"That's a lot of ice cream," one of my coworkers informs me as I come back to the dinner table.
"Yeah, it's fun."
I get a blank look.
"You know, to make a giant cone of ice cream. That was my ambition as a kid. People asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up and I use to say I wanted to run the ice cream machine at McDonalds and make giant cones for all the kids."
"What?"
I shrugged, "I was like five."
"What did your parents think?"
"They wanted me to pursue something a little more ambitious." I paused to take a bite of the cone, "Some people are really bent out of shape about never achieving their childhood dreams but really I'm not. I was a pretty dumb kid."
There was an awkward silence and I could feel my baffled coworker's eyes on me.
"When I was little," Petar offered, "I wanted to be the garbage man."
"What is with you people? That isn't normal."
"Well, you get to ride around hanging off the back of a garbage truck... and I thought that was pretty cool."
"You didn't play like... astronaut or something?"
"No," Mace added, "although I did run around my house screaming 'reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!' as loudly as I could."
"Why?"
"Well, when I was little I wanted to grow up to be a firetruck."
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Piano Man
"Pika!"
I blink.
"Do you know who I am?"
I've never been good with names. The boy in front of me is 15 with shaggy brown hair and little round Harry Potter glasses. I couldn't work out if he was partially Asian or not, and he moved in long fluid movements that seemed unusual but still graceful.
"No?" Straightening his arms, he dropped them back and leaned forward. In a few steps he gained the speed to jump up onto a short brick wall where he stood, as if considering what to do next, "Well I'm not too important anyway. You're super cool, you have super cool stuff to worry about."
This is how I met Urza. I did it a few times actually because, in the sea of faces, I wouldn't remember the previous encounter until we were half-way through the next, each a near-perfect replica of the last.
I had resisted freshman hazing, and my social standing with my lunch group freshman year was tenuous at best, so I rapidly started looking for other places to spend time time where I was both out of the way and unlikely to become somebody's punching bag. He was locked in a practice room in the music building. The fluidness translated into the way he was playing, and he rocked a little back and forth with the music.
"Sing with me."
I'd never heard Piano Man by Billy Joel before, but soon it became a regular song that I would sing and he would play nearly every day we spent lunch together.
I blink.
"Do you know who I am?"
I've never been good with names. The boy in front of me is 15 with shaggy brown hair and little round Harry Potter glasses. I couldn't work out if he was partially Asian or not, and he moved in long fluid movements that seemed unusual but still graceful.
"No?" Straightening his arms, he dropped them back and leaned forward. In a few steps he gained the speed to jump up onto a short brick wall where he stood, as if considering what to do next, "Well I'm not too important anyway. You're super cool, you have super cool stuff to worry about."
This is how I met Urza. I did it a few times actually because, in the sea of faces, I wouldn't remember the previous encounter until we were half-way through the next, each a near-perfect replica of the last.
***
I had resisted freshman hazing, and my social standing with my lunch group freshman year was tenuous at best, so I rapidly started looking for other places to spend time time where I was both out of the way and unlikely to become somebody's punching bag. He was locked in a practice room in the music building. The fluidness translated into the way he was playing, and he rocked a little back and forth with the music.
"Sing with me."
I'd never heard Piano Man by Billy Joel before, but soon it became a regular song that I would sing and he would play nearly every day we spent lunch together.
***
The grace was infuriating. I grabbed at the book in his hands, but now he was standing another foot back. I reached to find it was now over my head. I jumped to find he had swung it behind his back. I have met many people who actually do martial arts, but Urza will always stand out as the guy who exuded this feeling of being that sensei who just melts through physical reality while the rest of us stagger after him.
"Music theory," he says, holding the book out in front of me again to open it and begin reading my homework. "Oh, very good. You're much better than me." I grabbed at the book to find him perched upon the same little brick wall of the library where he introduced himself. His eyes never seemed to leave the page. "Crazy skills, you've got," he nods, "crazy awesome."
"Music theory," he says, holding the book out in front of me again to open it and begin reading my homework. "Oh, very good. You're much better than me." I grabbed at the book to find him perched upon the same little brick wall of the library where he introduced himself. His eyes never seemed to leave the page. "Crazy skills, you've got," he nods, "crazy awesome."
***
That was how Urza was about everything. Nothing ever seemed hard for him. He always had a girlfriend, he was never stressed out about homework, and he could make a piano sing, but when mentioned he would always put himself down and say he was nothing. It was difficult to be angry at him because his eternal response to an insult was to agree with you and, still sporting a giant grin, begin describing all of the horrendous things he deserved for being such a wretched person. He also had an infuriating knack for understanding how people tick, a thing I prided and thought myself unique for at that age.
It hadn't occurred to me that nobody understood how he ticked. It was difficult to tell when he was toying with me and when he was genuine (not to say he was ever not doing both), but over time his statements became progressively more alarming to paint a picture of him depressed and lonely. He could influence people to try to help them, but he would constantly feel responsible for the consequences. If he didn't protect them he felt responsible too. Furthermore, he could make anybody like a projection of him by acting but it simply left him close to people who weren't close to him because they had no idea who he actually was.
"I'm going to tell your parents and they'll take you to a psychologist to get help," I said.
"Then we won't be friends anymore."
"But he'll make you better."
"Nonsense, I've been taken there tons of times before. The exams are very obvious, just like a person. All you need to do is figure out how to say what they want to hear and they send you home with a clean bill of health."
I found myself lying on my exams too. I think this is why the song Piano Man appealed so strongly to the both of us: we could feel the weight of the decisions we had made and the paths we had not taken.
"I wish I could play like you," I said.
"You could, if you would put the time in. You could be crazy good."
It hadn't occurred to me that nobody understood how he ticked. It was difficult to tell when he was toying with me and when he was genuine (not to say he was ever not doing both), but over time his statements became progressively more alarming to paint a picture of him depressed and lonely. He could influence people to try to help them, but he would constantly feel responsible for the consequences. If he didn't protect them he felt responsible too. Furthermore, he could make anybody like a projection of him by acting but it simply left him close to people who weren't close to him because they had no idea who he actually was.
"I'm going to tell your parents and they'll take you to a psychologist to get help," I said.
"Then we won't be friends anymore."
"But he'll make you better."
"Nonsense, I've been taken there tons of times before. The exams are very obvious, just like a person. All you need to do is figure out how to say what they want to hear and they send you home with a clean bill of health."
***
"Do you think of yourself as attractive?" the scantron sheet asked.
I found myself lying on my exams too. I think this is why the song Piano Man appealed so strongly to the both of us: we could feel the weight of the decisions we had made and the paths we had not taken.
"I wish I could play like you," I said.
"You could, if you would put the time in. You could be crazy good."
***
Urza and I rapidly reached a comfortable mental place where we could communicate without a hassle. I think we both found it odd to be heard as well as able to hear. I probably spent more time with him than I did with anybody else during highschool, and he pulled me out of more scrapes than I can name. To some degree he civilized me and taught me how people from normal families lived. My siblings were certainly grateful for the cooking lessons he provided. He also stabilized my mother by threatening to let me live in his house when she threw me out.
When he was a freshman in college and I in my senior year of high school it became difficult. We spent less and less time online at the same time but when I moved to a new timezone for my freshman year we almost totally lost contact.
I visited once in the summer after my freshman year. Sitting with him, cuddled up on the couch or sprawled out on the trampoline in his yard, was strange now. In high school the understanding was too close for complicated implications to have spoiled things, but now we were playing this awkward dance of being sure to respect one-another's personal space because it was difficult to sense comfort levels.
When I came back for Thanksgiving to say goodbye to my grandma we almost missed each other completely, but eventually we both carved out time for the night before my flight back. It is alarming to see one another as adults when I still partly think of him as the kid who nearly lit his house on fire by lighting bottle rockets then throwing them random directions on the fourth of July.
We sit and talk and talk and talk. He and his girlfriend have a bird named Jake, and we bring it out of its cage to the adjacent guest bed and sit there for hours to talk. I have to pry everything out of him because he still thinks his life is uninteresting and trivial, but he's found genuine happiness and stability in it. He smiles at my stories and my ambitions. It took me ages in highschool to believe the words were not sarcastic, "You're crazy awesome Pika, you live a crazy awesome life." We're still very close, but somehow we have failed to make time for each other. And I thought I had regrets when I was 14.
When he was a freshman in college and I in my senior year of high school it became difficult. We spent less and less time online at the same time but when I moved to a new timezone for my freshman year we almost totally lost contact.
I visited once in the summer after my freshman year. Sitting with him, cuddled up on the couch or sprawled out on the trampoline in his yard, was strange now. In high school the understanding was too close for complicated implications to have spoiled things, but now we were playing this awkward dance of being sure to respect one-another's personal space because it was difficult to sense comfort levels.
When I came back for Thanksgiving to say goodbye to my grandma we almost missed each other completely, but eventually we both carved out time for the night before my flight back. It is alarming to see one another as adults when I still partly think of him as the kid who nearly lit his house on fire by lighting bottle rockets then throwing them random directions on the fourth of July.
We sit and talk and talk and talk. He and his girlfriend have a bird named Jake, and we bring it out of its cage to the adjacent guest bed and sit there for hours to talk. I have to pry everything out of him because he still thinks his life is uninteresting and trivial, but he's found genuine happiness and stability in it. He smiles at my stories and my ambitions. It took me ages in highschool to believe the words were not sarcastic, "You're crazy awesome Pika, you live a crazy awesome life." We're still very close, but somehow we have failed to make time for each other. And I thought I had regrets when I was 14.
***
"What's that?" I asked him. I was 16, and he was 17.
"New piece," he responds, rolling with the chords, "the second of three Argentinian dances."
"You play harder stuff than this."
"No this is hard. It can not be rushed."
"New piece," he responds, rolling with the chords, "the second of three Argentinian dances."
"You play harder stuff than this."
"No this is hard. It can not be rushed."
***
When they started playing the piano at Prism House I left the library to sit at the foot of it, just like old times. I arrived to realize I had nothing to say and did not know this piano player, so I pretended the whole thing had been an elaborate motion to get another beer and went back to the library.
The pianist was hurrying through a rendition of the song from Charlie Brown's Christmas. He was very technically skilled and hitting all the keys, but you could hear the personality difference in the way he played.
"Man, I hate when people rush a piece," I said to Dreamer, who was sitting beside me.
"Uh-huh."
The lights flip on and I blink awake. Urza's over by the light, grinning at me, "You fell asleep in the middle of a sentence about a road trip you're planning in Prague."
"Oh...sorry."
He laughs and hands me my hairbrush, "Nah, it's great to see you excited about things. Come on, we have to get you to the airport. You can finish telling me all about it on the way. I can't wait to hear how it ends."
The pianist was hurrying through a rendition of the song from Charlie Brown's Christmas. He was very technically skilled and hitting all the keys, but you could hear the personality difference in the way he played.
"Man, I hate when people rush a piece," I said to Dreamer, who was sitting beside me.
"Uh-huh."
***
The lights flip on and I blink awake. Urza's over by the light, grinning at me, "You fell asleep in the middle of a sentence about a road trip you're planning in Prague."
"Oh...sorry."
He laughs and hands me my hairbrush, "Nah, it's great to see you excited about things. Come on, we have to get you to the airport. You can finish telling me all about it on the way. I can't wait to hear how it ends."
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Lot of 10 knives...
I didn't really understand it until I saw the ebay listing Carlos gave me. They sell them by the pound, or in lots of completely identical knives. Other stores simply have "grab bags."
While the TSA may not be the most vigilant organization, they do confiscate a lot of stuff. Apparently in 2006 over 13 million items were confiscated. Atlanta apparently pulls in about 1000 pounds of contraband a month. These are not items which frantic travelers pitched into the trash cans before security checkpoints, these are items which a guard found and had to remove from the luggage of a traveler. Such items include...
Regional interests
Agencies who collect near Florida complain of an excess of fake children's plastic swords from the Disney theme parks- An agency who deals with Kentucky says they have collected 500 mini Louisville Slugger bats bought at the Louisville Slugger Museum
- Stolen silverware from restaurants
- A chainsaw
- A bowling pin
- "A few circular saws"
- Fuzzy hand cuffs and various other S&M accessories
- An auto transmission
- Sausage grinder
- Large artificial palm tree
- 18-inch mounted fishing hook
"Believe me, just about everyone in Arkansas who wants a scissor has been given one over the last three years,"James Smith Jr. manages one of the agencies in Arkansas which handles the more valuable items in 60 airports for 20 states. His agency, like most, it is required by law to try to spend a year trying to donate the supplies to governmental agencies and approved charities. Some of it is a touch heartwarming: scissors for school kids, mace for training policemen and the like. The rest is sold on a GSA-run website. The GSA and the state split the profits.
Some of the agencies get rather creative in their salesmanship.
"We've received hundreds of pairs of fuzzy handcuffs and other S&M paraphernalia — I wanted to create funny Valentine's Day kits, but folks here thought taxpayers wouldn't like it."Other themes have successfully been made into kits. Ebay shows supplies for a "women's fashion emergency" kit and a Pennsylvanian agency sells a one-package solution for deer-hunting.
"I'd love to go to eBay, because we'd make a tremendous amount more... my hands are tied by state law."
Smith and many others are tied to rather bizarre distribution methods.
Many are required by law to use a special government only auction system. Maryland centers literally pack boxes of stuff in a warehouse and sell items by the pound to whoever comes by with a truck. The confiscated items wind up on ebay via small resellers who frequently break up the bulk a bit.The MSNBC article listed a number of ebay sellers from Alabama, Pennsylvania and Kentucky. A current selection of what those sellers are offering can be located here. As more people locate those resellers and email their usernames to me the list should grow. Even at these low prices for lots the ebay sellers are making a tidy profit: 50 bucks for 50 pounds of knives is a usual deal for the Maryland warehouse where many buy the items in bulk. This seems like quite a business to get in to.
Happy hunting!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
"And all I have failed to do..."
Mathematics and fist-fights are universal languages. This match in the subway station was started by somebody looking for an excuse to fight and somebody who gave him an invitation to act on it.
Cantonese, however, is not a universal language, and I found myself desperately gesturing to the woman behind the counter at the station's 7-eleven trying to get her to use whatever emergency police-summoning buzzer the place was equipped with. I, or the shouting voices and the little slapping dull thuds of hard impacts against human flesh, eventually did manage to get her to follow me over to the scene. She just stood there, wordlessly watching. A small ring formed of other people watching. It felt like ages before somebody stepped in to break it up.
Cantonese, however, is not a universal language, and I found myself desperately gesturing to the woman behind the counter at the station's 7-eleven trying to get her to use whatever emergency police-summoning buzzer the place was equipped with. I, or the shouting voices and the little slapping dull thuds of hard impacts against human flesh, eventually did manage to get her to follow me over to the scene. She just stood there, wordlessly watching. A small ring formed of other people watching. It felt like ages before somebody stepped in to break it up.
***
I was at my locker taking out books. The place was swarmed with students and I had to crouch very close to my locker to avoid the tides of people running from one class to another.
"Hey Chu!" the voice called, "congrats on making the musical!" There was a pressure on the back of my head, then the front, that there was nothing.
I woke up in the dark, the room spun and I felt a pressure on the sides of my face. I tried to move my head but I found it was wedged, and moving it pressed the doorway of the half-width locker against my temples; a frightening claustrophobic kind of pain that causes you to flinch back into the locker until your forehead presses against the back wall. When I was in 1st grade at Girl Scouts we used vacuums to draw eggs into glass bottles with mouths too small for them mostly intact, and I immediately thought of that image. I breathed out, counted to three, braced my weight so when I let go with my hands I would fall backward, and pulled my head free.
The world went black again. When I came to the hallway was deserted. My own copy of Our American History lay on the floor next to me: I assume that was what had been used to beat me unconscious. I gathered it up with my other books and walked to my classroom, not 20 feet away. The teacher looked surprised to see me late, and it was obvious from his face he did not know what had happened. The other students avoided my gaze in a manner which said they did.
The teachers were mostly in disbelief that one 12 year old girl would do this to another, nobody would come forward and say it was her and I hadn't seen my attacker at the scene of the crime. Because of this, she got a talking to but nothing else really happened to her. I knew it was her though, and she made sure I knew when no teachers were around.
I packed up the books from my locker that day and began carrying them everywhere with me so I would not switch books between classes, and I utterly refused to interact with my locker during highschool. My junior and senior years I didn't even figure out where it was.
The whole mess was all handled so nonchalantly that it was not until years later when I started telling this story to friends that I realized how abnormal it was.
***
I woke up in the dark, the room spun and I felt a pressure on the sides of my face. I tried to move my head but I found it was wedged, and moving it pressed the doorway of the half-width locker against my temples; a frightening claustrophobic kind of pain that causes you to flinch back into the locker until your forehead presses against the back wall. When I was in 1st grade at Girl Scouts we used vacuums to draw eggs into glass bottles with mouths too small for them mostly intact, and I immediately thought of that image. I breathed out, counted to three, braced my weight so when I let go with my hands I would fall backward, and pulled my head free.
The world went black again. When I came to the hallway was deserted. My own copy of Our American History lay on the floor next to me: I assume that was what had been used to beat me unconscious. I gathered it up with my other books and walked to my classroom, not 20 feet away. The teacher looked surprised to see me late, and it was obvious from his face he did not know what had happened. The other students avoided my gaze in a manner which said they did.
The teachers were mostly in disbelief that one 12 year old girl would do this to another, nobody would come forward and say it was her and I hadn't seen my attacker at the scene of the crime. Because of this, she got a talking to but nothing else really happened to her. I knew it was her though, and she made sure I knew when no teachers were around.
I packed up the books from my locker that day and began carrying them everywhere with me so I would not switch books between classes, and I utterly refused to interact with my locker during highschool. My junior and senior years I didn't even figure out where it was.
The whole mess was all handled so nonchalantly that it was not until years later when I started telling this story to friends that I realized how abnormal it was.
***
There aren't words through the walls of the cheap hotel in Phoenix Arizona that US Airways put me up in when my flight was delayed, but I could hear a woman's screams, a man's shouting and crashes of things being thrown. They were big things too, like lamps and possibly bedside tables. I forced a small smile, telling myself that everybody has their own way of getting their kicks, and tried not to concentrate on it. The woman's screams sounded desperate and terrified, my mind couldn't help but focus on the next room, and slowly I began catching a few of the woman's word's.
"Leave! Stop!"
"Say what, bitch?"
I started fumbling with my cell phone and called the front lobby. "Hey," I asked, "I think there is a disturbance on the 6th floor, can you guys look into it?"
The man on the other end sounded a little distressed, "Yeah, we're having a bit of an issue down here in the lobby as well." He hung up.
"STOP IT," the voice came through the wall, "PLEASE STOP IT!"
The screams continued for what seemed like an eternity. I waited for security or the police or somebody to come, but nobody came. At one point somebody came upstairs and calmed the lady down, but her voice raised shortly after to a new level of terror and the headboard of the bed beats rhythmically against the shared wall. I would like to tell you that I sat there and called the police and the front desk over and over until somebody showed up and made it stop, but instead I curled up under the blankets in horror and told myself it wasn't happening, that none of it was real, that I couldn't possibly be in a place like this, that the woman was just into kinky sex. I might have actually fallen asleep while he was still raping her, and much to my shame I did not sleep very badly either.
I woke the next morning and laughed to myself. Surely it had all been a dream. I enjoyed a nice warm shower and was packing my bags when I found the six identical perfectly round dime-sized holes in my wall that somebody had hastily patched. That was when I realized it had all been real. How could I have convinced myself it was not real when faced with that kind of evidence?
"Leave! Stop!"
"Say what, bitch?"
I started fumbling with my cell phone and called the front lobby. "Hey," I asked, "I think there is a disturbance on the 6th floor, can you guys look into it?"
The man on the other end sounded a little distressed, "Yeah, we're having a bit of an issue down here in the lobby as well." He hung up.
"STOP IT," the voice came through the wall, "PLEASE STOP IT!"
The screams continued for what seemed like an eternity. I waited for security or the police or somebody to come, but nobody came. At one point somebody came upstairs and calmed the lady down, but her voice raised shortly after to a new level of terror and the headboard of the bed beats rhythmically against the shared wall. I would like to tell you that I sat there and called the police and the front desk over and over until somebody showed up and made it stop, but instead I curled up under the blankets in horror and told myself it wasn't happening, that none of it was real, that I couldn't possibly be in a place like this, that the woman was just into kinky sex. I might have actually fallen asleep while he was still raping her, and much to my shame I did not sleep very badly either.
I woke the next morning and laughed to myself. Surely it had all been a dream. I enjoyed a nice warm shower and was packing my bags when I found the six identical perfectly round dime-sized holes in my wall that somebody had hastily patched. That was when I realized it had all been real. How could I have convinced myself it was not real when faced with that kind of evidence?
***
I do not remember the priest's name, but I do remember he had a horrible birth mark which turned half his face a permanent sunburn color.
"Have you learned it yet?" he asked me.
"Mostly... yes..."
"What's mostly?" He smiled, "Let's hear it."
"I confess to you almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault... and...um..."
"In my thoughts and in my actions," he prompted.
"In my thoughts and in my actions," I repeated.
"For all I have done."
"For all I have done."
"And all I have failed to do..."
"Have you learned it yet?" he asked me.
"Mostly... yes..."
"What's mostly?" He smiled, "Let's hear it."
"I confess to you almighty God, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault... and...um..."
"In my thoughts and in my actions," he prompted.
"In my thoughts and in my actions," I repeated.
"For all I have done."
"For all I have done."
"And all I have failed to do..."
***
May God help us all, for we surely do not have it in us yet to help each other.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Fuck(, it's) the police!
Three shadows in the rafters dressed in dark clothing fall suddenly silent at the heavy footsteps below. We can see him walking two floors below us, or more we can see his flashlight at the bottom of the drop. A door closes and we hear the footsteps fade into the next room.
"Oink," one of my friends giggles, "oink oink oink!"
"This place is getting busier and busier, we may need to move on."
"Oink," one of my friends giggles, "oink oink oink!"
"This place is getting busier and busier, we may need to move on."
***
When it drizzled we all piled back into the house and under the makeshift tent, and when the sun returned we piled back out to the grills in the parking lot with fresh beers. Spirits were high; both among the partygoers and in the bottles Hammertime was using to make me another SoCo and lime.
The majority of the party did not need Hammertime's extensive bartending talents to wind up a bit besides themselves and removed from their common sense, and whoever had placed the grill under an open window on the third floor might not have had much common sense to remove. The third floor residents had never been on the best terms with the rest of unit 66 to begin with, and it wasn't too long before rumors of the police having been called on the party were flying thick as underclassmen began slinking away from the scene. I caught out of the corner of my eye Magpie vaulting up onto the railing of the first floor deck and from there onto the garage roof, bottle of whiskey in hand bolting for the pinnacle of the structure roaring "Fuck the police!" the whole way. Reaching the top he stood there, still waving the jar and screaming his head off.
It wasn't actually the police who showed up the first time but the fire department. We got Magpie down from the roof prior to that, and convinced the 20 year old carrying an illegal firearm in one hand and a beer in the other to go back in the house just prior to their arrival. Py was dispatched to greet them, and aside from the fact that he was wearing a shirt which read "Fuck politics, I just want to burn shit down," it all went rather well. He laughed and considered changing shirts after that, but decided it would be useless after the fire department already left, much to our amusement when he later had to entertain a police squad car which had found our party particularly interesting.
The majority of the party did not need Hammertime's extensive bartending talents to wind up a bit besides themselves and removed from their common sense, and whoever had placed the grill under an open window on the third floor might not have had much common sense to remove. The third floor residents had never been on the best terms with the rest of unit 66 to begin with, and it wasn't too long before rumors of the police having been called on the party were flying thick as underclassmen began slinking away from the scene. I caught out of the corner of my eye Magpie vaulting up onto the railing of the first floor deck and from there onto the garage roof, bottle of whiskey in hand bolting for the pinnacle of the structure roaring "Fuck the police!" the whole way. Reaching the top he stood there, still waving the jar and screaming his head off.
It wasn't actually the police who showed up the first time but the fire department. We got Magpie down from the roof prior to that, and convinced the 20 year old carrying an illegal firearm in one hand and a beer in the other to go back in the house just prior to their arrival. Py was dispatched to greet them, and aside from the fact that he was wearing a shirt which read "Fuck politics, I just want to burn shit down," it all went rather well. He laughed and considered changing shirts after that, but decided it would be useless after the fire department already left, much to our amusement when he later had to entertain a police squad car which had found our party particularly interesting.
***
"And," the officer leans in close to Py, "Do they let you do this at home?"
Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.
"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."
The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"
They rattled us for a significant amount of time before letting us go, enough that when I woke up the next morning and put on my black robe I was still thinking a bit of them.
It is tradition that the city police line the top of the crowd the graduation procession walks through, and as I strode to pomp and circumstance I suddenly found a hand on my shoulder and upon turning, a familiar grinning face. It was the same cop from the night before.
"You're being good today, aren't you Pika?"
A flippant giggling boy from my freshman dorm was in line right behind me, "oh HER officer, she's never up to anything good..."
Its dark outside and we're standing on a rural bystreet not too far from the university. I'm facing one cop car, and I can tell there is another behind me from my shadow. There's a third one on my left and behind the one I am facing I can see two more. Ginger, Gilby and Py aren't doing a whole ton better.
"My dad...we lit these off when I was little...I thought fireworks were a fine-able offense in this state officer...not an arrest-able one..."
The officer leans over close to Py's face and raises his flashlight, "Oh?"
They rattled us for a significant amount of time before letting us go, enough that when I woke up the next morning and put on my black robe I was still thinking a bit of them.
It is tradition that the city police line the top of the crowd the graduation procession walks through, and as I strode to pomp and circumstance I suddenly found a hand on my shoulder and upon turning, a familiar grinning face. It was the same cop from the night before.
"You're being good today, aren't you Pika?"
A flippant giggling boy from my freshman dorm was in line right behind me, "oh HER officer, she's never up to anything good..."
***
"And his hand tightened on my shoulder," I reached out and pinched Brewer's shoulder next to me at the table for effect, "and I honestly stood there and thought 'man, if I don't get my diploma out of this, the scene at my graduation will be the least of my problems' so I bolted for it."
Brewer giggled and so did the rest of his team-mates. "So," he asked, "Did he chase?"
"Nah," I laughed, "I guess he was just taking an opportunity to fuck with me, see if he could scare me. He did a damn good job I'll admit..."
Captain grinned and split his chopsticks to dig into his meal, "That's 90% of a good cop's job you realize... scaring people into behaving."
Brewer giggled a little again, "Well, looks like most of them are only good at about half of it."
Brewer giggled and so did the rest of his team-mates. "So," he asked, "Did he chase?"
"Nah," I laughed, "I guess he was just taking an opportunity to fuck with me, see if he could scare me. He did a damn good job I'll admit..."
Captain grinned and split his chopsticks to dig into his meal, "That's 90% of a good cop's job you realize... scaring people into behaving."
Brewer giggled a little again, "Well, looks like most of them are only good at about half of it."
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