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When We Were Stupid

Tue, 11 Sep 2007 19:24:17 -0700

Okay...every once in a while a completely unrelated memory pops into your head. Just can't help it. Once minute you are watching "Ellen" and the next thing you know you are thinking about crying your eyes out when you were five because the bumper cars weren't working and the only reason you went to the stupid carnival in the first place is because your mom promised you could go on the bumper cars and now your folks are trying to console you with cotton candy and corn dogs but it just isn't the same and suddenly your entire summer is ruined...ruined!!

Anyway...

So the memory I had the other day..albeit a stupid one...was in college...A bunch of us lived in a house we named "Lucifer's Playground." Anyway, my roomies Patrick, Matthew T. and I noticed that we had to clean the place because there were fucking beer bottles everywhere! Seriously..think about places you would never think about finding beer bottles and you would find at least one retired six pack.

How many beer bottles do you ask? It went like this.

Scene:

Three extremely hung over and now extremely stoned out college kids in the dirtiest living room you can imagine. (Seriously...like..if you were thinking clean...it was like...the opposite of that.) Beastie Boys "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" is playing at a deafening volume.

Patrick: Hey Dude.

Eric: Dude?

Matthew: Dude.

E: we need to clean man

P: yeah..we need to get on that

M: yeah...there are like...beer bottles everywhere dude

P: Yeah

E: Yeah

(side note...pot makes you stupid. you cant make brilliant dialogue like this up)

M: There sure are a lot of empties around

P: Yeah

E: (cough cough) Yeah

M: How many?

E: What?

M: How many do you think we have?

P: How many what?

E: Dude, I can barely feel my hands right now..it is so sweet

M: No dude, how many beer bottles do you think we have?

E: I would say we have more beer bottles than you can shake a stick at.

P: What did you say?

E: I said, Doogie Howser is a pussy. I could take Doogie Howser.

P: No, no , no...the beer bottle thing.

E: Oh, I said we have more empty beer bottles than you can shake a stick at.

P: I'll accept that challenge.

At this point, Patrick picked up this large 5 foot staff he was using in some theater combat class and, with both hands grasped firmly on it...started shaking it violently at every beer bottle he could find. Matthew and I cheered him on..Although..since it was indeed a challenge...we had to point out the bottles that he was missing...

E: Dude..you missed that one

(Patrick races into the kitchen)

M: Dude...in the oven..you missed those

E: Didn't I see some in the fish tank?

Patrick meanwhile is completely out of breath..racing from room to room..shaking this monster staff and trying to shake it at every bottle and can imaginable.

This went on for about 15 mins...until we all collapsed in a heap, laughing until we could barely breathe. The kind of laughter that only comes from stupid, naive kids. Patrick did indeed concede that there were more bottles than he, as a mere human, could possibly shake a stick at. While he gave it, literally, the old college try, he was beat. This would come up repeatedly throughout the year at Lucifer's and in our stupid way, we decided that this was, indeed a means to measure something.

The stick never did win out. And whenever we were given the challenge that something was more than you could shake a stick at, we always stepped up to the challenge, and visitors to "The Playground" cracked up at the free entertainment. And more often than not, the visitors would take their own shots...thinking maybe, just maybe, they would be the one to beat the system. But try as they may, they never quite did it. Because in the end, it was always more than they could shake a stick at.

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Cohabitation

Sun, 09 Sep 2007 12:32:22 -0700

Throughout my life I have lived with many people. Some were angels, others, more annoying. I have lived with ugly men and beautiful women, and it has been rumored that I have lived with my fair share of livestock as well. (For the record, nothing has been proven and I would hope you keep keep that kind of story to yourself as it would simply crush my mother.)

Roommates are a right of passage. Something we all go through. Most of us anyway. If you told me as an adult that you were going to randomly pick who I would share a San Quentin-sized dorm room with for 9 months, I would think of a million ways to say “fuck you.”

But as a kid...as a college student; it’s an everyday occurrence.

“Yeah, ummm..Mr. Hudson...we haven’t really done any kind of background check on this guy...and we know it is probably the first time you have spent any serious time away from your mommy....but we think you and Mr . Grumbles will become great friends!”

Yeah, great friends. Like maybe there will be shampoo left over after he spends an hour creme rinsing his mullet.

Scenario: Eric is in college and decides to join the circus for the summer! Okay not the circus, but pretty fucking close. I went to college at Central Michigan University in the middle of lower Michigan. Not much around but corn fields, oh, and wheat fields, and if you got bored there were bean fields. I think you get the picture. So one summer I decided to get the fuck outta dodge an go work at amusement park for 12 weeks. Cedar Point was one of the largest amusement parks ever, and the bonus? It was in the next state. Just my ticket to get outta here...try something new away from friends, family, kinda just hang with an entirely new posse. (and yeah...i just said posse...deal with it)

So where the hell do you stay when you get this kind of gig? Well Cedar Point had lovely living accommodations for all of its independently wealthy and worldly college student employee types. That is to say, we really weren’t old enough to realize when we were getting ripped off.

They had apartment rentals for a fee. They dumped 5 or six strangers in a room and just let you have at it. It was like American Gladiators but instead of bloodshed, you took your toll out on your roommate’s psyche. Battered, bruised, and somewhat susceptible, these either turned into a raging frat house simulation, or an apartment of spite.

The alternative to the apartments were the dorms. Now the dorms didn’t necessarily have a zip code in cool town...I could handle that. But they were cheaper than the apartments and I wasn’t exactly Thurston Howell.

The day I arrived, I went down to my room at the far end of the hall and opened the door. It was a tiny one-room apartment. Shared bathrooms and showers were down the hall. Inside the room to the right was a wooden bunk bed that appeared to covered at least an inch deep in what one can only imagine was 20 coats of vintage paint. Straight ahead was a single wooden dresser, and above it, a mirror.

That was it.

Welcome to paradise.

Oh, and did I mention that the plank floor, the walls, the dresser and the fucking bunk bed were all painted fucking sea foam green? It was like a half dozen bridesmaids just exploded in there, leaving matrimonial bridesmaid ooze everywhere. It was visually and emotionally disturbing.

And I loved it.

It was my place. No friends, no family, although I love them all dearly I have always felt the need to strike out on my own. Or maybe I am trying to outrun a haunted past that I dare not speak of? I have said too much...Moving on...

So I meet my roommate. Ken. Ken Hinson. How do I actually remember his fucking name? Well at the time I was madly in love with a college sweetheart Kim Henson. So the Ken Hinson thing always stuck...kinda silly. (and yeah, no...the Kim thing never worked out..got ugly...and is another story for another time.)

But first, lemme give you a little rundown on Ken. First off, I would like to say that Ken is African American. This is important. Why is it important? Because yours truly is white bread. White as the driven snow. White as Casper at Christmas. Where do I come from? White-town! Whites-ville! The village of Von Pale-enburg. Getting the picture? So I never had any type of relationship with “a man of color.”

And Ken was super cool too. He was super shy, but had certain things he liked. He had this awesome Kangol cap he would always wear. I just thought it looked sooo cool, and knew I was way too white to wear it. What would happen if I tried it on? Would it make me cooler? Or would it, as I kinda feared, make the hat less cool? I worried about that. Kinda like when your folks started using catch phrases then you knew they were no longer cool to use.

“Hey Timmy! Thanks for cleaning your room! You’re the shizzle and we think your room is a delightful combination of dope and fly!”

Yeah, not so much.

So while i secretly coveted the Kangol cap, I never tried it on...worried that he would know. Like I might leave karmic white fingerprints on everything I touch.

Ken: “Ummm...yeah Eric..have you been touching my cap when I am not around? Cause somehow, it just doesn’t seem as cool as it used to be, and I am wondering if your white-bread fingers are sucking all the cool outta my stuff.”

Eric: Whatchyou sayin’ G?

Yeah, thats how it would go down.

The other thing I loved about Ken is that he blasted RunDMC at an incredible volume. How cool is that? Now my intro to rap at that point had been Blondie’s “Rapture”, Tom Tom Club’s “Wordy Rapping-hood” you know...white guy music.

Suddenly the Run DMC comes blaring out and it called to me.

"My name’s McDaniels...

NotMcDonalds

The rhymes are Darryl's....

But the burgers are Ronald's!"

I never heard any of that blasting from the gazillion Barbara Streisand albums that my folks had. Apparently growing up with Neil Diamond, Barbara Streisand and Little River Band, I wasn't exposed to as much soul power as one might hope!

So Ken was good news...the tiny little room constantly smelled like Geri-curl, or activator, or whatever it was. We weren't the best of friends, but still we had some good times..and as a room mate, he was just this side of perfect.

And then..

Tragedy struck.

Ken had some sort of pansy-ass family gig he had to go to back home. It was going to last a while which meant he had to leave the Cedar Point family. I was bummed...he was a good guy...people liked him...but more devastating to me, it meant I would get a new roommate.

Fuck.

Ken and I just finished breaking each-other in.

"Don’t touch my cap white boy"

"Don’t get Geri curl on my hair brush Mr. Activator man"

That kind of thing. So it begged the question: who would my new roommate be? Who starts a summertime job with only a third of the summer remaining? What kind of guy does that?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you....’Reg.

Yeah, alright, so already I am wondering...It has been a couple days and no new roomie. The guys and I have been speculating...Since there is less than a full month to go in the summertime work contract, maybe they will leave it vacant? Maybe I will have the party room all to myself? Simply me alone, wrapped in a lovely room of exploded bridesmaids.

No such luck.

One day I come home from working hard, driving a river boat around a fucking man made island. Yeah, that was my job “Watch out for that bear!” “Oooh...the trees are really scary!” I dunno...that kinda shit...Anyway I get home..

BAM!

There is some sort of guy on the bunk!

And there he was...my new roomie. He looked about 45 years old..and to a college student, that is like serious old-town! He was sleeping like a fucking vampire; arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed, but flat on his back.

I snuck over to the dresser..thinking i would drop something off and come back later when he woke up. Suddenly, the vampire man speaks.

Vampire Man: Hey Kid. (in a very, very menacing, 3 pack a day tone of voice)

Me: Hey! (in a “Can I clean your windshield for a dollar mister?” tone of voice)

VM: So kid....gotta name?

Me: I sure do Mister Man! The name is Eric! Eric Hudson! Sure am glad to meet you! Do you like pie? They have pie here sometimes. I like pie! Especially with ice-cream! French vanilla is one of my favorites actually and...”

VM: Mmmhmm..(cutting me off.) So let me tell you a few things kid. I do maintenance round here. Brought in as a contractor and since they aint got no place else to put me, well, I guess I just ended up here.

At this point I just wanted to keep him talking. He looked like a killer. Someone who has killed a man. I mean people do it all the time right? I mean some of them have to get away with it? If any killer was going to get away with taking a human life, it stands to reason that type of guy would end up in a contained room with me at an amusement park for 3 weeks. What the fuck? Remember what I said earlier about no roomie background checks and all? Holy fucking crap!

Me: Wow Mister! That shure sounds exciting! Being a maintenance contractor and all!

VM: Well, it aint. That type of work isn't as exciting as you think. While being a contractor may sound like a hot shot job (it really didn't) it isn’t. And what that means is, I work all night and sleep all day. And I don’ want to have to worry bout anybody waking me up or messing with me. You got it kid? When you come in during the day you friggin tiptoe. I don’t want to even know you’re here.

At this point, it isn’t a matter of if he is going to kill me, but the how’s and when’s. Working maintenance at an amusement park gives him a lot of creative possibilities:

--Thrown off the giant roulette wheel?

--Dropped from the top of the ferris wheel?

--Some sort of Tilt A Wheel decapitation?

It all sounded delightfully gruesome and would be highly entertaining if we were talking about an old episode of Matlock. But this is my head we are talking about! I like my head!

Me: Gulping nervously...umm..yeah...so ummm..what was your name again?

(Immediately thinking to call the authorities and have them run an extensive check on this man. I know they would find he was wanted in 12 countries.)

“Yeah...they called him the Amusement Park Killer...started out as a Maintenance contactor you know...Apparently that type of work isnt as exciting as you think! Then he moved on to taking out Riverboat Captains...odd one that”

VM: Me? My name is hrmrmrrm’Raig.

Me: Ummmm, sorry, diiiiidnt’t quite get that. Was that Craig, or Greg?

Me: hrmrmrrm’Raig.

Okay now he was looking pissed. I had asked him twice and with his grumble and tiredness I just could get it out of him! Was he Craig or was he Greg? I may have wanted the answer, but I am also smart enough not to push your brand new roomie, especially when he is a 45 year old Amusement Park Killer. Yeah you don’t wanna push that.

For the final three weeks, there weren’t any mysterious accidents on the Blue Streak coaster, and I don’t think ‘Reg caused any cotton candy related fatalities. He and I rarely saw each other due to the odd shifts. And you know, I never did find out his real name. Whenever anyone asked about my creepy new roomie...I just acted real cool like. As if having a Carny Killer in your room gave you some sort of street cred. Oh that guy? Yeah, you probably want to stay away from him. Yeah, he and I understand each other, but he isn’t too good with new people.

And then inevitably, they would ask his name. And I would give them a halfway turn, brush my fingers against my mouth as I mumbled”....hrmmrrm’Raig.”

So I did live through the summer. Like they say, what doesn’t kill you just makes you stronger. I made it through the ‘Raig days and believe it or not, there was no weepy goodbye. I was just happy that I kept all my limbs.

And I don’t know what happened to Ken. He was a great guy who will always be much cooler than I ever will be. But in the end, he left his cap. I don’t know if it was an accident or not. Maybe he forgot to pack it. But sometimes when I think about it, I just picture him leaving that super cool Kangol cap on the seafoam dresser knowing I would wear it. And I did.

And for a while...

I was so fucking cool.