Campground Shower

(A Prince Edward Island campground.  Early morning.) 
The sun’s up and the sky is cloudless.  It’s going to be an awesome day of beaches, boardwalks, and spending money on pirate memorabilia.  I head towards the nearest washroom facility to our campsite, and it’s completely empty.  I’m pleased about this; I’ve beat the insane crowd that normally hits this place in the morning.  I go into one of the two shower stalls, and, having forgotten my flip-flops, I stand one foot on a plastic bag, and the other on the empty box from my bar of soap.  I’m always careful not to let my bare feet touch the floor.  The stall is comically tiny.  At any given moment, most of me is touching the slimy walls.  This disgusts me, but I do what I always do in order to get through something gross, I imagine how much worse it would have been for cavemen.  Cavemen (and cavewomen), they probably had to shower in much smaller stalls, and they were probably even slimier than this one. They probably didn’t even have soap, and I bet they had to use dead birds for flip-flops, and squirrels for face-cloths and luffas.  I shower away, thinking about cavepeople, and then I hear someone enter the shower stall beside mine.  I hear voices, two voices, speaking French.  [French people seem to love camping, ever notice that?]  At first I think one of them is waiting his turn outside the stall, but then I realize, no, there are two people in the same undersized shower stall.  I listen really carefully now.  One voice calls the other voice, “Dad”.  Aha!  All’s well, it’s a father and son.  No big deal.  The father probably didn’t want his little kid to be alone and unattended in a campground bathroom while he showered.  I get that.  I ignore them as best I can even though they keep shaking the stall and squeaking against the slimy walls as they try to shower at the same time.  I go back to thinking about cavepersons and how they would probably try to ignore other showering cavepersons even though they were probably right in front of one another with no shower-stall walls.  I finish my disgusting shower, stand on my dirty t-shirt until my feet are dry, then I sneaker-up and exit the stall.  I’m brushing my teeth in front of the sinks when the other shower-stall opens.  A man in his late-40’s/early-50’s, clearly the father, exits the tiny stall.  Behind him, I expect to see a little boy; instead, a damn-near 6-foot tall teenager with stubble on his face steps out.

Think about that.

Right Field

Right field has developed a reputation in Little League as being a position where less talented players can be "hidden" without damaging a team's defense in any significant way. [from Wikipedia]

I played right field, and, contrary to what Wikipedia may tell you, I damaged my team’s defense in a very significant way.  Either directly, by screwing up even the simplest of plays, or indirectly, by lowering the rest of the team’s morale to the point of near-suicide.

I had been marooned out in right field by a coach that hated my guts.  Really though, I was happy to be out there where I could study bees and pick dandelions strategically so as to leave a decent impression of Michaelangelo (the ninja turtle with yellow mask) on the field.  I was in my own little world.  When I’d hear the crack of the bat against the ball, I’d panic: “Oh God, Oh God, where’s the ball?! Where is it?! Is it mine, is it mine?”  Usually it never came anywhere near me, but when it did, I didn’t catch it.  Sometimes I’d trip over myself trying to pick it up, or it would roll between my legs, or I’d step on the ball trying to chase it down and twist my ankle.  On those rare occasions when I did manage to get the ball, I couldn’t even come close to throwing it back to the infield.  I would give it a feeble toss and it would land somewhere else in right field.  Usually the first or second baseman would sigh, and go get it.  I was the weakest of links, and comments like, “Jesus, is he TRYING to help the other team?!” were common.

As bad as I was in the field, the real show was when I got up to bat.  I never swung at anything.  Ever.  Literally, in all the games I played, I swung only once.  That time, I only did it because my Dad had bribed me to.  He said he’d buy me a new baseball glove if I swung at something.  Why that man would sink a single red cent into baseball equipment for me is a mystery.  Anyway, back to not swinging.  I was famous for it.  The Harpy women that perched in the stands (usually the mothers of the kids with the worst teeth) used to chant, “Easy Out! Easy Out” when I got up to the plate.  If these women had finished high school, the irony of their chant might not have been lost on them.  I never struck out!  Because I didn’t swing at anything, it was up to the pitchers to deliver three strikes before they threw enough balls to give me a walk.  I always walked.  Pitchers fucking hated me.

My own teammates despised me, too.  When I was in the dugout, waiting to go to “bat”, I used to irritate everyone with questions like, “Why do the batters run counter-clockwise around the bases?“, “Why isn’t there a shortstop between 1^st and 2^nd base?”, and, “How many times do you suppose that ball has been hit by bats?”.  I was a pariah.  If we had been aboard a ship at sea, I would have been tossed overboard.  If we had been at boot camp, I would have been pinned down and beaten with pillowcases loaded with bars of soap.  I didn’t understand the game, even after playing it for months, and I had no desire to learn it.  I was just pathetic.  I can admit that.  When we won, I felt like I didn’t even have the right to be happy about it because I had done NOTHING to help, and when we lost, I felt guilty because I knew I had caused it.  Those aren’t digs for sympathy either, those are just the facts.  I torpedoed our team in nearly every game.  I was like a gremlin.

Anyway, yap, yap, yap, here’s the story.

It was a hot summer evening, and we were playing a pretty good game; that is, I hadn’t screwed anything up yet (that is, nobody had hit anything to right field).  I had downed about 2L of Gatorade.  Never mind the fact that I had done nothing to break a sweat, staying hydrated is crucial.  We had just come back onto the field after three quick outs.  This was unfortunate because I had been waiting to piss for a while, and I wasn’t going to get the chance anytime soon.  I was stuck way out in right field again, and the outhouses we used were just a speck on the horizon.  I couldn’t leave my post; right field was too important to go unmanned.  “What would a professional right fielder do in this situation,” I asked myself.  Then it came to me.  He would man-up, buckle-down, and piss his pants.  It seemed like the only logical answer.  So, that’s just what I did.  I stood there, proud in the sun, with the bees buzzing around me, and I unloaded 2L of used Gatorade into my uniform pants.  It was empowering.  The game was more important than dry pants.  I was so pro.

By some miracle the grey of my uniform pants didn’t show the stain very much, and the sun beaming down on the field dried them quickly.  Now, the only evidence of what I had done was the faint scent of urine about me.  It went over so well the first time, that I started doing it every game.  I wasn’t trucking it to that godforsaken outhouse ever again.  I started stepping it up a notch too, I wasn’t just going once a game, I was going every time we were in the field.  I was free to down as much Gatorade as I wanted now.  My game was sure to improve under such an efficient system.

Anyway, I pissed myself throughout the season until my mother started questioning why my dufflebag smelled so bad.  She recognized the smell of piss, and so, feeling no shame, and being proud of my devotion to right field and of my ingenuity, I told her exactly where the smell was coming from.  I don’t know what you call a mixture of disgust, surprise, and concern, but that’s what she had.  I got chewed out pretty bad for it, and both of my parents made it quite clear that they were concerned there was something wrong with me.

Whatever!  The point is that I wasn’t allowed to piss my pants anymore.  My efficient system had been shut down, and I had been doomed to remain a crappy right fielder until my father finally gave up on me and let me quit.

My First (and Last) Piano Recital

So, when I was about 13 years old, my mother decided that it would be good for my sister and I to start taking piano lessons.  How this decision was made I’ll never now; I was not invited to the meeting, and I was not forwarded the minutes.  There I was, at the ripe age of 13, about to step into the world of the piano.

Imagine my enthusiasm.

I’m not sure how long we went to this girl, or how many lessons we did, but I learned precisely nothing.  My fingers are stubby and fat, and I tended to mash the keys with my palms rather than let my fingertips dance across the whites and blacks like little ballerinas or some shit.  This instructor would have gotten better tunes out of a pig strapped to the bench smashing the keys with its muddy little hooves.

The point of all this is that I hated piano lessons, I sucked at piano, and my mother didn’t care and wouldn’t let me quit.  This brings us to the recital [quickly and awkwardly, I agree, but I’m not getting paid to write these things].  All of the people in the community that played the piano apparently belonged to some sort of club or guild or something.  They were all in cahoots.  Anyway, the oldest of these piano-people served as grandmasters to their little club, and they organized a Christmas recital every year.

If you’ve ever been to a piano recital in a small rural community, you’ll know that it’s not exactly the most edge-of-your-seat show.  But still, if enough kids drag their parents and grandparents, you end up with a fair size audience.  I was entered into the recital against my will, and I was the oldest performer by at least 5 years.  So it’s a bunch of 6, 7, and 8 year olds, and then me at 13.  The piece I was to play wasn’t even my choice.  I was supposed to do “Good King Wenceslas”, or about 40 seconds of it anyway.  I’m sure when I went to the piano, all of the people in the audience thought, “Oh, well he’s a fair bit older than everyone else, he might actually play something interesting and with a bit more complexity."  WRONG!  All night, little 6 year olds had been playing full blown Christmas songs, and here I step up, all frumpy and hot in my too-tight dress shirt and my itchy black slacks, and I plink-plonk out the worst fucking rendition of Good King Wenceslas that anyone’s ever had the misfortune of hearing.  Then I stand up, do a quick bow, and march back to my seat with my head down while about 4 people give me pity applause.  The rest of the people are all checking the recital programs to figure out who the hell I am and what the hell it was I was trying to play.

Now, none of that was the good part.  

A week before the recital, I was asked by one of these piano grandmasters if I would play Santa Claus for the kids at the recital.  They only asked me to do this because I’m fat, which kind of makes them jerks, but whatever.  I said I would do it because I hate disappointing anyone but my parents.  A few days before the recital, somebody dropped off the “Community Santa Claus Costume” that had been travelling from event to event and sweaty fat man to sweaty fat man since the 1970’s.  It smelled like a baked-bean-fed donkey had splatter-shat in the suit before they packed it up for the year, and the beard was stained yellow in the places where it would touch your face.  I tried it on, and guess what?  It fit perfectly.  [How’s that feel?  You’re 13 years old and have Santa’s physique.  Oh, there’s a long future of comic books and being “just friends” with girls in store for you.]

So I go to the recital I just told you about, and bomb that, and then, when everyone had played their piece, I had to rush upstairs to put the Santa suit on.  The kids all gather downstairs and I make my big entrance.  I try out a “Ho! Ho! Ho!”, and I’m instantly the most unconvincing Santa Claus that’s ever been.  I’m not Santa; I’m that fat kid that just destroyed Good King Wenceslas, except now I’m in a smelly red suit and an ugly white beard.  These kids aren’t fooled, and they just feel insulted that I suck so bad.  “You’re not Santa!” they each take a turn saying to me.  At first I feel the pressure to be more convincing, and a couple of the piano-people tell me to act more jolly and more Santa-esque, but, you know what?  No.  Fuck this whole operation.  The illusion is gone, if there ever was one, and I’m not doing anything but firing these gifts out to the kids and going the hell home.  I even drop the fake Santa voice.  Now it’s just me in a stupid suit, getting angrier and angrier at these kids who won’t come get their gifts when I call them.  “Todd Brown, come get your gift please….TODD BROWN, your Secret Santa gift is here.…MISTER BROWN, Gift!!!....LAST CHANCE TODD….TODD!  Yeah, you, do you want this or not?”.

Santa says stuff like that, “Last Chance!” and “Do you want this or not?”.

Anyway, this went on waaay too long and I could see in the grandmasters faces that I wasn’t going to be asked to do this again.  What did they expect though?  What 13 year old wants to: first of all, go to a piano recital, and second, be asked to play Santa Claus?!

Here’s a tip ladies, next time don’t be so goddamned shallow and just pick the first fat person you see!  Maybe next time you should start with someone that’s even the least bit jolly and just stuff a pillow in his shirt if he isn’t round enough for your collective tastes.   

Take it as a lesson learned, piano snobs! Merry Christmas!

Oh, P.S.  I got a gift too.  My Secret Santa gave me a Snakes and Ladders board game.  Snakes and Goddamned Ladders.  I guess I can’t blame my Secret Santa though, he or she probably assumed it would be a 7 year old getting it.  Anyway, it was bullshit, the gift, the Santa gig, the recital, everything.  I gave the Snakes and Ladders board game to my little cousin and told my mother I was quitting piano.

The Waffle-Maker

I never win anything.  You know how we say some people have a horseshoe up their ass?  Well, my ass would contain all the missing horseshoe-nails.  Even when the Wheel of Fortune does turn in my favour, however accidentally, it always seeks to rectify it as soon as possible. 

Let me prove it to you.

I was working in a contact center (call center) a few years back, and the company had some sort of draw or raffle.  A draw or raffle which, to my complete astonishment, I won.  My prize: a brand new waffle-maker! You should have seen it; it was so beautiful.  It was all tricked out with a list of features!  I was so proud of it, I accepted it like an Academy Award.  My first win.  Maybe this was the start of a streak?

I set the waffle-maker on my desk.   I admired it for hours.  Later that night, when the cleaning lady, Renee, came in for her shift, I couldn’t wait to tell her all about my luck.  Renee and I had become good friends over the years.  I smoked back then, and so did Renee, and since we both worked a late shift, we often took our breaks together.  Renee and I were pals.  We WERE pals, until the following bullshit went down.  Imagine this:

Renee is running her vacuum cleaner, and as she passes my desk, I yell to her.

“Hey Renee!  I won a Waffle-maker!” 

She sees I'm trying to talk to her, but she can’t hear me so she moves closer with a hand cupping her ear.

“I said, I won a Waffle-maker!”

She smiles a surprised little smile and shuts her vacuum cleaner off.  She comes over to my desk and picks up the box, looking it over.

“Wow, where’d you get this?” she asks, sounding genuinely impressed.

“I won it today.”  So proud of myself.

Renee continues to look very impressed and, still holding the waffle-maker, she takes a step away from my desk. 

Where is she going?

“Well, thank you very much!” Renee says graciously.

You know that moment when you suddenly understand something, but the understanding is horrible?  Well I have one of those.  It’s not quite a “lightbulb moment”, it’s more like a “you’re about to lose your fucking waffle-maker” moment.  Renee isn’t joking; when I said, “I won a waffle-maker” through the noise of the vacuum cleaner, she must have heard, “Want a waffle-maker?”

I have to think fast if I’m going to keep that—

“OH…You’re very welcome!” comes out my traitorous mouth.

What the fuck?!?  Where did that come from?

Somehow, I've just given my waffle-maker away!  Renee’s flipping the box over in her arms, and not very carefully I might add—she doesn’t give a shit about this waffle-maker, I just know it!— as she reads about all of the awesome features I will now not be getting to try tonight.

“My kids will LOVE this!” she chooses to say, “you’re sure you don’t want it?”

I hate you.

“No, no” I say with a dismissive wave towards the box, “it’s all yours”.

I'll get you back for this!  So help me God!

But it was over.  I sat down in my seat, crushed, and tried to figure out how the hell that just happened.  An hour later, my shift was over and it was time for me to go home without a waffle-maker.  On my way out the door, Renee snagged me for one last smoke, and I had to listen to her go on and on about all the great things you could do with a waffle-maker and just how much better life would be for her now that she had one.  I resisted the urge to stub my cigarette out in her eye and instead I told her just how welcome she was to that beautiful machine I had owned for 7 hours.

There was no point in going home right away now, so instead I went to meet a friend for a coffee.  Still upset, I told him the story and he laughed really hard because he's an an idiot.  He didn’t understand how awesome the waffle-maker had been.  I resisted more cigarette-in-eye urges and went home.

A few weeks later my buddy and his girlfriend bought me a new waffle-maker because they felt so bad for me.  FINALLY, I had my very own waffle-maker!  I took it home the night they gave it to me and used it right away.  The waffles were alright.  A bit doughy, actually.  But, I told myself I would use it every day, you know, get better at waffle-making, but those machines are pretty clunky.  They’re also a huge pain in the ass to clean.  So, I put the waffle-maker in the back of the cupboard with all the juicers and Slap-Chops and shit.

I guess that doesn’t matter though, I should be thankful for what I have.  What matters is that I ended up with my waffle-maker, and I didn’t have to go through with my plan to buy bags of Hostess Hickory Sticks to spread around in all the hard to vacuum areas at work.