15 more minutes before we are moved, so if we wanted to step outside for a break or go to the bathroom, please feel free. I quickly rush outside and light up a cigarette. I can feel the beginnings of a headache creeping up the back of my neck.
10:30am...
Back in the room, we wait...
10:35am...
waiting...
10:45am...
Two and a half hours after my initial arrival, I am escorted out of the room with 59 other jurors to the elevator lobby. We bypass the elevators and head to the escalator instead.
10:47am...
We now find ourselves lined up 2 x 2 like rejects from Noah's Ark in a 2nd floor hallway. A man behind me whispers that we're about to be sent back down into the room again.
10:49am...
We're split into 3 groups of twenty and are taken up to the eleventh floor, via the elevator. It finally looks like things are going to start happening.
11:00am...
All 60 of us are now on the eleventh floor, waiting for instructions. We're told to hang out in the lobby until we're directed to the courtroom.
11:40am...
We're directed to the courtroom. My headache is screaming at me.
11:45am...
The judge introduces himself, the Assistant District Attorney and the defense lawyer. He begins to give us some instructions and throws in some lame jokes along the way to kind of put us at ease. After all, we've been sitting downstairs and in the 11th floor elevator lobby for 3 1/2 hours already with nothing to show for our civic duty.
11:55am...
The judge calls a sidebar with the ADA and the defense lawyer.
11:56am...
The judge calls a lunch recess. We are to report back at 1:00pm.
1:00pm...
We arrive back in the courtroom and are immediately broken down into three groups of twenty. The last group (41-60) are escorted to another courtroom for another trial selection, leaving 40 of us remaining. Of the remaining, numbers one through twenty are escorted into a back room and numbers 21-40 (myself included) are herded off to an adjacent courtroom. We're told that the first group of twenty are going to be interviewed about their questionaires they filled out earlier that morning and it would just be a "short wait" before we are brought back in and questioned ourselves.
1:30pm...
2:00pm...
2:30pm...
3:00pm...
The court officer arrives and brings us back into the first courtroom. We're ushered past the seating gallery and the twenty remaining jurors are put into a small room behind the courtroom. A man pokes his head into the room from another door to tell us there's a water bottle and bathroom back there and the judge will be with us shortly.
The court reporter arrives a few minutes later and tells us that the judge will question the remaining jurors one at a time in numerical order. She calls in juror #20.
3:10pm...
Juror #21 is called.
3:15pm...
Juror #22
It seems to be going fairly quickly this time around. I calculate that I should be getting out of there sometime around 4:30 or so. Whether or not I will be selected to serve on the trial is still to be determined. My headache was pounding by now and people all around the room were visibly worn down by the hours and hours of waiting with no real guidance. The last thing I wanted to do was to wait any longer only to be told that I've been selected to come back in the morning.
3:20pm...
Juror #23
I try and figure out what to say to these lawyers that will make them not want me on the panel. There are reasons I'm called bitter and they can come into perfect use at a time like this...
3:40:pm...
Juror #26
...After all, I don't trust the police department. Five years ago, I had a home invasion and I was dragged up to my bedroom by a big black man with a knife against my throat. After wrestling him off and chasing him out of my house, I called the police. Sure, they arrived quickly and immediately jumped into action, but when they learned I was gay, I can tell their attitude changed, probably thinking this was just a trick gone bad...
4:00pm...
Juror #30
...Even my wallet and the knife the guy left behind were dusted for prints, but none were found. Although I always found it strange that, when the police captain slipped my wallet through my mailslot of my front door in a plain manilla envelope without even knocking on the door to talk to me, there was never any sign of fingerprint dust on the leather...
4:15pm...
Juror #33
There were seven jurors left in the room, all lost in their thoughts. I had become lost in my own anger and frustration with the whole process. A civil trial I could handle but, left alone in a room all day to stew in the frustrations of an impending criminal trial, I couldn't help but go back to that one question on the survey that morning about not having prejudice against the statement of a police officer simply because of his or her occupation. I was left out in the cold by these officers simply because I am gay. Now I'm supposed to trust the testimony of a cop who will be testifying against two people who were of obvious middle eastern decent?
4:25pm...
The court officer hasn't arrived back for the next juror yet. I'm growing more and more impatient with each passing moment. I'll keep my cool, but let it be known, should they ask why I checked the box marked "yes" under that question...
4:35pm...
The court officer finally arrives and smiles at the 7 remaining jurors. "We have selected our jury and alternates. You can all go home now. The office downstairs is closed, so we will mail you out your checks."
What??? Nearly 8 1/2 hours of sitting in rooms full of strangers, being shuttled around the criminal justice center like cattle, having nothing to do, but watch the bored faces of the other jurors while beating off the headache from hell or trying desperately to focus on the words in the book I grabbed before leaving the house this morning? All that time for...."civic duty" and nine bucks that'll be mailed to me??? And I didn't even get a chance to vent my frustration????
4:45pm...
I'm sitting at a bar, cold beer in my hand...
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
But...I SWEAR...I don't say "wooder"!!! ...
If you're from Philly and don't think you have an accent, take this test and then....think again.
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: Philadelphia Your accent is as Philadelphian as a cheesesteak! If you're not from Philadelphia, then you're from someplace near there like south Jersey, Baltimore, or Wilmington. if you've ever journeyed to some far off place where people don't know that Philly has an accent, someone may have thought you talked a little weird even though they didn't have a clue what accent it was they heard. | |
| The Northeast | |
| The Midland | |
| The Inland North | |
| The South | |
| Boston | |
| The West | |
| North Central | |
| What American accent do you have? Take More Quizzes | |
Monday, October 23, 2006
Problem ...
I just tried updating my blog with a new entry, but all of my editing icons have completely vanished. I can't upload pictures, edit text, add links or anything like that. If anyone else is having this problem, please let me know!!!
I've just tried contacting the help desk, but who knows how long it'll take to get a response.
Thanks.
I've just tried contacting the help desk, but who knows how long it'll take to get a response.
Thanks.
Ode to a Stylist ...
I know it's a couple of weeks overdue and I know it's been a long, LONG while since I've written something here, but I just wanted to do a quick shout-out to one of my best friends and his new venture into the world of buisnessowner: Ozzie Perez of the soon-to-be-world-famous Ozzie Perez Salon. Best of luck to ya, bud!!Sung to the tune of Barry Manilow's "Copacabana"...
His name is Ozzie, he was a hair guy.
With golden scissors in his hand he was known throughout the land
The guy to go to for a new hair do
from tattered wirey tangled locks, he turned you into a million bucks
But like those gone before, he dreamed of so much more.
He was young and he was a stylist
He wanted his own store
Called the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion was always his passion
and he promised
walk-ins welcomed...
His boyfriend Michael saw his potential
and together side by side they went searching far and wide
A perfect storefront to greet his clients
They had the neighborhood picked out, but then they started having doubts.
Until that fateful day when luck would come their way
and together at the window you can hear them say
It's the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion will be his real passion
and they started
to build the dream
His name is Ozzie, He is a hair guy
in his own shop off of the Square, all designed with retro flare
Both men and women all come to see him
And his dream throughout his life has begun to take up flight.
And like a newborn's dad, he's proud of his new pad.
And I'm sure I'm gonna hear it for this real bad ad
For the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
the hottest shop to get your hair done (Hair)
yes, the Ozzie (Oz) Perez Salon (Perez Salon)
Creating hair fashion is always his passion
So be sure to
stop in sometime....
(Ozzie...)
{Perez Salon...)
(Ozzie...)
(Perez Salon...)
Monday, September 11, 2006
Five Years ...
A somber and sobering anniversary. I can't believe five years have passed since that fateful day when it seemed the world had their collective eyes glued to every station on every television set.It was said on the news yesterday that 95% of Americans can remember exactly where they were at the time they learned the news that we were under attack. It's hard for me to believe that it isn't a full 100%. In any case, not only do I remember, but I can once again feel every emotion and thought that gripped me that sunny Tuesday in September 1,825 days ago.
I'll write about it next. I need to get to work. I just wanted to take a moment here to remember and to pass a message to my friends who witnessed first hand (you know who you are) that I'm thinking of you.
Thank you.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
I felt Just Like Marlin Perkins ...
It suddenly dawned on me, as I was suffering through public transportation on my way home from work the other night, at how much the Route 17 bus resembles Mutual of Omaha's, Wild Kingdom.
It started out as a quiet ride with only myself and a small handful of passengers making our way back to our respective homes dotting Center City and South Philadelphia, but as usual, the bus quickly filled up with an eclectic assortment of riders hauling shopping bags and baby strollers, all trying to squeeze past one another like a tank packed full of feeder fish; legs lifting over oversized Old Navy bags set down in the aisle as a single passenger fishes through a junk-filled purse looking for exact change while people left outside all funnel around the narrow doorway like a herd of refugees charging the back of a flatbed truck trying to get a bottle of water after a natural disaster. After several minutes all passengers are boarded; the sounds Nextels chirping endlessly and countless conversations in multiple dialects and slang filling the already cramped airspace.
I'm sitting in the first forward facing seat and I watch a black mother and her very overweight pre-teenage daughter take a seat in the bench infront of me. They're facing the aisle, so I'm viewing their profile. The daughter, too large for the small hard padded seat, is figiting, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Her mother pulls out her Nextel and immediately starts beeping someone on the other end, alerting them that they are now on the bus. Both females have similar hairstyles, but with slightly different "twists". The daughter's hair is tightly braided; black twists pulled back from her forehead, each perfectly spaced from the next, creating an alternating black/coffee colored horizontal striped pattern from her face to the center of the back of her head, where the braids from each side met in perfect alignment and were then twined together. What was leftover was not braided, but flared outward, all the way from the back of her neck up the center of her skull to her forehead, giving the illusion of a wild, wiry three inch mohawk. Although I couldn't get a great view of the mother's hairstyle, I did notice that she sported another version of a painfully tight braiding that looked to all converge under a hair extention which could've only been picked out of a pile of trash swept up from the curb.
The girl sang, her words unintelligible, her voice cracking like a reject from American Idol. She looked around the bus, her eyes darting from person to person without actually seeing anything, like a kid who's Ritalin hasn't quite kicked in yet. The mother continued to mutter into the Nextel, alternating the electronic contraption from her lips to her ear (thank God she had the courtesy of keeping the volume down). She then whispered something to her daughter and I, along with several other passengers in the front of the bus, became silently fixated on what we were seeing.
The girl reached up to her mother's head and,
continuing to sing and only glancing quickly at what she was doing (her main attraction seemed to be still coming from somewhere behind me), she started to pull and tug at her mother's braids. The mother continued talking on her phone, seemingly unaware of her daughter's actions. One by one, the daughter reached into the mother's nest and yanked a braid, twisting it between her fingers and pulling out a tiny rubber band that kept the braid wound. She would slip the band over a fat finger and then reach up with both hands and proceed pull apart the strands of hair like wet pasta.
I winced in pain, wondering what this must feel like against the mother's scalp, but she just continued to hold a conversation. I realized that this must be a common practice among African American women, but, as I stared around at the other black women seated around me and noticed their shock and awe gazes, I realized that, maybe common, this shouldn't be something happening on a bus, but rather in the privacy of one's own home, or at least under the protective shade of a front porch on a hot summer afternoon when there was nothing else to occupy one's time.
This ritual went on for several blocks and probably long after I disembarked from the bus, since it appeared to be almost as long a process to take out the braids as it does to create. I, along with many other passengers, stared with disgusted fascination, but about midway through the ride home more passengers boarded the bus and my view was quickly blocked by another mother, this time seated between me and the mother/daughter team, and her young son (maybe 8 years old) seated on her lap.
The mother was dark skinned, the son light and, with soft wisps of curly hair instead of the tight matte of hair characteristic of the race, was obviously bi-racial. What amazed me most about the boy was his intelligence, especially for someone so young. He was a constant talker, discussing many subjects, but nothing his mother was actually listening to, his speach was more like that of someone twice, maybe two and a half times his age. His pronuciation was perfect, his vocabulary extensive, but what really got me was his Rainman-like obsession with Nemo. His monologue went from subjects across the board to Dustin Hoffman having to get to a tv before Jeopardy begins:
"We need to get home for Finding Nemo...Finding Nemo starts at 9:00, 7:00 central...I must watch Finding Nemo...It is now 9:00--"
"We'll make it." The mother chimes in.
"--7:00 central time...I must catch Finding Nemo from the beginning...Not at 9:15...Not at 9:10...Nemo starts at 9:00 o'clock on the dot, 7:00 central..."
Thank God I only had a few more blocks to go.
When I got off the bus, I thanked the silence that enveloped me, interrupted briefly by a car horn in the distance.
When I got into my house, I immediately headed to the fridge and cracked open a beer and chugged half of it down, trying to wash away the images and sounds from the bus. I then plopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, turned on the tv and watched...
Finding Nemo
It started out as a quiet ride with only myself and a small handful of passengers making our way back to our respective homes dotting Center City and South Philadelphia, but as usual, the bus quickly filled up with an eclectic assortment of riders hauling shopping bags and baby strollers, all trying to squeeze past one another like a tank packed full of feeder fish; legs lifting over oversized Old Navy bags set down in the aisle as a single passenger fishes through a junk-filled purse looking for exact change while people left outside all funnel around the narrow doorway like a herd of refugees charging the back of a flatbed truck trying to get a bottle of water after a natural disaster. After several minutes all passengers are boarded; the sounds Nextels chirping endlessly and countless conversations in multiple dialects and slang filling the already cramped airspace.
I'm sitting in the first forward facing seat and I watch a black mother and her very overweight pre-teenage daughter take a seat in the bench infront of me. They're facing the aisle, so I'm viewing their profile. The daughter, too large for the small hard padded seat, is figiting, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Her mother pulls out her Nextel and immediately starts beeping someone on the other end, alerting them that they are now on the bus. Both females have similar hairstyles, but with slightly different "twists". The daughter's hair is tightly braided; black twists pulled back from her forehead, each perfectly spaced from the next, creating an alternating black/coffee colored horizontal striped pattern from her face to the center of the back of her head, where the braids from each side met in perfect alignment and were then twined together. What was leftover was not braided, but flared outward, all the way from the back of her neck up the center of her skull to her forehead, giving the illusion of a wild, wiry three inch mohawk. Although I couldn't get a great view of the mother's hairstyle, I did notice that she sported another version of a painfully tight braiding that looked to all converge under a hair extention which could've only been picked out of a pile of trash swept up from the curb.
The girl sang, her words unintelligible, her voice cracking like a reject from American Idol. She looked around the bus, her eyes darting from person to person without actually seeing anything, like a kid who's Ritalin hasn't quite kicked in yet. The mother continued to mutter into the Nextel, alternating the electronic contraption from her lips to her ear (thank God she had the courtesy of keeping the volume down). She then whispered something to her daughter and I, along with several other passengers in the front of the bus, became silently fixated on what we were seeing.
The girl reached up to her mother's head and,
continuing to sing and only glancing quickly at what she was doing (her main attraction seemed to be still coming from somewhere behind me), she started to pull and tug at her mother's braids. The mother continued talking on her phone, seemingly unaware of her daughter's actions. One by one, the daughter reached into the mother's nest and yanked a braid, twisting it between her fingers and pulling out a tiny rubber band that kept the braid wound. She would slip the band over a fat finger and then reach up with both hands and proceed pull apart the strands of hair like wet pasta.I winced in pain, wondering what this must feel like against the mother's scalp, but she just continued to hold a conversation. I realized that this must be a common practice among African American women, but, as I stared around at the other black women seated around me and noticed their shock and awe gazes, I realized that, maybe common, this shouldn't be something happening on a bus, but rather in the privacy of one's own home, or at least under the protective shade of a front porch on a hot summer afternoon when there was nothing else to occupy one's time.
This ritual went on for several blocks and probably long after I disembarked from the bus, since it appeared to be almost as long a process to take out the braids as it does to create. I, along with many other passengers, stared with disgusted fascination, but about midway through the ride home more passengers boarded the bus and my view was quickly blocked by another mother, this time seated between me and the mother/daughter team, and her young son (maybe 8 years old) seated on her lap.
The mother was dark skinned, the son light and, with soft wisps of curly hair instead of the tight matte of hair characteristic of the race, was obviously bi-racial. What amazed me most about the boy was his intelligence, especially for someone so young. He was a constant talker, discussing many subjects, but nothing his mother was actually listening to, his speach was more like that of someone twice, maybe two and a half times his age. His pronuciation was perfect, his vocabulary extensive, but what really got me was his Rainman-like obsession with Nemo. His monologue went from subjects across the board to Dustin Hoffman having to get to a tv before Jeopardy begins:
"We need to get home for Finding Nemo...Finding Nemo starts at 9:00, 7:00 central...I must watch Finding Nemo...It is now 9:00--"
"We'll make it." The mother chimes in.
"--7:00 central time...I must catch Finding Nemo from the beginning...Not at 9:15...Not at 9:10...Nemo starts at 9:00 o'clock on the dot, 7:00 central..."
Thank God I only had a few more blocks to go.
When I got off the bus, I thanked the silence that enveloped me, interrupted briefly by a car horn in the distance.
When I got into my house, I immediately headed to the fridge and cracked open a beer and chugged half of it down, trying to wash away the images and sounds from the bus. I then plopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, turned on the tv and watched...
Finding Nemo
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
A Room With a View....FINALLY ...
Applause, Applause (lovingingly nicknamed A.A.) "A theatrically themed restaurant and lounge", seems to be one of the new homes for the Post regulars. Stephen's first day was yesterday and his happy hour crew came out in full force to support him in his new spot. The bar is right in the gayborhood at 13th & Locust Streets. Small and quaint, but looking to expand, the place appears much larger due to the wall of glass that overlooks Locust Street. A small, granite bar sits nestled in the angled front window, giving the patrons a great view to people watch as passers-by head off to other bars, restaurants and theaters down the street. Behind the bar, a wall of glass shelves displays the establishment's offerings of a large selection of alcohol for your drinking pleasure (even Mike's Hard Lemonade, which I've wanted to try for a long time). Chandeliers line the ceiling, reflecting prisms of light throughout the room. And, although it's a long walk, a stroll through the narrow room and down a winding flight of stairs leads you to a pair of very attractive bathrooms, with terra cotta colored walls and granite tilework and very cool sinks (the faucets are set off to the side of the basin and the water runs down through copper troughs).
The crowd is very mixed: gay and straight, old and young, but all are friendly. It almost feels like being back at the Post, only after a long awaited remodeling was done (and of course the manager replaced with someone who actually cares).
I look forward to many a happy hour with our "counselor", Stephen, and the fresh new feel of sitting in a bar without the worry in the back of your mind of whether or not a furry little creature will crawl up your pantleg...(at least without buying you a drink first).
The crowd is very mixed: gay and straight, old and young, but all are friendly. It almost feels like being back at the Post, only after a long awaited remodeling was done (and of course the manager replaced with someone who actually cares).
I look forward to many a happy hour with our "counselor", Stephen, and the fresh new feel of sitting in a bar without the worry in the back of your mind of whether or not a furry little creature will crawl up your pantleg...(at least without buying you a drink first).
Monday, July 31, 2006
Full Circle ...
Originally this blog, appropriately titled "Life in a Nuthouse", was to primarily be about the comings and goings of people and activities in The Post Bar. You can get a little background by scrolling through some of my original posts. Of course, over the past thirteen months of writing, just like everything in life, things have changed. What started out as life behind bar drifted down other avenues, from my search for a new job to friendships coming and going to living with a devil-cat. But, like a deep rooted, lifelong friendship, life at the post always crept back into an entry or two every month or so, from talking about mice and the icy temperatures in the bar to photo essays.
My physical time spent at the Post started to dwindle several months ago. I just became bored with the drab walls and dangling electrical cords trying to snake their way into the neck of my beer bottle. Unfortunately, however, spending less time in a place where so many of your friends gather you begin to see how important a dive like that is as a sort of common thread that tie the friendships together, at least from my perspective.
Case in point: I went to the Post this past Saturday to visit with the regs and catch up on things only to discover the clientele consisted of a stranger, myself and a few of the rodents scurrying under the non-working baseboard heaters. The bartender informed me that Stephen, the most popular bartender, was fired the week before for a seriously dumb-ass reason with no other justification other than the manager's jealousy of his own downspiraling popularity with the patrons. This firing led to a massive boycott against the establishment with most of the regulars. There are several regulars who read my blog and, to be honest, I kinda felt slighted not to have been informed of such major news and the way everyone banded together behind a fired bartender, it made me feel like I was left under the heading of "out of sight, out of mind". I know that's not entirely true, however, since it's my understanding that several regs have oftentimes wondered where I've been and how I was doing when I showed up at the bar after a several week absence. According to one: "We didn't even know if you were alive or dead!" That's kind of a hurtful thing to hear, considering that nearly everyone has my phone number, yet no one called. I just put on a brave face and fake smile and say: "As you can see, I'm here and I'm fine.", but in the back of my head I'm thinking: geez, I can slip in the tub or fall down the stairs and no one will know until the smell of a rotting corpse drifts through the open window.
Sorry. As I said to my friends last night, my writings tend to lead more towards babbling.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled posting...
So, the bartender's fired, the group is protesting and other neighborhood bars are suddenly finding themselves busy with new patrons. When I ran into the group last night, they immediately pulled me aside and said that this would be a great thing for my blog. There will probably be a few more entries after I receive pictures from the upcoming make-shift memorial that is planned, but first, thanks to Ivan, here is the infamous "letter" to the owner. I've been given permission to post this letter and I'm quite honored to be one of the first people to read it. I've also taken the liberty of changing the names to protect the innocent (or stupid), but it won't be hard to figure out who's who.
A great deal of commotion surrounds the termination of Steven from The Post, and Timmy is relieved to have dismissed him. However, you have been presented with only one side of the story. As a businessman, you are entitled to hear the entire truth before you can make an informed decision about his future status. First and foremost, it should be noted that the only reason Steven opened the bar late on Sunday, July 23rd (which precipitated this whole situation) is because the bartenders from the previous night were remiss in their responsibilities and did not clean up. The bar opened approximately 10 minutes later than usual so that Steven was not forced to make drinks while still scrubbing toilets.
Granted, Steven may have ranted to Timmy in an inappropriate manner about the conditions of The Post. His concerns, however, are motivated by a genuine desire to accommodate his clientele. For example, the bar has not been repaired from the flood and fire damage it suffered years ago, there is no heat in the bar during the winter months, and mice run rampant on the floor. These are all legitimate grievances that have yet to be addressed.
What you probably don’t know, are all of the positive contributions Steven has made to the bar.
For example:
* Sunday Lunch and a Movie — on Sundays, Steven regularly prepares light fare to accompany a current movie. (These expenses come solely out of his own pocket, and draw a substantial crowd.)
* Potluck Luncheons — in order to foster a sense of camaraderie among the patrons, Steven will e-mail or telephone patrons and encourage their participation in these special events which also bolster sales tremendously.
* Football Sunday — like Sunday Lunch and a Movie, Steven prepares food (again, at his own expense) offers door prizes, and fosters a sense of community among patrons during football season. This special consideration makes everyone forget the lack of heat during the winter months.
* Birthdays — Steven keep a running tab of all patron birthdays and provides cake and food to celebrate each patron birthday throughout the year (at his own expense).
* Holidays — Steven will also decorate the bar in an appropriate manner for each holiday season (yet again, at his own expense).
Granted, Steven does have his shortcomings. But then again so does Timmy of which you are probably not aware:
* Timmy does not show up on time consistently
* He disappears from the bar for periods of up to 30 minutes alerting clientele, “Someone watch the bar for me; I’ll be right back.”
* He is discourteous to anyone he does not consider a “regular.”
* He has been derelict in his responsibilities (as mentioned above), and does not leave a clean bar for the morning shift
Does Steven have his faults? Absolutely. However, the positive contributions he makes to The Post, far outweigh any minor flaws in his ability to draw a crowd and serve his clientele. To lose Steven would be a grave mistake as his client base is responsible for a substantial amount of income which the bar generates. Furthermore, it seems foolish that a petty disagreement on Timmy’s part is cause for his termination.
My recommendation would be to make Steven a daytime manager who reports directly to you and retain Timmy as an evening manager. More importantly, numbers speak for themselves and it will become apparent in the weeks ahead that the bar will lose more than it will gain by Steven's termination — both in revenue, and patronage.
As I stated above....more to come as I receive.
My physical time spent at the Post started to dwindle several months ago. I just became bored with the drab walls and dangling electrical cords trying to snake their way into the neck of my beer bottle. Unfortunately, however, spending less time in a place where so many of your friends gather you begin to see how important a dive like that is as a sort of common thread that tie the friendships together, at least from my perspective.
Case in point: I went to the Post this past Saturday to visit with the regs and catch up on things only to discover the clientele consisted of a stranger, myself and a few of the rodents scurrying under the non-working baseboard heaters. The bartender informed me that Stephen, the most popular bartender, was fired the week before for a seriously dumb-ass reason with no other justification other than the manager's jealousy of his own downspiraling popularity with the patrons. This firing led to a massive boycott against the establishment with most of the regulars. There are several regulars who read my blog and, to be honest, I kinda felt slighted not to have been informed of such major news and the way everyone banded together behind a fired bartender, it made me feel like I was left under the heading of "out of sight, out of mind". I know that's not entirely true, however, since it's my understanding that several regs have oftentimes wondered where I've been and how I was doing when I showed up at the bar after a several week absence. According to one: "We didn't even know if you were alive or dead!" That's kind of a hurtful thing to hear, considering that nearly everyone has my phone number, yet no one called. I just put on a brave face and fake smile and say: "As you can see, I'm here and I'm fine.", but in the back of my head I'm thinking: geez, I can slip in the tub or fall down the stairs and no one will know until the smell of a rotting corpse drifts through the open window.
Sorry. As I said to my friends last night, my writings tend to lead more towards babbling.
Anyway, back to our regularly scheduled posting...
So, the bartender's fired, the group is protesting and other neighborhood bars are suddenly finding themselves busy with new patrons. When I ran into the group last night, they immediately pulled me aside and said that this would be a great thing for my blog. There will probably be a few more entries after I receive pictures from the upcoming make-shift memorial that is planned, but first, thanks to Ivan, here is the infamous "letter" to the owner. I've been given permission to post this letter and I'm quite honored to be one of the first people to read it. I've also taken the liberty of changing the names to protect the innocent (or stupid), but it won't be hard to figure out who's who.
A great deal of commotion surrounds the termination of Steven from The Post, and Timmy is relieved to have dismissed him. However, you have been presented with only one side of the story. As a businessman, you are entitled to hear the entire truth before you can make an informed decision about his future status. First and foremost, it should be noted that the only reason Steven opened the bar late on Sunday, July 23rd (which precipitated this whole situation) is because the bartenders from the previous night were remiss in their responsibilities and did not clean up. The bar opened approximately 10 minutes later than usual so that Steven was not forced to make drinks while still scrubbing toilets.
Granted, Steven may have ranted to Timmy in an inappropriate manner about the conditions of The Post. His concerns, however, are motivated by a genuine desire to accommodate his clientele. For example, the bar has not been repaired from the flood and fire damage it suffered years ago, there is no heat in the bar during the winter months, and mice run rampant on the floor. These are all legitimate grievances that have yet to be addressed.
What you probably don’t know, are all of the positive contributions Steven has made to the bar.
For example:
* Sunday Lunch and a Movie — on Sundays, Steven regularly prepares light fare to accompany a current movie. (These expenses come solely out of his own pocket, and draw a substantial crowd.)
* Potluck Luncheons — in order to foster a sense of camaraderie among the patrons, Steven will e-mail or telephone patrons and encourage their participation in these special events which also bolster sales tremendously.
* Football Sunday — like Sunday Lunch and a Movie, Steven prepares food (again, at his own expense) offers door prizes, and fosters a sense of community among patrons during football season. This special consideration makes everyone forget the lack of heat during the winter months.
* Birthdays — Steven keep a running tab of all patron birthdays and provides cake and food to celebrate each patron birthday throughout the year (at his own expense).
* Holidays — Steven will also decorate the bar in an appropriate manner for each holiday season (yet again, at his own expense).
Granted, Steven does have his shortcomings. But then again so does Timmy of which you are probably not aware:
* Timmy does not show up on time consistently
* He disappears from the bar for periods of up to 30 minutes alerting clientele, “Someone watch the bar for me; I’ll be right back.”
* He is discourteous to anyone he does not consider a “regular.”
* He has been derelict in his responsibilities (as mentioned above), and does not leave a clean bar for the morning shift
Does Steven have his faults? Absolutely. However, the positive contributions he makes to The Post, far outweigh any minor flaws in his ability to draw a crowd and serve his clientele. To lose Steven would be a grave mistake as his client base is responsible for a substantial amount of income which the bar generates. Furthermore, it seems foolish that a petty disagreement on Timmy’s part is cause for his termination.
My recommendation would be to make Steven a daytime manager who reports directly to you and retain Timmy as an evening manager. More importantly, numbers speak for themselves and it will become apparent in the weeks ahead that the bar will lose more than it will gain by Steven's termination — both in revenue, and patronage.
As I stated above....more to come as I receive.
Monday, July 24, 2006
The "Flood" Gates of Hell ...
It came without warning. It came with great ferocity and strength. It came and came and came...
No, I'm not talking about the hottest stud in the latest porn movie. I'm talking W-A-T-E-R!!!
I sell high-end furniture in an 18,000 square foot facility covering two floors in Philadelphia. It's a well respected establishment with a long history of contemporary furniture, rugs and accessories. We've been written up in magazines, newspapers and are even credited in many shows on HGTV, as well as furnishing the "Real World Philadelphia" house. It's a great old building with high ceilings and an expansive view from the front door, interrupted only by the duel rows of massive columns that hold up the six floors of loft condominiums upstairs. Much of the character of the interior (as is the case in many loft apartments in the neighborhood) is the old industrial look; exposed pipes snaking the cieling, worn down hardwood floors and other such amenities and flaws that remind you of an industrial age gone by. The original hardwood floors on the main level, for example, are forever stained with grease and grime from the original occupants. For decades the building was some sort of factory and signs can still be found, including a ten foot high rusted piece of machinery in the back storeroom. And, although you would never notice by looking down the length of the 300 foot room (but very noticeable when you're up on a ladder changing the overhead spots) the floor actually slopes and is about a foot higher in the rear of the room than the front door. I've learned that, whatever was made in that building 70, 80, 90 years ago, the only way to clean the floors was to start from the back and hose it down, allowing all the water to wash out into the street. But, as with many great old buildings, there are great old problems that come along with it.
The lower level (or basement) is about 7,000 square feet and, although the ceilings are much lower and there's no natural light, we've managed to make the best of it with some brightly colored walls, textured fabrics and vibrant area rugs to break the monotony of a drab painted cement floor. As with the upstairs, little has been done to comprimise the old industrial feel the building embraced. When the building was vacated and gutted, many of the pipes and electrical fixtures were left behind and, although decades since used, were always a reminder of what once was. Some pipes, mostly unused drain pipes from the upper floors were removed and the holes in the floor capped for all eternity.
Or so we thought...
The past days have been hotter 'n hell, with temperatures in the upper nineties and heat indexes nearing 110 degrees. It was only a matter of time before a much welcomed cold front would push its way through the city, bringing with it more bearable temperatures. But, as with any summer cold front moving in on an area soaked with humidity and firey temperatures, it could be quite unpredictable. This past Saturday was no exception to the rule. What was strange was how quickly everything changed.
It was a fairly busy Saturday and we were pushing towards the end of the afternoon. Each of the three salespeople were all with potential customers throughout the two levels. I was working on what was promising to be a very lucrative sale and showing a couple several options on leather recliners, dining furniture and rugs for a new addition they had just completed on their house. One co-worker was in the lower level showing fabric samples to a couple interested in livingroom furniture and the 2nd co-worker was showing off other items to someone who had just walked into the store.
The sales desk is about twenty or so feet away from the wall of glass that overlooks the street. I was looking up some prices on the computer and suddenly something felt out of place. I looked towards the bank of windows and then looked back at my client: "Did it just suddenly get dark?"
"They said we're supposed to get some bad storms today." The wife replied.
A few minutes later, I took the couple downstairs. As we reached the top of the stairs, a sudden blinding flash of lightening filled the brightly lit showroom, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that, for a brief second, I thought all six floors of the condos above us were crashing down.
"I guess this is gonna be a bad one." I chuckled, as we made our way down the steps to the lower level.
A few minutes later, I was back upstairs looking up information on something else that peeked my client's interest. I heard the chime of the front door and looked up to see a young couple dashing inside. On the opposite side of the glass I could see rain like I haven't witnessed since Hurricane Floyd several years ago. Unstoppable, the rain poured down onto the city as if the dark sky was suddenly torn open, unleashing every drop of moisture it once tried to hold. Within seconds, I can see rushing water spilling up over the curb; whitecaps breaking against the tires of parked cars like waves on a rocky beach. A soft steady roar could be heard through the glass as the rain increased even more in intensity. I chuckled nervously, thinking of my basement at home and hoping that this was a fast moving storm.
A few minutes later (seriously, no more than five or six minutes since the rains started) my phone at the sales desk beeps and it's my co-worker down on the lower level: "Uhhh, Chris. We have a leak down here."
Thinking it's just a some condensation dripping from an air conditioning pipe, I casually ask: "Is it bad?"
"It's...uhh...it's coming up out of the floor."
"Oh shit!" I slam the phone down and head to the stairs. As soon as I reached the landing where the stairs turned, I stopped and looked around the floor. It didn't seem so bad. I did notice a trickle of water off to my left, travelling towards one of the drains in the center of the room. My co-worker was looking up at me and then back down towards the floor behind a chair. That was when I heard the strange bubbling sound. I rushed down the remaining steps and headed over towards the corner where he stood.
In the ground, where one of the capped holes from an old drain pipe was located, water was literally pumping up from under the building. As I watched in astonishment, the water rose around my feet, sweeping over the area rug and heading towards the center of the room.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I said to no one in particular. I've never witnessed water entering the building like this before, especially from a hole that was a good ten feet below street level and another seventy feet from the street!
"Okay." I finally said. And that was it. I thought a solution would come to me, but that was the only word out of my mouth. Mopping wouldn't work. Already there was about a half inch of water on the floor and it was pumping more violently, spewing up rust and debris that hadn't seen the light of day in probably twenty years. So far, only about 30 seconds had passed since I was on the step staring down.
I rushed off towards the back storeroom where the wet-vac was housed. I threw open the door...and stopped. The now familiar gurlgling/pumping of forced water echoed in the darkened room and, in what little light I had to see with from the doorway, it was evident that the drain in the center of the room was also pumping up water...and GET THIS: water was also pumping up out of the wash tub in the back corner!! I can see water spilling down over the lip of the fiberglass rim and splashing down onto the floor. I closed the door just as my co-worker came up behind me. I said the only thing I fealt was appropriate: "You don't want to go in there..."
I then heard the hissing. The sound scared the crap out of me. At first, I thought it could only be one thing: gas leak, but then, as I hunted down the source of the sound, a familiar gurgling accompanied the hiss. Across the other end of the room from where the water was bubbling up out of the ground like a newly found oil well (and has not let up yet), I discovered another capped drain. The metal cap was still tightly mounted over the hole, but water was trying to force itself up around the tiny crack around the edge of the cap. A small, managable pool of water formed around the cap and I moved away, thinking nothing much of it. I ran back upstairs to call my boss. Through a not-so-perfect cell connection, I desperately tried to explain the situation. He suggested using the wet-vacs in the back storage room until he arrived, but he couldn't understand the scope of the situation. Hell, I couldn't even understand the scope of the situation and I was witnessing it first hand.
Outside, the rain was still pouring. Inside, the water was still pumping. All in all, not fifteen minutes had passed since the rain started. I figured I should just call 9-1-1, but then I noticed a couple heading back downstairs. The couple I had been working with were up on the main level discussing dining chairs. I couldn't believe that things were continuing normally while I frantically ran from level to level like Chicken Little around the farmyard. I headed back downstairs and noticed yet another couple sitting on a sofa, mere feet away from a newly formed stream coursing through the center of the basement, looking through fabrics. I suggested to the other two salespeople that we should get these people upstairs.
From my vantage point, the front end of the basement looked dry, but I decided to check it out anyway. Boy, was I wrong. Another pipe, this one coming in from the outside, somewhere under the sidewalk in the front of the building, was orinally capped with cement. The cement chunk, about an inch in diameter and three inches in length, was lying on the floor about two feet away from the pipe, which was now spewing water out onto the floor. All I could do at this time was laugh.
The second drain (the one that was still capped with only a little bit of water bubbling around the edge of the metal disk) suddenly exploded with enough force to send dirt and rust fragments halfway up the side of a hutch standing next to it. Water quickly flooded that portion of the room.
About 30 minutes after the rains began, they ended just as quickly, along with the pumping of the water from the drains. It amazed me that, after only five minutes or less of a torrential downpour, the storm drains outside had gotten so completely filled with water that they started to back up into the buildings. After all was said and done, there was about an inch of water covering about 30-40% of the floor. There was nothing left for us to do except go home and wait for the water to drain again.
The next morning, I arrived about an hour early. My boss was already there with a shop-vac trying to salvage the rugs. Where there was cement exposed, only a few puddles remained, leaving behind small piles of rust chips and other dirt (including a crushed tin can that was so old, the label had worn away).
Worse things could've happened. Worse things have happened. But all in all, the only loss from the storm were about a dozen rugs and maybe an ottoman or two. We were open for business and, outside of the lingering smell left over from the carpets that had been hauled away, things were pretty much back to normal; a fairly busy Sunday...
No, I'm not talking about the hottest stud in the latest porn movie. I'm talking W-A-T-E-R!!!
I sell high-end furniture in an 18,000 square foot facility covering two floors in Philadelphia. It's a well respected establishment with a long history of contemporary furniture, rugs and accessories. We've been written up in magazines, newspapers and are even credited in many shows on HGTV, as well as furnishing the "Real World Philadelphia" house. It's a great old building with high ceilings and an expansive view from the front door, interrupted only by the duel rows of massive columns that hold up the six floors of loft condominiums upstairs. Much of the character of the interior (as is the case in many loft apartments in the neighborhood) is the old industrial look; exposed pipes snaking the cieling, worn down hardwood floors and other such amenities and flaws that remind you of an industrial age gone by. The original hardwood floors on the main level, for example, are forever stained with grease and grime from the original occupants. For decades the building was some sort of factory and signs can still be found, including a ten foot high rusted piece of machinery in the back storeroom. And, although you would never notice by looking down the length of the 300 foot room (but very noticeable when you're up on a ladder changing the overhead spots) the floor actually slopes and is about a foot higher in the rear of the room than the front door. I've learned that, whatever was made in that building 70, 80, 90 years ago, the only way to clean the floors was to start from the back and hose it down, allowing all the water to wash out into the street. But, as with many great old buildings, there are great old problems that come along with it.
The lower level (or basement) is about 7,000 square feet and, although the ceilings are much lower and there's no natural light, we've managed to make the best of it with some brightly colored walls, textured fabrics and vibrant area rugs to break the monotony of a drab painted cement floor. As with the upstairs, little has been done to comprimise the old industrial feel the building embraced. When the building was vacated and gutted, many of the pipes and electrical fixtures were left behind and, although decades since used, were always a reminder of what once was. Some pipes, mostly unused drain pipes from the upper floors were removed and the holes in the floor capped for all eternity.
Or so we thought...
The past days have been hotter 'n hell, with temperatures in the upper nineties and heat indexes nearing 110 degrees. It was only a matter of time before a much welcomed cold front would push its way through the city, bringing with it more bearable temperatures. But, as with any summer cold front moving in on an area soaked with humidity and firey temperatures, it could be quite unpredictable. This past Saturday was no exception to the rule. What was strange was how quickly everything changed.
It was a fairly busy Saturday and we were pushing towards the end of the afternoon. Each of the three salespeople were all with potential customers throughout the two levels. I was working on what was promising to be a very lucrative sale and showing a couple several options on leather recliners, dining furniture and rugs for a new addition they had just completed on their house. One co-worker was in the lower level showing fabric samples to a couple interested in livingroom furniture and the 2nd co-worker was showing off other items to someone who had just walked into the store.
The sales desk is about twenty or so feet away from the wall of glass that overlooks the street. I was looking up some prices on the computer and suddenly something felt out of place. I looked towards the bank of windows and then looked back at my client: "Did it just suddenly get dark?"
"They said we're supposed to get some bad storms today." The wife replied.
A few minutes later, I took the couple downstairs. As we reached the top of the stairs, a sudden blinding flash of lightening filled the brightly lit showroom, followed almost immediately by a clap of thunder so loud that, for a brief second, I thought all six floors of the condos above us were crashing down.
"I guess this is gonna be a bad one." I chuckled, as we made our way down the steps to the lower level.
A few minutes later, I was back upstairs looking up information on something else that peeked my client's interest. I heard the chime of the front door and looked up to see a young couple dashing inside. On the opposite side of the glass I could see rain like I haven't witnessed since Hurricane Floyd several years ago. Unstoppable, the rain poured down onto the city as if the dark sky was suddenly torn open, unleashing every drop of moisture it once tried to hold. Within seconds, I can see rushing water spilling up over the curb; whitecaps breaking against the tires of parked cars like waves on a rocky beach. A soft steady roar could be heard through the glass as the rain increased even more in intensity. I chuckled nervously, thinking of my basement at home and hoping that this was a fast moving storm.
A few minutes later (seriously, no more than five or six minutes since the rains started) my phone at the sales desk beeps and it's my co-worker down on the lower level: "Uhhh, Chris. We have a leak down here."
Thinking it's just a some condensation dripping from an air conditioning pipe, I casually ask: "Is it bad?"
"It's...uhh...it's coming up out of the floor."
"Oh shit!" I slam the phone down and head to the stairs. As soon as I reached the landing where the stairs turned, I stopped and looked around the floor. It didn't seem so bad. I did notice a trickle of water off to my left, travelling towards one of the drains in the center of the room. My co-worker was looking up at me and then back down towards the floor behind a chair. That was when I heard the strange bubbling sound. I rushed down the remaining steps and headed over towards the corner where he stood.
In the ground, where one of the capped holes from an old drain pipe was located, water was literally pumping up from under the building. As I watched in astonishment, the water rose around my feet, sweeping over the area rug and heading towards the center of the room.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" I said to no one in particular. I've never witnessed water entering the building like this before, especially from a hole that was a good ten feet below street level and another seventy feet from the street!
"Okay." I finally said. And that was it. I thought a solution would come to me, but that was the only word out of my mouth. Mopping wouldn't work. Already there was about a half inch of water on the floor and it was pumping more violently, spewing up rust and debris that hadn't seen the light of day in probably twenty years. So far, only about 30 seconds had passed since I was on the step staring down.
I rushed off towards the back storeroom where the wet-vac was housed. I threw open the door...and stopped. The now familiar gurlgling/pumping of forced water echoed in the darkened room and, in what little light I had to see with from the doorway, it was evident that the drain in the center of the room was also pumping up water...and GET THIS: water was also pumping up out of the wash tub in the back corner!! I can see water spilling down over the lip of the fiberglass rim and splashing down onto the floor. I closed the door just as my co-worker came up behind me. I said the only thing I fealt was appropriate: "You don't want to go in there..."
I then heard the hissing. The sound scared the crap out of me. At first, I thought it could only be one thing: gas leak, but then, as I hunted down the source of the sound, a familiar gurgling accompanied the hiss. Across the other end of the room from where the water was bubbling up out of the ground like a newly found oil well (and has not let up yet), I discovered another capped drain. The metal cap was still tightly mounted over the hole, but water was trying to force itself up around the tiny crack around the edge of the cap. A small, managable pool of water formed around the cap and I moved away, thinking nothing much of it. I ran back upstairs to call my boss. Through a not-so-perfect cell connection, I desperately tried to explain the situation. He suggested using the wet-vacs in the back storage room until he arrived, but he couldn't understand the scope of the situation. Hell, I couldn't even understand the scope of the situation and I was witnessing it first hand.
Outside, the rain was still pouring. Inside, the water was still pumping. All in all, not fifteen minutes had passed since the rain started. I figured I should just call 9-1-1, but then I noticed a couple heading back downstairs. The couple I had been working with were up on the main level discussing dining chairs. I couldn't believe that things were continuing normally while I frantically ran from level to level like Chicken Little around the farmyard. I headed back downstairs and noticed yet another couple sitting on a sofa, mere feet away from a newly formed stream coursing through the center of the basement, looking through fabrics. I suggested to the other two salespeople that we should get these people upstairs.
From my vantage point, the front end of the basement looked dry, but I decided to check it out anyway. Boy, was I wrong. Another pipe, this one coming in from the outside, somewhere under the sidewalk in the front of the building, was orinally capped with cement. The cement chunk, about an inch in diameter and three inches in length, was lying on the floor about two feet away from the pipe, which was now spewing water out onto the floor. All I could do at this time was laugh.
The second drain (the one that was still capped with only a little bit of water bubbling around the edge of the metal disk) suddenly exploded with enough force to send dirt and rust fragments halfway up the side of a hutch standing next to it. Water quickly flooded that portion of the room.
About 30 minutes after the rains began, they ended just as quickly, along with the pumping of the water from the drains. It amazed me that, after only five minutes or less of a torrential downpour, the storm drains outside had gotten so completely filled with water that they started to back up into the buildings. After all was said and done, there was about an inch of water covering about 30-40% of the floor. There was nothing left for us to do except go home and wait for the water to drain again.
The next morning, I arrived about an hour early. My boss was already there with a shop-vac trying to salvage the rugs. Where there was cement exposed, only a few puddles remained, leaving behind small piles of rust chips and other dirt (including a crushed tin can that was so old, the label had worn away).
Worse things could've happened. Worse things have happened. But all in all, the only loss from the storm were about a dozen rugs and maybe an ottoman or two. We were open for business and, outside of the lingering smell left over from the carpets that had been hauled away, things were pretty much back to normal; a fairly busy Sunday...
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Poop Machine ...
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While cleaning out C-Rex's litter box this morning, I couldn't help but start thinking of a song. With a little change of the lyrics, here it is. Enjoy...Sung to the tune of "Love Machine" by The Miracles:
Oh, yeah....
(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I )I'm just a poop machine
and I got some-one who'll clean up after me.
Every morning at dawn
I feel the urge coming on
and I just sneak away.
Into my little gray box
without a door or a lock
and I just let one lay.
It's amazing how much I eat
that my crap can be so complete.
From my dinner bowl I just peck
and then my sphincter muscles start to flex.
OOOOOOOOhhhh!!
(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.
With just a kibble or two
I can produce so much poo
And it just blows my mind.
And at the drop of a hat
I'm a bowel-moving cat
like no other kind (push it push it baby)
And with the stink that I create
you always wonder what I just ate.
Don't think to much, just move the clump.
'Cause look out baby, here's another dump!
OOOOOOOOOOhh!
(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I ) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.
La... La la la la..... La la la la.. La la
La la la la la.. La la la....
La la laaaaaaaaa
Push it push it baby, yeah......ah, ah
(I,I,) I'm just a poop machine
Ain't no cat who can pinch loaf like me.
(I,I) I'm just a poop machine
And I got some-one who'll clean up after me.
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