Swaggering through!
(c) Copyrighted 2007, All Rights Reserved
At seventeen I graduated high school and lived at home until I was nineteen. Life was easy and simple. I had fun. Things were cool.
I took a job now and then, to pay for the beer and to stake myself at poker. I handed out papers for two local Republican candidates. The Democrats wanted volunteers. The Republicans paid. Mom and dad were scandalized when they knew. Mom found a flyer in my room. How it got there? I'd written chicks phone numbers on it. Handing out flyers was a way to meet chicks. You're smiling, showing the charm. Chicks didn't read the darn flyers. Most didn't see the flyers. They saw a pleasant, cool young male with a cheerful demeanor.
Mom didn't break down in tears, but she looked embarrassed, like I had farted in church, at her favorite old aunt's funeral. She said, "Son, what is this?"
I said, "From work, mom."
"Work? You are working for them? Honey, Republicans are haters! They hate poor people and immigrants!"
"Uh oh. Not really, Mom. They don't. They hate people who won't vote for them." I grinned. "That's seventy percent of the people, according to the latest poll. Mom, Republicans aren't bigots; they're political."
There was no telling mom. She got hysterical, "Not my son is working for Republicans!"
Mom was making something big out of something that was very small, but it could have gotten a lot bigger, if I hadn't stopped and remembered to ask myself: What would Frank do?
The job was for a week, had a couple of days left. I said, "Well okay, mom. I won't work for them anymore."
She gave me a big smile, a big hug and money.
I went to work for this Chinese Restaurant. Chinese people generally hire only Chinese. The boss, Mr. Lee, liked the way I handed out flyers. I think he voted Republican. He hired me to hand-out flyers for him.
First rule: Daughter off-limits.
Second rule: Niece off-limits.
Third rule: Girls who work at the restaurant off-limits.
I asked Mr. Lee, "What about female customers?"
He smiled. "Boys need to play."
Mr. Lee was a businessman. He was a father, an uncle, an educator, taught political science at the University. I brought him customers, lots of young lady customers. Mr. Lee's food was good and cheap. Getting him customers wasn't that hard. But, Mr. Lee paid cheap, and that was no good. All the noodles I wanted, but very little cheese. I worked a week for him, right up until I saw my "weak" paycheck. I didn't have to ask what would Frank do?
Miss Double D, was a rather large lady. I wouldn't call her fat, but she was large, named for her bra size. She hired me at the dollar store. My nice smile and my good looks got me hired without needing to fill out a completed application form. What I did in the store? I swept, cleaned, dusted, and restocked the shelves, ran errands for my supervisor, provided a view, something she liked looking, staring, at kook-eyed. I caught her staring when I had my back turned, was bent over picking something up. She was an older woman, between boyfriends --I learned, from overhearing her and one of her girlfriends, whom came into the store. Miss Double D was twelve years older, a little too old to interest me as a chick. I was a kid, and what did I know. She was the supervisor. I couldn't see myself telling her to take off her dress.
Well, the work wasn't hard, nothing that I couldn't do. My supervisor was easy. She didn't try to touch me. She just stared. I would have worked at the dollar store for more than a week, if not for the two screwed-up robbers.
I half knew one of the robbers. I'd been in a poker game where he lost. I didn't know his name. I pretended amnesia. He didn't. I told him, "Dude, I just work here. The store's money isn't my money. You have a gun. I am furniture."
If his buddy hadn't talked about Miss Double D's tits. Talked and talked about them, and taunted her, while he pointed a gun in her face, I would have remained furniture.
"Tits, put all of the money in that bag, and while you are doing it, wiggle a little, and show me some jiggle." Just for the heck of it, he touch her left tit.
That was uncalled for! Was intolerable. Was he a thief or a pervert? I glanced at his buddy. My eye told him to control that clown. Neither of the them wanted to hear what I said. I was running a mop and a broom in a dollar store. They were big time robbers. The one I half knew got a butt face on, like a bully in jail lock-up, and told me he would put a dress on me, if I didn't shut up. What was he? A pervert too? Had he lost so badly at cards? What was this? Megalomania, because he had a gun on me? Had he gone crazy? Right now it didn't matter what his problem was. His slur could not be overlooked.
I heard my brother's voice. I heard more. I heard screaming. Two robbers screaming.
Young men act. Adults think -- of insurance costs, liability, law suits. Miss Double D told me that I was a hero. Mr. Big Boss man, the store owner, told me that I was fired.
Miss Double D called him, told him of the robbery attempt. He ran to the store. Drove, I am sure. He came in wearing just a pair of red running shorts, t-shirt and tennis shoes. Asked if the money was safe, asked if any employee was injured, asked what exactly happened, and Miss Double D did her best to re-assure him that everything was alright now. I had begun with the clean-up, straightening up merchandise knocked to the floor during the confrontation with the robbers. I caught the way he looked at me, felt his growing anger, and I would have totally ignored him, but he yelled out, "Hey dumb ass, I am talking to you!" He told me that I had put the store into jeopardy, by going loco on two armed robbers.
I am a lover, not a fighter. so I won't describe the details. The robbers needed hospitalization. The store owner did not. But one thing: Crystal cool, I did swagger over to him, did ask, "Who are you calling a dumb ass?" I didn't want to give the impression that I planned to go loco with him, so I grinned. "You have my address, mail my paycheck." I think Frank might have approved.
Mom was horrified that I'd been exposed to such danger. "They pointed guns at you!" She was pleased to hear that I wouldn't be working anymore at that dollar store.
Dad asked how had I disarmed the robbers. The police asked that too. Miss Double D told what she remembered. An entire version of the incident was caught on tape by the store's surveillance cameras.
The detective Sergeant took me aside, said, "You're too young to have been in the service. You should join. The marines could use you."
Well, I am not here to get spooky. Let's get back to Mom.
I kept money in my pocket and a chick in my ride. I didn't have a job. I had mom. I really lucked out to have her. My day began at about ten o'clock. I got up, went in the kitchen, where mom always had breakfast waiting. I spent the first part of my day watching Mom do things around the house, and watching her work on her at home business. I sat back in a kitchen chair and I watched mom. That was cool with mom. My parents sent me to community college. Me going to CC was like repeating high school, that wasn't cool, and mom saw that CC was really bumming me out, and she said, "Son --."
My mom had lost one son and she didn't want to lose another.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, she had enough of me. She smiled, and said something like, "Son, what are you doing hanging around your mama all day? Go out side and get some air." She gave me money. I went upstairs and changed. I had clothes. I dressed in style. The allowances from mom were generous. She had lost her baby. I was the only son she had to turn to, and -- well, I looked good in the mirror, projected an aura. I spoke to that handsome face, said, "I see why the chicks adore you."
I got in my car and went hunting for chicks, if I was between chicks. If I had a current steady, that chick and I went riding. I stayed out of the house, drinking, a few times, but not often like a fish, dancing, sometimes just rubbing against a good looking chick, having cool fun, until midnight, sometimes past midnight, until I was tired and worn out, from drinking with my buds. The chicks never left me looking haggard. Mom and dad often saw me come-in, and never commented on my appearance. I went to bed, got up at ten the next day, and started the whole routine over again, and probably would have continued with this lite life until I was thirty. but for Mr. Turdle.
Yes, his name was TURDle, like in crap. Thinking on it now, I remember, the day he came banging on the door, it was raining. I hadn't gone out that afternoon. He looked very threatening. To make things worse, I looked guilty. Mom let him in.
Mr. Turdle was the father of a gal whom I only slightly knew. I hardly remember her face now at all. I can't recall if she had a nice ass. Is that chauvinistic? Absolutely. Do I take chicks seriously? Never. Once you've had one naked -- you have crossed that line. Thrill them and be free of them. Anything else is silly.
Turdle accused me of getting his daughter pregnant. Damn! He got so belligerent, He talked loud into mom's face. I thought that his attitude might require a macho display. I said, "No!" I was about to say a lot more: How dare he accuse me! His daughter had forty boyfriends! I could name them! I glanced at mom. When she got mad, she was good at throwing furniture. I considered punching out some of Turdle's teeth. I wanted mom to get ready to back me up, at least with a little parental nod of approval, but judging the look on her face, no matter what I did or what else I said, I could see would not have helped. My future wasn't looking good. Mom frowned like there was a thumb in her heart, mine, Her nose cringed up, like her son was soaked in skunk scent.
Forty minutes passed. Forty long minutes, Mister Turdle sat in the living-room. I stood in a corner like a little punished child. Finally, I heard my dad's car. Mom called him. Mr. Turdle wanted one thousand dollars. Turdle explained to mom, "Your boy's share to help my girl out of this mess."
Mr Turdle had ordered plane tickets, booked a hotel and space in a clinic to take care of the problem, total cost two thousand dollars.
Dad came into the living-room. Mr. Turdle stood. Dad put out his hand, the hand of a man who read books and who ran a successful business. "My name is ---, yours?"
Turdle was slow in responding. He had the hands of a man who drove a truck. He held his hands together, like he was holding back. His hands were connected to massive arms, that were connected to a thick chest, that was connected to a short neck, which was connected to a head that looked hard and very thick. He had come into the house pissing. He was very pissed, but he held himself when faced with mom. He had stopped pissing, announced he would wait for the male parent. The moment dad entered the house, Turdle was ready to pour. Dad is well over six feet, still keeps his hair short in a Marine cut, and still is built like he is only a few years from the corp. I watched, waiting for dad to take Turdle down.
"Turdle!" Turdle finally spoke. He wasn't going to try to take the floor off, and make an opening to hell.
Dad's business was selling people stuff. He knew how, with a look and a tone of voice, to stroke targets, particularly, tight ass ones, until they gave. "Well, first names, I'm ---."
Turdle mumbled his first name. He shook dad's hands. Dad cut me a sour glance. This wasn't cool. I knew I might dread the next few years. I decided to make myself scare. I headed for an exit. Dad barked, "Stay here and sit down."
"I've got to take a leak, can't do it here, dad." I went upstairs. I heard Dad and Turdle talk. Six minutes and dad capitulated.
Turdle was a working, nine-to-five, blue-collar stiff neck, and dad was an eight in the morning to whenever, entrepreneur. Both worked for a living, not for beer and poker stakes. Both were fathers who expected their off-springs and every one else to conform to certain conventional expectations. They were two totally uncool guys.
After dad wrote the check. He walked Turdle to the door. Five minutes, he and Turdle were still in the foyer chatting, babbling, about why kids today kept coming up short. They sounded like two depressed frat brothers. I thought they were going to give each other a big hug. I nearly ran down stairs screaming.
I mumbled, "Great Scott! What would Frank do?"
Turdle left. Mom and dad held a meeting. They discussed the whole matter, and my entire life. Dad's decision -- But before I tell you that, know this: I was not one to convincingly play the sycophant, and never liked keeping my feelings to myself, though I often did. My sack cloth was getting too old to wear. I often wore it. Dad saw all of the holes, but he hadn't seem to care, -- and although I loved / still love/ my parents, like them, I knew that I was not so emotional or otherwise dependent that I couldn't walk out of their door.
Dad was so excited to finally tell me off, that he could hardly get his tone set. He began bellowing, then soften, some, not enough. No chance could I run around him. Mom sat still, like a wooden block. Mom was wearing a poker stare, I knew so well, and learned. It was just a blank look. Effective. She used it to say, "Your dad and I are of one mind." I use it when I play cards --gambling with the boys. Pouting and puppy-eyed looks weren't going to wear well, so I put a sock on that approach.
"Son, you have three choices: Get a job and start paying rent. Enrolled in an accredited college and start working on your future. Get your ass out of my house. Dad didn't put the last option that way. He has class. He quotes long dead philosophers.
He said, "Life is only for a few years, son. But what are you doing, just visiting? At the end of your life, what is going to be your story? Where are you headed? The sad truth is you have no clue, no prospects."
I told you, dad spoke funny. Mom just sat there. But now, she showed some emotion. She looked at me funny. For all the love they were showing, I might as well had hit the freaking road. Hitched-hiked across the country in the automobiles of strangers. What did they want? I didn't set out every day to live the perfect life of a saint, make myself into a pope. The idea is to get through each day without sweating, Sweating isn't cool, and it stinks, ruins your clothes and your prospect with chicks. I hang out with my bros -- the guys. I seek and find fun with chicks. I have a great time. We got to make fun and enjoy life, period. That is what Frank would have said.
I said, "Dad, how can you say this to me? First of all, that Mr. Turdle has no proof! He is going to destroy the evidence! It is my word, you son's word, against his gal, who can't keep herself from getting into a mess."
Dad said, "That is not the issue."
"What is dad? Are you mad at me because you paid out a thousand dollars, you shouldn't have paid?"
Dad said, "That is not the problem."
I said, "I will pay you back, dad."
Dad said, "Why don't you just go to school, get a four-year degree. I'll get you a job in my company."
"Why can't I work there without a degree?"
"I have outside investors."
"A slacker son would be embarrassing, right?"
Mom said, "You are not a slacker."
How was I going to get into a degree program, in an accredited four year college? I barely got out of high school. Got into CC because of open admission, and I didn't fit in, and was constantly hounded by the instructors, because my work was slow in coming. I couldn't keep up with the rest of the class. Okay!
Mom! When God blessed sons he gave them good moms. Mom's home business was mail order marketing. One of the companies she marketed sold guides to getting into the college of your choice. And how to get into any college. Anyhow! I got into a college, accredited too, in the state of Wyoming. I won't embarrass myself by mentioning the name of the school. Suffice to say, the only cool thing about that school was ---. Nothing! The chicks were cold, the weather was either too hot or too cold. The professors, the administrators were --. Well, I didn't, still don't, expect to find coolness among the professional educating crowd. But no kidding, I got a degree.
To be continued.
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