Code Name: Rattler

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a sheet of paper I recently unearthed that appears to show the formation of a childhood gang. I sharpened the picture as much as I could, but the pencil has faded a bit over the last 30 years.

Here are two assumptions I'm forced to make about this drawing.  I couldn't have been older than first grade, because Matt and Mike moved away after that year. I also must have been the architect of this document, because none of the boys would have attempted cursive, and my sister couldn't write yet. Also, there was a system set up on the right for attendance and dues, which had to be my brainchild. A few other thoughts:

There seems to have been some disagreement about how each kid would rank, since Mike is listed as "Pres. -- whatever" and Chad is listed as "V. Pres. -- whatever."  Then I'm listed as "3rd (?) Pres./Spy." Quite the power struggle.

Regardless of our titles, we evidently needed "spies" and "lookouts."  And code names. Of course! That's the best part. Rattler, Raven, Tike, C2, and Hawkeye. You can practically see the action figures.

I misspelled my own sister's name, and our plans never made it past "Septemper." Though it appears everyone was present for the first two meetings, which were . . . daily? What a commitment!

I clearly did not own a ruler.

I wish I knew how much our dues were, and what we planned to do with them once collected. Oh, and where we were all supposed to get money.

The sketches of the various neighborhood landmarks (with important notations about "food" and "supplies") do not correspond to the layout I recall from childhood. I think the small building is meant to be the shed in my backyard, which my dad built to house the snowblower and which we automatically assumed was our new base of operations.

This looks like a solid, if overly ambitious, start to a quasi-heroic organization . . . with an emphasis on organization. We had a hierarchy and were looking at least 22 days into the future. Most importantly, we had schematics.

I don't remember why we disbanded. Maybe the sandbox became a DMZ. Maybe we were disavowed by a shady government program after a failed mission that would haunt us all forever. Maybe our moms called us inside because He-Man was on.

We'll never know.

Fright Night

Way back in 1994, a little movie called "Pulp Fiction" was released. Part of this film centered on Samuel L. Jackson's character, a hitman who had a habit of quoting a passage from the Bible just before he killed people. It's not a direct quote, but it's sufficiently badass and intimidating.

Cut to about 20 years later, when I crashed on a friend's couch on a Saturday night. The downstairs neighbors happened to be having a party that evening. They were drinking and carrying on fairly loudly, but not enough to keep me from falling asleep.

Until about 3:00 AM, when several of the partygoers drifted into the hallway, and one dude decided to do a very enthusiastic and convincing rendition of Sam Jackson's speech right outside my friend's door.

So what I jerked awake to in the pitch blackness in a strange place was this, being yelled ferociously roughly ten feet from my head: "AND I WILL STRIKE DOWN UPON THEE WITH GREAT VENGEANCE AND FURIOUS ANGER! AND YOU WILL KNOW MY NAME IS THE LORD WHEN I LAY MY VENGEANCE UPON THEE!"

Let me tell you, this makes quite an impression. Because I thought I would shortly be murdered in a terrifyingly religious fashion.

My friend heard none of this from the bedroom, but was duly impressed that I had avoided cardiac arrest and/or peeing myself.

This is the kind of houseguest I am -- I bounce back from death threats shouted in the middle of the night and wake slightly groggy but ready for pancakes the next morning.

Dirty Words

So I've been playing Words With Friends with a woman named Marlene.

If you're unfamiliar with this app, it's essentially electronic Scrabble. I used to play it regularly, but it turns out I have very little self-control when it comes to games. I lose hours to them. Which is why I don't have any on my phone. (And also why I don't gamble).

My sister prompted me to reinstall it over Christmas so we could play together. But naturally one wordsmith opponent wasn't enough, and the app allows you to compete with random online players.

Hence, Marlene.

It's an odd thing, to be matching wits with a stranger. Do you keep the game friendly, or do you crush them if you can? Do you choose your words carefully, or are you playful with your tiles? Sometimes it takes awhile to feel people out. 

When I had the letters to spell "ORGASMS," I couldn't resist. Knowing nothing about this woman -- not even an age or location -- I wasn't sure if she'd react. There's an option to chat back and forth in the app, but we'd never used it. Until now.

A couple hours later, I had a new message alert.  It simply said, "Hee hee."

I like Marlene.

Tassel Hassle

I went through a bunch of old files not long ago, and I found a calendar page from May of 1997. My dad has always kept a log of family activities hanging in the kitchen, and this particular page noted my last day of high school and what was on the docket for the next day.

Let me first say this. Not only does my dad typically have beautiful handwriting, but he is also a very smart man, perfectly capable of spelling the word "baccalaureate." But in this one small square, I can see all the fatigue and frustration and anxiety of getting your firstborn sent off into the world -- college applications and party planning and the general emotional hubbub surrounding such a momentous event.

I think he realized he was off track early on. I picture him starting strong:

"B-A-C- . . . [sigh] . . . is it an A or a U .. . . God I'm tired . . . L-A-U-R . . . aw, fuck it . . . [scribble] . . . we all know what it is . . . [scribble] . . . we all know where we're going . . . [FLOURISH!]"

I love everything about this so much, especially the way it trails off very deliberately. Go big or go home, man. Just everybody get in the car. We're going to get that diploma. 

Terror at 3000 Meters

Some people out there will tell you that it's impossible to fall off a rowing machine. They'll say that it's such a simple device -- a machine with only a flywheel, a chain, and a sliding seat as moving parts, all powered gloriously by the human body.

Well, I'm here to tell you those people are right.

Because even though you might want to fall off this piece of exercise equipment after a spider suddenly appears on the wall right next to you . . . it's impossible to do so when your feet are strapped in.

So you end up just flailing around in a seated position only eight inches off the ground, leaning away at a severe angle, unable to take your eyes off the thing (it case it decides to leap into your face) while desperately trying to free your shoes. And maybe screaming a little. Maybe.

On the plus side, I think I hit my target heart rate and got some cardio running for the bug spray.

Turn the Other Cheeks

I think it's a pretty well-established unwritten rule that, as an adult, you shouldn't be making any verbal noises when you're in a public restroom stall.  

This includes both sounds and words -- with the notable exceptions of "Would you please hand me some toilet paper?" or "Do you have a tampon?" Because a) those are necessities, b) asking takes guts, and c) you're morally obligated to help a sister out in a crisis.

I would also include talking on the phone, which happens less now with texting. In the past, I've been privy (pun intended) to several conversations. One time I heard a woman put shoes on layaway. Another time I heard instructions for how to bake a ham. Once a lady took a call from a prospective employer. I don't know if she panicked or just didn't think they'd notice, but I held off flushing till after the phone interview.

I'm hoping that good karma will make up for my faux pas in the bathroom stall at work last week, when I unintentionally broke not one but two cardinal rules. First, I typically don't use my phone in public restrooms, largely because (germs aside) it tempts you to lose track of time. Get in, get out. There are people waiting, and it's weird to post statuses from the toilet.

But that day, I reached into my sweater pocket for some Kleenex and forgot my phone was in there. So naturally, I was compelled to check my email, which led to breaking the second rule.

I read a message from the local film society announcing that they'd be showing the new Macbeth movie. And, as I suddenly remembered that oh, right, wow that's coming out soon and Michael Fassbender's in it and I do love that play and I do love him and it looks amazing, I forgot that I wasn't geeking out over Shakespeare alone and I said out loud:

"Ahhhhhh . . . . yesssssss." 

Which, when you think about it, is maybe one of the worst things someone could hear coming from behind a stall door. 

Because the other person in the bathroom with me did not know I was on my phone. So I can't imagine how she interpreted this anonymous statement -- followed, as it were, by complete silence. Cryptic? Creepy? Disturbingly happy? Just plain relieved? I'll never know.

All I know for sure is that I had to wait until she finished washing her hands and left, and then another few minutes for good measure, in order to protect my identity (and avoid a harassment charge).

And much like the woman on the interview call, I found myself hoping only to be gainfully employed after relying on the kindness of peeing strangers.

Throw Another Jump on the Batt'ry

One morning last week, I was flagged down in the parking lot of my building by a guy whose car wouldn't start. He was late for work and quite desperate for any help, so when he asked if I'd be willing to give him a jump start, I said sure, as long as he had the cables and knew what he was doing.

While he hooked everything up, we chatted about the recent snowfall and he gave me some tips about parking, since I'm new to the neighborhood. He even told me about an email list I could sign up for with plowing alerts from the management.

I only relay these details to establish that, by the time his Honda revved back into action, we'd been talking together for a good five minutes in a very normal way.

As he put everything away and thanked me again, he asked which unit I lived in. I answered and then introduced myself, because somehow we hadn't exchanged names.  "I'm Dave," he said, reaching for my outstretched hand.

Right at that moment, there was a malfunction in my brain. I wanted to repeat his name so I'd have a snowball's chance of remembering it, but I also wanted to say "Hi." These two ideas wrestled for a nanosecond before deciding to reconcile and morph into what came out of my mouth, which was a combination of the two.

"Diiiiive," I confirmed, inexplicably turning Australian.

His head cocked just a bit.  "Dave," he repeated, perhaps more slowly this time, though I could be imagining that. Unable to explain why I briefly had a foreign accent and could not accurately pronounce a four-letter name, I simply nodded and smiled. 

So that's how I met my neighbor, and why he thinks I'm a dumbass.

Snake Eyes

A friend once told me how concerned she was that her kids adjusted well to their move from the city to the country. She and her husband had purchased a house with some land attached, and while they were enjoying the space and the quiet, they thought it equally important that their young children learn to embrace this new wilder, freer lifestyle.

So when my friend unexpectedly ran over a snake with her lawnmower one afternoon and ended up covered in guts, she was torn.

Would she set a good example of adventurousness and go-with-the-flow, girl-power gumption, or would she give in to her instincts and run screaming into the house?

When she burst through the door and saw her daughter's wide eyes on the verge of panic, my friend managed to keep her shit together. She continued brushing the reptile chunks off her shirt, while squeaking reassuringly, "It's just a bit of snake, honey, that's all. Just a little bit of snake."