I am excited to say I can now call myself a CreepyPasta author! They posted Deadlands on Wednesday, and I found it by accident yesterday. That’s not a complaint, it’s a happy surprise. It was surreal to see my story on the site I’ve visited almost daily for several years. After this post I would like to complete the next story I’m working on. If I can get a few noticed, maybe Bestie’s husband will take pity on me and help with my domain sooner. In the meantime, it’s back to business.
I had a lot of trouble deciding what to write about next in regards to my personal adversities. There’s still so many to choose from, like wetting my pants in Mom’s office at 12, or puking all over Bestie when I smelled tuna. Then the puke thing reminded me of getting puked on myself, and I thought, yea, that’ll do. It’s funny for two reasons because it coincides with my worst ‘mistaken for a boy’ experiences.
For this story we return to 6th grade, but first, I need to introduce Pumba (named for her amazing personality, not appearance. She’s actual super pretty). She came to our school in 5th grade, but because I was being raised to follow in our culture’s ignorant footsteps, we hated each other that first year. Now, she is the only friend I still have from high-school besides Thelma.
Was I confused to walk into the first day of 5th grade to see my first black kid? Sure I was, but I didn’t care. I didn’t speak to kids who weren’t Bestie, and I assumed she would be no different. I only wanted to sit quietly until class began, but she talked to me first. Before I relay our first interaction, let me remind you I had a the first of two boy’s bowl haircuts, boy clothes, and purple flower flip-flops. Mom told me I would regret he haircut, but I wouldn’t listen. As always, I would have to learn the hard way… except twice this time.
“Hi, why are you wearing girl’s shoes?” Pumba asked, curious.
I remained silent at first, but decided “because I’m a girl” was a safe enough answer. Fool.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a boy.” Pumba replied. She spoke softly, she wasn’t trying to be heard by others… but she was.
As surrounding children stopped their own activities to laugh, a mixture of anger and humiliation radiated through me. It wasn’t the first time I was mistaken for a boy, but it was the worst (up to that point).
My little brain grasped for any comeback to turn the tide and settled on, “Why are you going to this school? Black kids go to the public schools!”
“I’m not black, I’m Indian.” She replied, completely unfazed by my ignorance.
I ran to class, too frightened to say “I thought they were all dead.” Clearly they weren’t, and I couldn’t afford to be wrong again. Later, Dad tried explaining the difference between India and the Indians I knew of, but it would be years before I understood countries beyond our own existed. The important thing is, Pumba and I were forced to spend several hours alone at the end of 5th grade and we became close friends as a result.
That’s why, in 6th grade, when our school rented a greyhound bus to shuttle us to a museum over two hours away, we sat next to each other. Two other friends, Maggie and Meg, sat behind us and we settled in for a long ride. Unfortunately, about thirty minutes into the drive, Pumba began to feel sick. We weren’t concerned, she never said it was a nauseas sick – if she had, I would have moved.
As it was, I turned in my seat to talk with Meg and Maggie while she rested quietly, head leaned against the window. I had all but forgotten her when I felt the light tap on my shoulder. I turned to see her sitting erect, eyes wide, one hand covering her mouth, the other pointing to the rear of the bus.
For 11yr old me, it was an almost comical sight. “Ha, what’s wrong, are you…” that’s how far I got before noticing there was something seeping between the fingers of the hand covering her mouth. Then time slowed as I saw she was actively vomiting.
I understood her request too late. As I fell backwards in desperate attempt to get out of her way, the dam broke. Violent jets of vomit threw her hand aside, spraying me as I lay fallen in the center aisle. Large brown chunks covered my torso and legs as I scrambled to roll clear of the chaos. When it was over, teachers rushed to Pumba’s aide, ignoring my primal screams and gags completely.
I ran into the small, smelly restroom to clean myself up. It was no easy task, but I managed to wipe my arms and legs clean. My shirt however, was ruined. I removed the… chunky bits, but the stains and stench remained.
When I came out, a chaperone approached me. “Well, it looks like you got most of it off… I’m sure you can get a t-shirt at the gift shop.” She smiled, lifting her hand as if she were going to pat me on the back, but dropped it awkwardly as she remembered my soiled status. I stared at her blankly until she returned to her seat.
I reluctantly returned to my own upon accepting no better option was available. Thankfully Pumba didn’t get sick again, but I couldn’t help be a little salty over her cleaner shirt. She had a line down the front, but minor drippings compared to the full drenching I received. I stared at my feet until arrival, finding it easier to ignore the looks of disgust as the stench overpowered any fragrance sprayed to combat it.
In my youthful naïveté, I believed they would take us to the gift shop first. You know, so we could buy those promised t-shirts? No. Gift shops were for the end of the tour. It took our first guide’s insistence for a teacher to compromise by going to the gift shop for us. Pumba didn’t bring money, but Teacher bought her a blue museum shirt I would have been pleased with.
With my $20, she purchased a hot pink nightmare with a picture of our state on the front, and list of state facts on the back. It was a size too big and as she handed it to me she said, “I had to cover the tax for you, but I thought you might like to have at least one pink shirt.” I think she expected a thank you, but I was frozen in a state of disbelief.
Instead of reaching for it I asked, “Can I take it back? I hate it so much.”
Obviously she said no. As we walked away to change, I heard the tour guide ask, “Why would you get the boy pink?” I quickened my pace before I could hear any more.
I was forced to change into the shirt, but as I followed Pumba into the girl’s restroom an employee stopped us. “Wait! You can’t go in there! That’s the women’s!”
A teacher had to intervene before I was allowed to enter. For once, other children were the least of my worries. They were terrible, but practically neutralized under public scrutiny. No, the big problem from that point became that special breed of adult who thinks they’re the most charmingly witty souls to ever walk the earth. Every employee who spoke to us and most passing patrons noticed me.
The most popular line was “Hey, it takes a real man to wear pink.” which was almost bearable if not for the playful punches to the arm.
A close second, especially once we made it to the outdoor trails and exhibits, was “I could spot y’all a mile away thanks to this young feller!”
“Well starch my knickers! Never seen a fella love pink s’much!”
“Don’t feel bad, Boy. I had a nephew who was backwards, but he did ok later in life.”
“What’s wrong, Champ? Get dressed in the dark this morning? Looks like you grabbed your sisters shirt don’t it?”
“Scuse me, son. I was just reading your shirt there… sure is pretty.”
When the long day came to an end I was too angry to tell my parents, but I didn’t have to. Apparently my teacher asked Mom to be reimbursed for her tax money. I knew she found out about the shirt by the look on her face. When saw me wearing the monstrosity she yelled, “Is that why she’s wearing that hideous thing?!”
I got really smug. Mom was having an episode and I knew exactly what that teacher was in for. Mom was ushered into a classroom where we could no longer hear what was said, but I knew victory was at hand. The one thing she got really serious about with school was money. Dad wasn’t there to balance her fury, and by time she was done they reimbursed the $20, gave me a school shirt to wear home, and made the teacher keep the pink nightmare.
It was far from a total win. I still didn’t get to buy stuff I actually wanted from the gift shop and my original shirt was in a trashcan, but it ended better than I expected. If anything, finally accepting I couldn’t pull off that haircut no matter how I wore it was the true victory.
For the record, Pumba went on to be our graduating class’ success story. She got fancy enough to have a view of Bryant Park in New York for a time. These days she is settled down and happily married with two beautiful, little poodle dogs. Not literal poodles, but they have that look. The point is, we’re all super proud.
Thank you for reading! Life is going to be busy for a while as we have to travel home for a family gathering tomorrow, and next week I have to clean out a junk closet so Hubby can fix the ceiling. Apparently we had a roof leak that is beginning to grow mold, so. Fun. Aside from finishing my scary story, I hope to start my next classic soon. I’m not sure which to choose yet, but if anyone has suggestions I’m completely open to them. Eventually I would like to do Dracula, but I’m not quite ready to tackle a full length book yet. I think I need to get my domain up and organized before I take on a project that large.
Stay safe out there! Sometimes they really are out to get you.
Poetry Disclaimer: The below poetry is horrible. Do not read it if you are serious about poetry. It is for amusement purposes only. This was written by me as a crazed, suicidal teenager. PLEASE DO NOT HATE ME FOR IT. I have nothing but respect for ALL religions and one like this is rare, but my OCD will go insane if I skip one. For full poetry details see Sex, Drugs, & Robbery.
Why is this so ridiculous? Life is so utterly meticulous. “Oh God, why me?” Why say “oh God”? God is nothing but a myth of a fraud.
People ask forgiveness in prayer, Hoping life will be fair. Life is a curse not fit living, Thinking God is a gift that keeps giving.
God is a bedtime story, To drown the screams in your head roaring.
The human soul, a myth or a role? A story untold, waiting to unfold?
There is no salvation, No hope of revelation. Live each day, hoping not to suffer, Lay low, and hope you recover.
No one cares, There’s no one else, There is no God, save yourself.
Cow-tipping is the reason I can’t believe in cool stuff like ghosts and magic. I’ve known hundreds of people who have sworn to cow-tipping, each with their own detailed accounts. Growing up, I eventually needed my own cow-tipping story to better blend in with the Normies. Do you realize how pathetic that sentence is? The worst part is, it was all for nothing! It’s impossible!
I was peer pressured into lying about pushing a cow over. That may be the worst thing I’ve said on this blog, but put all these aspects out of your mind for a moment. Yes, I’ll tell you some of the more ridiculous claims in a minute, but first I want to point out the psychological aspect of this phenomenon. An entire culture wholeheartedly believed in this myth to the extent countless people swore before their gods and on mother’s graves that yes, they have tipped a cow.
That’s insane on its own, but think about it. Sure, some simply made up a story, but it’s not hard to find a cow pasture around here. There has to be a vast amount of people who tried. Tried and failed apparently, but none called bullshit! Believing they couldn’t manage a task several tiny girls claimed to successfully complete, they returned to school with tales of victory. I could understand a few, but all of them? No. I don’t understand how they all reached the same conclusion to lie.
Imagine you have tried and failed to complete a simple task. You’re so embarrassed, you decide to lie. That makes sense so far, I get it, I’ve had to do it many times. Which is how I know you try to discuss it as little as possible. You don’t bring it up in conversation, you wait to be asked. Even then you answer in few words and little detail until the questions stop. So why do all the cow-tippers feel the need to discuss their ventures at length? Is it because they rely on drinking as a reason to be forget details? Are they copying a story told by family and therefor trusting in its accuracy? Maybe it’s both.
It’s frustrating because I know there is a profound, ground-breaking psychological gemstone waiting to shine in this hillbilly-honored tradition, but I’ve fried too many brain cells to see it clearly. Since properly expressing the beautiful flaws of this diamond are beyond my capabilities, I’ll settle for sharing some of the more… eccentric stories I’ve heard. If you put them all together it’s technically a less elegant way of saying the same thing anyway.
Let’s start with Beth, the cliche popular girl, Sophomore year. Able to drive now, the stories began in earnest. Once they started it was hard to escape. Beth was the record holding tipper with a whopping four cows. At once. Apparently she knocked them over like dominos. The other kids admired it so much, they copied her technique but let her keep the record. Most said they could only get 2-3, usually adding “I don’t know how you got four!” Or similar praise for good measure.
Football players usually tackle the cow, which seemed par for their type, but a pair of brothers came up with something… unique. They claimed they tipped the cow onto a trailer, tied it down (because a tipped cow is calm?), and moved it to block their driveway. Their parents were “super pissed, but it was worth it.” Seriously, is the cow dead? Why don’t they stand up? It can’t be a universally missed plot hole.
It just now occurred to me – since we live in a world of camera phones – are the cow-tipping lies dead? Don’t people generally disregard stories without pics these days? I hope so, I feel a bad for the cows. They have to be like “What the hell is this two-legger doing? Is it broken?”
If you failed to provide a tipping experience, you could expect insults such as:
“… so weak she can’t even tip a cow.”
“… so stupid she tried to tip a cow over and pushed herself.”
“… so stupid the cow tipped her over.”
“… so stupid she got the cow drunk.”
They really are endless, none particularly clever. What story did I go with when I finally couldn’t take it anymore? Well, that’s the worst part. I have an uncle who considers lying his one true purpose in life. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand that yet and was forced to give a story on the spot as the above insults were hurled at me from all directions. In my desperation, I repeated his story verbatim.
“I got into Granddad’s moonshine last summer… it’s kinda fuzzy, but when I woke up, I was half naked in the pasture, and curled up to one of his cows… so I must of tipped it. I think she liked it too, because that cow sure followed me everywhere I went after that.” I proudly announced to the entire class.
You see the problem, right? I thought it was a great idea because it was short, gave me a valid excuse for any details I lacked, and I knew for a fact it was hilarious because Uncle got people laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe. What I didn’t understand, was how strongly the joke implied sexual relations with the cow. I was met with stunned silence and various “are you gonna marry it?” jokes. Eventually I told enough people I said it on purpose to screw with the preppy assholes. It helped for the most part, but was still mentioned sporadically.
For Halloween that year, Beth dressed as a cow with a “eat more chicken” sign around her neck, but halfway through the day she traded it to one of the guys. They took turns wearing it to ask if I wanted to “take them to pasture for a roll in the hay.” It’s another one of those things I can laugh at now. At the time, I genuinely was pleased with my ability to pretend it was on purpose. That strategy failed more often than it worked.
Thank you for listening to my short rant, I haven’t written one in a while and it’s nice to get these things out sometimes. Also, while we’re here, I would like to let you know my next translated classic will be The Call of Cthulhu because I thought I remembered it being shorter. I didn’t realize how long it is until I was already in chapter two, but it’s going well and I’m excited about it. I thought about posting it in parts, but my OCD was highly offended by the notion.
Be safe out there. Sometimes they really are out to get you.
Poetry Disclaimer: The below poetry is horrible. Do not read it if you are serious about poetry. It is for amusement purposes only. For full poetry details see Sex, Drugs, & Robbery.
20,000 times a day I think of you. I think of us together, Wishing you thought of me too.
When we were together, Nothing seemed better. We had so much fun, I never believed it could be done.
20,000 times a day I see your face. The way you looked into my eyes, I would have followed you anyplace.
We were so happy for so long, Nothing could go wrong. We were together everyday, Never running out of things to say.
20,000 times a day I hear your voice, Your care and concern, You were my only choice.
When you started making up lies, I couldn’t change your mind. You started acting strange, Slipping further from my range.
20,000 times a day I smell your scent, The cologne you always wore. Our destiny writ.
You were suddenly busy at night, I knew something wasn’t right. You had someone new, But I didn’t want it to be true.
20,000 times a day I dream of you. Your always with me, I wish you felt it too.
No matter what I tried, Or how hard I cried, You won’t come back, What do I lack?
20,000 times a day I feel your touch, Hands embraced, bodies entwined. I never thought I could love so much.
Why did you do this? Why all the hit and miss? Why did your feelings pass? Why are you such an ass?
Of course I peed my pants, everyone my age pees their pants; it’s the coolest! You ain’t cool unless you pee your pants.
After enjoying the Fear Street trilogy and writing half a scary story, I realized I should go back to basics. I lured you all here under the pretense of crazy and comedy, not horror. Plus, I eat ketchup on steak without shame now because I know I’m not alone. Let’s see what else we can dig up, shall we? Today, I want to share another ridiculous embarrassment that only happened because of my stubbornness.
Reminder: I know some of you tend to feel guilty for laughing at these, but don’t. I’m 33 now and I’ve been laughing at them for years. Yes, it sucked at the time, but you know what? I’d do it all again. It gave me stories that make people laugh, and they honestly are funny. If we saw it on tv, we would all laugh. But most importantly: this kinda stuff happens to teens every day. There are people living their own versions of this who have no clue it won’t matter in a few years. In the thick of it, you can’t fathom a day when your life isn’t ruined. If even one person going through that reads these and it actually helps them get through it - yea, bring it on. I’ll do these all day, I got a million more, just hold tight.
Before I begin, I’ve always had a sort of dream I would like other opinions on. I love classic stories. Poe, Lovecraft, Shakespeare, and so many more, but I hate the old timey speech. What if, someone were to rewrite those classics in modern language? I don’t mean a reboot where some schmuck tries to modernize the story and ruin it, those people should be shot. I want to rewrite them exactly as they are, merely translated to our language. Has anyone else done this? I would love to try it, but no one else has ever shown interest to the notion. Anyway, on to the show.
Let’s talk about a Senior field trip to a museum. A few things to keep in mind:
Only the history class and teacher (Mr. Moore) went.
It was the last class of the day. We each drove ourselves to the museum.
I was dating the high-school sweetheart. He isn’t in this story, but he is relevant as to how I found myself in the following situation.
I was already working at the restaurant from my Queen of the Walk series.
The day of the field trip was hell. I woke to my alarm with a desperate need to pee, almost painful. I emptied my bladder and dressed for school as usual, but as I applied make-up the urge to pee returned with vengeance. I knew something was wrong immediately. I have a boss ass bladder. I trained it to only need attention 2-3 times a day in my plight to avoid public restrooms. Sitting to do my business, I felt a burning sensation as a trickle of urine exited my body.
Terrified, I feared the worst. Was it an STD? Had to be, right? I shudder to think of my reaction had Google not been there to save me. Even back then WebMD identified it as cancer, but admitted an Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) was also a likely culprit. Knowledge is power. I learned it was a common issue which normally resolved itself in a matter of days.
Unfortunately, it listed “frequent intercourse” as the common cause. Normally, I would say “that’s the reason I didn’t tell my parents,” but I’ve never lied to you guys and won’t start now. I wouldn’t have told them regardless the problem or cause. I tried to psych myself up, mentally defeat the UTI, but clearly science doesn’t give a damn about my mental resilience. Telling myself ‘it just feels like you have to pee, but you don’t’ didn’t make it true.
If you’ve never experienced one first hand, I’m not sure how to describe the intensity. Have you ever had a lot to drink before going to bed? Has it woken you in the middle of the night because your bladder was about to explode? If you’re like me, maybe you’re too lazy to get up. Maybe you ignore it successfully and fall asleep, but what did it feel like next time you woke up? Add an extreme burning sensation as if someone heated your urine to the boiling point and you have a decent idea.
After each class – and a few times during – I was forced to use public restrooms. As if I could afford to lose more pieces of my soul. The longer I held it, the more I had and hotter it burned. To make matters worse, I was expected at work after school. Perhaps my years of (almost always) successfully hiding my period made me cocky, but I thought I could pull it off. At least I can say I gave it the old college try.
I kept my problem secret from everyone, including Thelma. Any bathroom related issues in high-school were basically social suicide, and I was already dead in the water far as that went. Needless to say, my mood was poor; but as we drove to the museum, I felt good about making it through the school day. The hard part was over and I believed the rest would be downhill. It’s amazing how stupid we are as children. The urge to pee was prominent when I got in the car, but I was too lazy and sick of the school’s disgusting toilets to go back. I should have gone to the bathroom upon arrival, but again, Past Me was a stubborn dumbass.
As we gathered at the entrance, I saw we had been duped. I love museums and was pleasantly surprised to learn we had one…. but I would describe that place as ‘a large house filled with town history.’ I decided it’s only going to take a few minutes to walk through this place. I can wait until work, it’s just down the street.
I held my bladder as Mr. Moore gave the usual field trip speech, “Be respectful, and don’t touch anything.” He waited until after we were inside and he was blocking the exit to add, “Since we all drove ourselves, this is not technically a field trip. You can go straight home when you leave, but I would like you all to look around first.” He was extremely passionate about history, but his love for our town’s history bordered on unhealthy obsession.
Yes, our town has a lot of interesting parts to it, but I lost all respect for the man after our lessons about slavery. For any fellow John Oliver’s Last Week Tonight fans, you may have seen S07E20, US History about Southern private schools’ archaic history lessons. That was Mr. Moore. He told us things I fear to repeat and he believed them, but the scary part was how many students eagerly adopted his conviction. Alas, I’ll save those for another day. I’ve been working hard to avoid tangents and don’t want to backslide now.
Thelma and I walked through fairly quickly. I did see a few interesting things I would normally have enjoyed, but it was hard to focus when it felt like my bladder was coordinating an armed rebellion against me. As we made it to the final display on the second floor, a new level of urgency struck. I knew beyond any shadow of doubt I could not hold it any longer. All fear of public restrooms vanished as I raced to locate a toilet.
Suddenly, the museum didn’t seem small anymore. After a complete run-through, I failed to find restrooms. I imagined fleeing to my car, preferring to wet my pants privately, but then I saw it. Tucked into a small hallway a beautiful, skirted stick woman’s open arms and expressionless face beckoned me. I ran into her loving embrace and plowed straight through it, into an actual woman who was trying to exit. She cursed and I apologized without stopping.
Somehow, I was lucky enough for the bathroom to be otherwise empty. Had the woman I bumped into been a few seconds slower, this story may have progressed much worse. So desperate was my situation, I couldn’t yet breathe easy. As I ran the last few steps into the closest stall, I began… leaking. I clinched with all my strength, not a drop should have been able to squeeze through. My thoughts as I stood in the stall, next to a clean, functional toilet with piss slowly running down my legs, are impossible to translate.
I’ve never performed well under pressure, not physically. My brain will offer solutions, but even the best ideas are useless if you don’t possess the capacity to execute said solution. I knew I needed to undo my pants and get my ass over that toilet, but my fingers didn’t work. I wasn’t wearing traditional button up jeans, I wore capris pants with a tie-string. I was often pantsed (you know, when they yank your pants down) at school and always utilized every tool at my disposal to prevent such actions. In my haste, I pulled the wrong string, creating a tight knot I couldn’t undo even if I weren’t actively peeing my pants.
I was further distressed to discover it was not the short trickle I’d experienced when returning to the bathroom every hour; it was the full stream of a drunk girl on her second bottle of wine. Adrenaline surged through me as I pulled at my pants and wiggled my hips. I was rewarded with slow yet steady progress. I watched the urine puddle grow and spread into neighboring stalls with despair. I expected someone (most likely a classmate) to walk in any moment, but they didn’t.
No more than 60 seconds could have passed between the time I entered the stall and finished soaking the floor, yet I feel like I experienced hours worth of thoughts. I’m not sure why I didn’t sit on the toilet with my pants up. It’s not that I didn’t think about it, I considered it almost immediately. I even realized it would make a huge difference in the clean up if someone entered.
Each time I imagined the door opening, my stomach lurched and I thought I would puke. When the stream finally ran dry, I let go of my pants in favor of toilet paper. I ignored my pants as they finally fell to the floor, instead concentrating on dropping as much TP as possible. I know “life-threatening situation” sounds dramatic for a pants wetting, but I was 17, a Senior, and finally at a point where boys didn’t spit on me everyday. The prospect of everyone learning I wet my pants on a field trip (while Billy Madison was insanely popular) felt that way in the moment.
I wanted to clean my mess. I struggle for a word stronger than shame; the emotion I felt was so much deeper. My legs and pants were soaked. The puddle spread through my stall, two others, and the open floor. My mind raced for a solution, but there was so little time. I would be lying if I said the grossness didn’t play a part in my decision, but I truly feared I would be discovered any second. I wore a thin, long sleeve shirt over a skimpy tank top. The kind I would normally never wear in public but technically covered the important bits.
I had no choice. I secured my pants once more, removed my shirt, and tied it around my waist. With my head down, I speed walked out the door. I made it to my car without seeing anyone, but wasn’t out of the woods yet. I didn’t know if anyone saw me exit the bathroom which led to hours of paranoid daydreams and a fresh surge of panic with each new text. I also needed new pants if I didn’t want to explain why I was ditching work last minute.
My trunk was basically a suitcase and I hoped to get lucky. I was willing to wear pajamas if it was all I had. I lucked out with slightly stained but acceptable jeans and threw the wet pants into the dumpster at work. I used the horrible bathroom every 20 minutes, terrified of a repeat occurrence, but survived the shift.
That night, I called Thelma. I wanted to think of a way to ask “So, anybody happen to notice pee all over the bathroom floor at the museum?” But Thelma beat me to it.
“Dude! I forgot to tell you! The funniest shit happened after you left the museum! Some lady’s 3 year old pissed all over the bathroom floor.” Thelma paused, laughing hysterically. My heart lifted, but I was too afraid to hope.
I held my breath until I could wait no longer. “No way, you’re screwing with me right? What happened?” I forced a laugh, trying to hide my anxiety.
After a few deep breaths she was able to continue. I feel bad about this now, but admit I was extremely proud and laughed with Thelma when it happened. #Honesty. So, here’s what happened:
The manager walked into the bathroom minutes after I left but never saw me. What she did see, was a mother kneeling in front of her small child.
Manager promptly exited the bathroom, intent to confront Mother. “Excuse me! Ma’am? You cannot do that! You’re going to have to clean that up!”
Mother, taking a few steps back, is confused at first. “I’m… sorry? Um, I think you have the wrong person.” Thelma mistook the lady’s genuine confusion for ‘complete guilt’ and mistook my resulting laughter as genuine instead of guilt.
“No ma’am, I saw you come out of here. I understand children have accidents, but you need to be the one to clean it up.” Manager lowered her tone, aware she was attracting attention.
“Lady, we didn’t go in there, we just stopped so I could fix her backpack.” Mother now had the child’s hand, backing away from the crazy woman.
“Look, I’m sorry I spoke loudly, I was just… surprised. It’s really not a big deal. I’ll get you a mop, there’s one right down the hall.” Manager changed tactics, but to no avail.
Mother looked to the crowd around her with a facial expression begging doyou people see this?! But found no support. As Manager walked away, she called after her, “I don’t know if someone has crapped or puked – because we didn’t go in there – but I’m not mopping up someone else’s mess in someone else’s house. Maybe you should hire a janitor if you aren’t capable of cleaning your restrooms.” With that, she scooped up her child and left.
Manager walked to the front windows, watching her until she was out of sight. With a sad, slow shake of her head, she addressed the crowd. “I walked in there right as they came out. And she knows that, but she wants to stand there lying to my face rather than admit her daughter peed all over the floor.”
All agreed with her regarding the sad state the world had become. Anyway, the UTI cleared up within a few days, but the first was unquestionably the worst.
A bonus tidbit you may find amusing: a few years later, Thelma got an UTI and peed all over a dressing room floor at an outlet mall. The only difference is she got caught. She told an employee she couldn’t clean it up, apologized, and never returned.
I just realized this the third story involving a bathroom incident and I’m not even halfway through them. Oh well, this is probably enough for today. Thank you for your indulgence, and I sincerely hope you laughed.
I still haven’t been able to get a photo of Heathcliff, but he received pets this morning! He ran to me for breakfast and rubbed between my legs like a pro so I went with it. In lieu of his photo, I will pay the cat tax another way.
Remember, stay safe out there. Sometimes, they really are out to get you.
A few things before I begin. Regarding my unintentional cat rescue situation, it happened. We’re back at 12. Friday, as I paced, writing, robe securely caped, I looked outside to see an orange cat eating on our porch. I racked my brain for the name of this cat, baffled I couldn’t remember. When I was finally able to face reality, I tried to approach, but no luck. This morning, it was hungry enough to accept food, but I didn’t get a glimpse of gender. Looks like a new game is afoot. Death to all who abandon their pets.
Regarding my name, I have realized ‘Dubbed’ is a poor alias, which led me to the thought, hey, pen name! Long story short, I wanted it to be fun, and what’s more fun for a writer than Page Turner? I know what you’re thinking, why not Paige? Right? It’s because Paige is a common first name, and Turner is a common last name. There’s probably a ton of them, and it makes me wonder how often people don’t believe it the first time they meet. I bet it’s annoying, plus Page is shorter and I’m lazy.
Lastly, as of late, I’ve drifted away from acknowledging my own toxic traits. Instead, other people have been the focal points of my stories, and tonight is no different. To make things squaresies, I’m going to admit something I’m deeply ashamed of but can’t stop. Deep breath. The way I embody the hillbilly cliche is… I eat my steaks rare… with ketchup. When you finish cringing, we can begin.
We’re talking about Giddy Up western store again. More precisely, my final few months employed there. We didn’t have time to discuss the credit system in our last chat, but any employee or ‘playmate’ could take anything without paying. Instead, we wrote a ticket, signed it, and put it in a basket with dozens more. It got out of hand fast, but there was nothing Don could do.
I’m sure you remember Don; older guy, ran his wife’s dead sister’s store into the ground? You see, Donnie boy thought he was being clever. Not only was it cheaper to pay his playmates in merchandise, he thought “they’re paying monthly” sounded believable. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider how it would look when his “charge accounts” became a stack totaling thousands but never actually received payments.
Even worse, he didn’t realize actual employees would want to utilize the same benefits. It’s Psychology 101, of course people want what others have. Our merchandise was marked up 1.65, it added together quickly. Remember, Jane and Sara are our managers, Liz and Phoebe (from Rain Showers) are other workers like myself. That should be all you need beforehand, now let’s get into how this mess played out.
We set the scene on a warm Monday morning when Don introduces his newest pet, Cindy. This one was truly a piece of work. She wore skirts with no underwear, and we saw her noonie often. Why one would feel a need to brag about deep throating skills, I’ll never understand, but I hear ecstasy is a heck of a drug to do regularly. Personally I’ve only tried it a handful of times, but much as I appreciate a good high, it just isn’t my thing. If you can use it responsibly, props.
Normally, his new girls waited a few weeks before taking free clothes, but Cindy was clearly special. “Hey Gurlz! What’s up!” Cindy arrived her second day, late and stoned on a pharmaceutical cocktail.
“Tell me this bitch ain’t come in here wearing pajamas.” Sara muttered.
Exasperated, I glanced up. “Yea, that’s exactly what it is.” I turned away, refusing to acknowledge it further.
“I can’t take another day of this.” Sara began texting Don. I didn’t get my hopes up, knowing even her voice would be ignored in favor of a playmate.
We sat quietly until Don’s reply. “You kidding me?” She cursed under her breath, glaring at the message.
“What?” I was afraid to know.
She turned to Cindy, “Mista Don said go pick an outfit. Shouldn’t be wearing pajamas to work. Act like you got some sense.” Sara shook her head. Adding, “Ugh, white people! Oh… no offense.”
“Nah, that’s fair.” I shrugged.
Cindy clapped gleefully, “Really? Yay! Thank you, I didn’t have any clean clothes this morning.” When she finished playing Fashion Montage, she was decked out in $389.99 (before tax) worth of merchandise.
“It was ballsy to include the ostrich boots.” Liz grumbled, angry Cindy was wearing the boots she wanted but couldn’t afford. “I mean, it’s bull! She’s been here two days! Does Don know she got boots?!”
“I text him when she was trying them on. He said start her a ticket.” Sara answered exasperatedly without looking up from the calculator.
“I don’t see why you all don’t just start a ticket. You guys hide all this stuff in the back until you can afford it, why? Take it home today, pay later. Not like he can tell you no. What’s he gonna do? Admit they are paying him, just not with cash?” I was being sarcastic. I didn’t even look up from whatever phone game held my attention back then.
“…Why don’t we do that, Sara?” Liz asked.
“… Because I hadn’t considered it. I mean… I am going to pay. I ain’t gonna be like all them. But it would be nice to get those new jeans before Friday… I’ll do it if y’all do.” Sara said
“Oh I already know what I’m getting.” Liz agreed. “What are you getting? You gotta find something too.”
“Ew, I don’t want none of this redneck junk.” I replied, enduring the slaps I knew were coming. My distaste for country-life still baffled them, but they enjoyed teasing me about it.
“Hey! If y’all are doing that, I got stuff I need for my sister’s birthday.” Jane shared my preference for Hot Topic, but came from the same hillbilly breed as the rest of us.
“See, even Jane is, you have to find something.” Liz pressed.
“Fine, fine. Actually, if we’re serious, Hubby could really use some new Red Wings…” Go big or go home, as they say.
“This store won’t make it another year the way he going. That new girl just showed up in pajamas on her second day. What happened? She’s going home in over $400 worth of clothes and a day’s pay! I’m serious.” Sara was already filling in her ticket.
Mob mentality is a strange thing. Before I knew it we each had our own tickets, though mine substantially lower. Try as I might, nothing appealed to me. When Don arrived, Sara and Jane casually asked if they too could “charge a few items.”
Don agreed after a slight hesitation, but weeks passed before he understood how far it went. At that point it was too late to complain. He couldn’t figure out how to tell some to pay up when so many with longer, higher debts never made payments. It was then he realized the store, and subsequently his entire lifestyle, could very well be coming to a tragic end.
“We have got to figure out a way to make more money.” He complained on a day when he and I were co-existing peacefully.
“Everything in your store only appeals to one demographic, why don’t you try buying some Pacsun and Hot Topic? Set it up in the clearance room, there’s plenty of space back there. Me and Jane could run it.” Again, it was sarcasm. I pitched the idea every few months since beginning work there, but never was it taken seriously.
“I don’t know, hell. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.” Don pondered.
“Really? Because I can bring some magazines for you to look at tomorrow…” Jane pounced like a cheetah. I silently cheered her on, stunned.
Hell, don’t we have a bunch of that stuff laying around? We got stacks of dealership magazines somewhere. More of it’s coming in the mail every day, we ought to.” Don grumbled, nodding his head in the general direction he wished us to search.
For once no one complained. We went about the task enthusiastically and were rewarded for our efforts. Whose familiar with BUDK? They sell all kinds of weapons. Swords, knives, blow darts, you name it. Full disclosure right away, I didn’t buy arsenals of battle ready weapons as you will immediately realize when I share the costs. The knives are real, but the swords would take great effort to cut.
“Ooo! Now this is what we need! I’ve never heard of the place, but look at all these weapons! Tasers, mace, samurai swords, they’re… they’re beautiful!” I threw the magazines on the table, saving them for later, and continued my search.
I hadn’t realized Don picked them up until he asked, “Y’all think we should get some mace and tasers? Lots of women might wanna carry one in there purse, look, there are pink ones!” Don held the magazine to Jane.
“Yea, I know I would.” Jane took the magazine, flipping through as Don and others watched over her shoulder. All seemed interested.
I stood back, afraid to break whatever magic spell was creating this miracle. They can’t be serious, I’m not that lucky. Even when Jane took the necessary information to contact the company, I expected nothing. The next day, when they asked my help choosing items for our first order, I threw myself into the task with vigor.
“This is just torture, look at all this stuff I can’t afford! I’ll go broke trying to buy everything we order.” I complained to the girls. Only Sara, Jane, and Phoebe were present. Don and his playmate were on their daily breakfast run.
“You looking at the wrong price. That’s what they want us to charge regular people, we pay the dealer price, look.” Sara pointed to a smaller number. Each item listed a recommended sale price in large, bold print, but underneath, much smaller, were our dealer prices.
“That can’t be. It says $16 for this $80 Ichigo’s Zangetsu… what’s the catch?” My brain couldn’t comprehend such a thing.
“How you think we suppose to make money? They dealer prices.” Sara rolled her eyes and I decided not to push my luck.
An hour later, our order was ready. We started small with mace, tasers, pocket knives, and Zangetsu. The wait seemed forever, but the ship time was only a few days. I was disappointed with its smaller size, but reminding myself of its low cost, a new addiction was born. Upon receiving my $60 at closing, I returned $20 to Don and took my new prize home.
The tasers sold well, and Don asked us to make a new order. Before I knew it, I added an Alien Vs. Predator battle axe with detachable knife for less than $20. I was highly impressed, but when it came time to pay, I couldn’t stop thinking about my measly $175 ticket piled amongst others who owed 10x my current total.
“We have rent due, can I charge this one?” I asked Don afterbeing paid.
He waved me off, knowing he couldn’t say no. Our fancy hunting knives sold like hotcakes, but the more money we made, the more dates Don arranged. None of us complained, we long ago accepted Giddy Up’s fate. The other girls charged boots and Cruel Girl jeans while I expanded my weapons collection.
For our next order, we found truck nuts in all colors and sizes. The ones that lit up were returned by angry customers who were pulled over for their flashing lights, otherwise they sold better than anything in the store. I found a lovely Kit Rae dagger; I’ve never seen the show, but again, pretty and cheap.
Around this time, Don angered Cindy by not having cash when she wanted it. For revenge, she shared their texts with us the next morning. Phoebe, Jane, Sara and I gathered to see the words in print as she read aloud. For your convenience, I will add punctuation and correct spelling, but know the real text was enough to give a Grammar Nazi an aneurysm. These are people who couldn’t distinguish between or/are, won’t/want basics.
Don: Can we meet tonight? I’m having a hard time with the store and family right now. It feels like everything is falling apart, I really need someone to talk to.
Cindy: Poor baby, usual place?
Don: Yea, thanks darlin’. I’m already here, I didn’t know where else to go.
Cindy: Okay, I’m with Baby Daddy, be there in an hour.
Don: Oh. Okay. Well, please hurry, I need somebody so bad right now.
Cindy: Do you have an extra $100 with you? We’re low on diapers and formula, I can tell Rick I’m going to the store or something.
Don: I didn’t bring money, I can’t get more cash without Kay seeing the bank statements. You know I’ll take care of you tomorrow, someone always pays cash. Maybe we can sneak those Montana Silversmith earrings ;).
Cindy:You don’t have ANY money?!
Don: I will tomorrow, you know I’ll make it up to you. We don’t have to do nothing, I just need someone to talk to. All this stuff going on makes me wish I was dead…
Cindy: I’m sorry, the baby has a fever. Rick wants me to stay while he goes shopping. Wanna hang out tomorrow? I can say you need me to work late.
Don: Wow, I see how it is. I actually thought you cared about me, but I guess you only care about my money. Maybe I should just kill myself.
Cindy: Don’t be like that, I got a sick baby. See you tomorrow.
Don: You’re nothing but a liar and con-artist! Just like all the others! Don’t even bother coming in tomorrow.
Cindy: Are you firing me for not coming to see you after hours when I have a sick baby?
We think that’s when Don understood the great power texts hold. He never responded to that message. The next morning, Cindy arrived early for the first time. “Anyway, I just thought you ladies would be interested. I’m afraid I may be coming down with a cold, does anyone mind if I take a sick day?” It was rhetorical, she was already gathering her possessions, knowing she would never return. She blackmailed Don with those texts for a long time, at least as long as the store was open. I doubt he could afford it after.
Don didn’t come to work that week, citing flu as the reason, but we knew better. None of us were brave enough to say anything directly, but the tension when he came around was at a new high. We all grew bolder with our charge tickets in the following weeks. Mine, still drastically lower, never topped $1,000, but some of the other girls came close to $5,000. I bought nunchucks, and tried to learn how to use them via YouTube. Several bruises later they were for display only. I bought a chain whip for no reason other than wanting to say I owned one. Same goes for the crossbow which was cheap and broke a few years ago.
Liz bought a blowgun first, but I got one on the next order, unable to tolerate someone owning a weapon I didn’t. Along with several styles of throwing knives, I found a nifty thing I can only think to call a pocket throwing star. Last but not least, I’m sad report I can’t find my weird chakram. I searched all over Google before I found a picture, but I believe it was labeled as a Soul Calibur rip-off. All of which is moot to me, I just thought it looked neat and it’s genuinely sharp. I have the scar to prove it. Remember the cousin I talked about in Breakfast of Champions? He stabbed me with it on accident. Well… technically it was on purpose, but not with malice… more like a test.
After officially beginning work for Hubby’s aunt (Slushy), I happily resigned. The store was open a few more months before it closed down, but the drama was far from over. Next time we discuss this time period, I’ll tell you about convincing Sara to hire a different cousin who just moved back into town. I was completely unaware she developed a drug addiction, I honestly do feel poorly about what it put the girls through.
Honorable mentions include Urahara’s Benihime, Naruto kunai, Kill Bill samurai swords, and a taser made to look like a Nokia brick-phone. My nephew, who I haven’t had a chance to tell you about, has inherited most of these. He’s 19 now and currently living in another state, but I’ve asked him to send pictures. I figure we have a 20/80 chance he’ll remember, but if he does, I’ll add them later. He is Hubby’s oldest sister’s son, and was 7 when we met. He is my mini-me, my prodigy, and I love the little stinker to hell and back, but holy cow did he have a shit childhood. That’s going to be a longer story I don’t want to write sober, but absolutely worth telling.
I know my last few posts were on the longer side so I wanted to keep this simple. Plus I ran out of internet again and waiting on Hubby’s hotspot makes publishing difficult. I haven’t decided the next topic yet, but I hope to have at least one more Halloween theme before the holiday is over. I appreciate all of you who take the time to indulge my Blogger fantasies, and remember, stay safe out there. Sometimes, they really are out to get you.
Hubby and I lived in our first apartment for 18 hellish months. By that time, I had a work bestie, Phoebe. I suggest imagining her as Phoebe from Friends, but if she drank heavily and popped pills. She was my age but dating a 45 year old creeper. It wasn’t a fling, last I heard they were still together. Phoebe stayed with Mike through several beatings and trips to rehab, but that all came later. At the time we’re discussing, they were 6 months into their relationship and living together.
Mike owned a double-wide 45 minutes outside of town. There was one gas station 15 minutes away, otherwise they were alone with a few scattered neighbors. His home sat between his grandmother’s and aunt’s, but Aunt (Dee) moved in with the granny when her husband died. He committed suicide five years prior after being fired, and his affairs were made public knowledge. He drove to a secluded area to shoot himself, but Dee never went into their house again. I can’t blame her there, but personally I wouldn’t have left my diary behind for anyone to find.
During a particularly bad rant to Phoebe, she told me about Dee’s situation. Apparently the 4 bed, 3 bath house needed cosmetic repairs, and was available for rent to anyone capable. Due to the work required, rent (water included) was only $300. Life in the country is cheaper in general, but to give you an idea of living costs in my hometown, the rent for our tiny crap-hole was considered cheap at $550.
Hubby and I were ecstatic, it was exactly the kind of work he does. We followed Phoebe and Mike there that evening. The money saved on rent would be more than enough to justify the extra gas cost. “Is… Is that a house or a trailer?” I asked Hubby as we pulled into the driveway.
“That would be a trailer with extra rooms built on each end.” He explained, slightly unsure. After a full walk around, he corrected, “It’s actually two trailers with two additions, none of which match.”
“They don’t expect you to do anything on the outside. There’s no leaks; structure, electrical, and plumbing are solid, but the rooms need to be cleaned and painted. They had pets inside, so they want to rip out the carpet and install linoleum, but that’s the worst of it” Mike reassured as he struggled to open the front door. If his assessment had been accurate, everything would have worked out fine.
“Are the utilities already on?” I asked, too entranced at the prospect of living far from Rob and Amy to be suspicious.
“No not yet, but she already started the process, they should be on by the end of the week.” Mike answered and lead us through the house.
The stench of carpet repeatedly soaked in urine and left to dry assaulted our senses upon entry. The woman was clearly a hoarder, it quickly became apparent why the extensions were done haphazardly. They built where they could when they needed more space. The living room, kitchen, one bedroom, and bath were free of clutter stacks, but the remaining rooms were so full you couldn’t enter. Look, I know this has more red flags than a date who casually mentions living with his mother, but that’s why I wrote Breakfast of Champions first. If you haven’t read it, you can’t follow the thought process through this decision.
Sure, the place looked and smelled bad, but at the time, I was working from home and Hubby did these kinds of repairs for a living. We figured we could be cozy in a week and clean the spare rooms at our leisure. The living room and kitchen alone were bigger than our entire apartment. Honestly, we already had our eyes on a few things. There were all sorts of buried treasures, including a loaded gun hidden in a curio cabinet, but that’s for another day.
We moved the following weekend when utilities were restored. The house was so filthy we asked friends and family for help, but we only got Amy. My parents came, but stressed me out so badly we let them leave. Amy was excited to come, she was fighting with Rob and packed for the weekend. It was better than no help at all, we were grateful.
After checking each appliance and faucet, we learned the fridge was broken, the kitchen had the only functioning sink, the washer didn’t spin, most outlets didn’t work, nor did the guest shower, and a dead rat floated in the toilet. Every second I suffered from Amy’s Xanax delusions were justified when she reached in, grabbed the rat’s tail, and dropped it into a trash bag. “Huh, that was gross.” She shrugged it off as if she were discussing inconvenient weather.
Mike delivered a new fridge, otherwise nothing else was repaired for the 6 months we stayed there. Hubby wears 4-5 outfits daily, we can’t go long without washing clothes. Desperate, I tried to clean them without spin cycle assistance. I rung out each item before throwing it into the dryer, but the best way to describe the resulting pain in my hands is wet-burn. Plus, drying heavily soaked clothing broke the dryer inside two weeks.
We learn fast, it didn’t take long to understand our landlady had no intentions of making the home livable. We delivered our first rent payment in person, believing we would make fast introductions, hand them money, and retreat. Standard procedure. Not for these ladies. Dee and her mother were lonely, chatty women. They insisted we come in to “set a spell.” Thats hillbilly for “we want you to sit and listen to us talk a few hours.”
Scared and nervous we entered the witch’s lair, and again, were immediately assaulted by the pungent oder of urine, but fresh this time. Imagine you’re in a movie theater wearing flip-flops. You know what it feels and sounds like walking on those floors? That’s exactly what their carpet was like. Yes, I said carpet. Let that sink in a moment. If I was going to be trapped anyway, I wanted the conversation to be beneficial. I gave her a list of our major issues, most importantly the plumbing.
“I think we need to address these items before we begin cosmetics. The house isn’t livable.” I wanted to be polite, we wanted this to work.
“Oh my, I don’t know what could have happened, everything worked perfectly when I lived there.” Dee reviewed my list. “But there’s no reason to wait, my son is a plumber and I’m sure he can find a washer real quick.”
It was hard to resist pointing out the last time she entered the home was seven years go, but I managed. “That sounds great, but we can’t wash clothes until then. If he can get it quickly, it shouldn’t hurt to wait. We (Hubby) go through clothes too fast to dirty more with house work. My parents live outside the opposite end of town, it’s almost an hour from here. That’s too far to take clothes every other day.” I made a conscious effort to maintain a smile.
“Ah, I see! Well that’s no problem at all. You can was clothes here while we wait on the new one.” Dee beamed proudly.
I would have worn each pair of underwear for a week before I did laundry in that house. They would smell worse leaving than going. As it is, we burned the clothes we wore inside this first day. I’m not joking. I would like to take a moment to apologize for the sins we committed against the environment, but I was raised in a place that doesn’t believe in science. I didn’t know better, I am truly sorry. They were old clothes anyway, so when the smell clung to us we threw them in the burn pile.
By Sunday afternoon, we filled five 42 gallon trash bags but had no clue what to do with them. We hadn’t made a dent in our closet, where we were surprised to find clothes piled floor to ceiling. No hangers or baskets, nothing folded, just clothes thrown in until it was full. “But wait! Can’t you donate the clothes to charity?” You ask. That was also my initial response. Unfortunately, it was soon apparent we found the rat queen’s nest.
The smell was our first warning sign, but tolerable by our new, lowered standards. Armed with rubber gloves and face masks, we initiated contact with the pile. Rat feces fell from each item we picked up. Some things were chewed and matted together, some were stiff as a board. When the first live rat fled from the pile, we changed tactics. Newly armed with shovels and rakes, we scooped clothes into heavy duty trash bags. Hopefully you now understand why I would be averse to have them in my car, especially for multiple trips. Burning them honestly seemed like our only choice.
When Amy left Monday, we considered our living spaces almost as good as it would get. We obviously couldn’t waste money fixing the house, but we ripped out the carpets for our health and sanity. Once the living room and bedroom were clear, we saw there were very few places not permanently piss-stained. The thought of walking on it everyday was unsettling to say the least. Are you familiar with the felt paper used underneath shingles?
Far from glamorous, but we had tons of the stuff and it put something clean under our feet. After the first two months, we adjusted to our new routines. We learned to brush our teeth in the kitchen, took five minute showers, and never left the safety of our living areas. It was around this time, the complaints about plumbing got serious. We accepted we would never have faucets or the other bathrooms functioning, but Hubby found a leak under our good bathroom. That scared us. If it stopped working, we were beyond screwed. I do not ‘pop squats’ no ma’am.
Every day for weeks I sent messages to Dee and Phoebe, “We have a leak, I’m really worried about it.” I understood they weren’t capable of concern for our general well-being, so I decided to appeal to their needs adding, “I’m mainly concerned because of your water bill. I’ve seen leaks cost several hundred to the water company alone.” That one always earned me a response, but not one I wanted.
“Oh goodness me! My son is a plumber, I can ask him to fix it. Can you maybe just fill up a couple buckets to flush and wash with, then you can cut the water off?” Dee suggested this as if it weren’t the same son who was supposed to provide a new washer. I was skeptical.
We tried it for a few days, but the shutoff valve was ridiculously hard to access, and when days turned to weeks we were beyond our limits with Dee. Each time I spoke to her she behaved as if it were the first time. At the end of the first week she let slip, “My son is a plumber, I can call him to come fix it!”
“You said that last week, have you still not called anyone?!” My calm facade fell momentarily, but I struggled to regain it in her awkward silence.
Finally, she said “I did. I did… but he was busy, maybe he forgot. I’ll call again right now.” It was the first time she ended a conversation voluntarily.
As I’m sure you can all guess, this continued until they received a $400 water bill. Dee called crying, sucking snot back every few words. “What… what happened?!” I thought… but you said you could keep the water off. You… you said… you didn’t mind!”
I never cared for her poor me act to begin with and now she pushed me far past caring about etiquette. “Never once did I say we didn’t mind, I said it was doable for a few days! That was over two weeks ago!”
“I… I’ll call my son… he’s… a plumber.” Dee hung up, but she didn’t call her son, she called Mike.
A few minutes later, Mike knocked on our door, a sheepish Phoebe standing behind him. I knew what was coming. “Ah, let me guess, you heard about the water.”
“Yea, look. We really need to work something out. You have to see it’s unfair to tell her about a major leak and decide to turn the water back on when she can’t get it done the next day.” Mike tried to hand me the water bill, but too many things pushed my rage past the limit of control. I’ll leave out my curses, they’re unbecoming.
He was use to commanding fear and respect from Phoebe and the two old biddies he cared for, he forgot you can’t treat other people that way. I was already in defense mode before he tried to bow up in my front door to push that cray on me. I ignored his outstretched hand completely, and looked past him to Phoebe. “Do I need to show him the texts and calls from the last several weeks or do you want to explain it to him? Because the way we’ve been living it’s not going to be pretty if I have to relive a play-by-play.”
Phoebe tugged his shirt sleeve, “She really has. Non-stop. I told you.”
The look on Mike’s face said it all. Dee called him crying her pity story, he wanted her to leave him alone, so he believed her hogwash without an ounce of thought. Caveman then decided he would bully his way through like he did with everything else. It was only a few weeks until the water was shut off completely. Dee claimed she couldn’t afford a plumber or water bills. She invited us to use her facilities, but if you’ve been paying attention, you know that wasn’t a valid option. Instead we drove to mooch water from family.
Life wasn’t too terrible. It was genuinely better than dealing with Rob and Amy until Hubby had a wreck. We were less than a week into living without water when a car came into his lane. I’m thankful he wasn’t seriously injured, but our only car was totaled. I don’t want to go on a tangent about the wreck, but it took almost 3 months to receive our insurance money, and we were too young for a rental. Once a week, my parents drove us for groceries, otherwise we were stranded. It was kind of fun at first. Hubby couldn’t take jobs, and winter was an incredibly slow time of year for a porch building company. I took a few short phone calls a day, but the rest of our time was spent popping Adderall, smoking weed, and watching tv.
We could cook and brush our teeth with store bought water, that was never a problem when we had so many larger challenges to face. Washing clothes had us stumped, but we worked out a routine of washing at Phoebe’s every Friday while they bar hopped. We grew to look forward to those nights. We were able to have a real shower and toilet. Some of you may be wondering why we didn’t visit regularly, but we just aren’t those people. Maybe if it were only Phoebe, but we hated Mike and I have a super weird thing about potty etiquette.
The first two days without water, we became desperate enough to use each toilet regardless of flush capabilities. Unfortunately, that put us over the max waste limit one can tolerate in their home, and we were forced to find alternatives. Hubby peed outside freely, but to my great despair, I too was forced to pop the squats. Alas, this did nothing to help with pooping. How campers and hunters use bushes I’ll never understand, but Hubby tried walking into the woods on Day 3. He returned covered in poison ivy and red-bug bites. So, what do do?
Well, it turns out, if you take a 40qt pot, and hook a few Walmart bag handles over the pot handles, you’re off to a good start. No matter what, don’t forget to hook those handles. Learn from our mistake, you don’t want to clean your own. Then you need four 4×4 cut offs taller than your pot, 6 inches is ideal. This requires a flat, even surface, and it helps if your willing to put a few screws in the floor. We were. Again, not something you want to learn the hard way. Once you have your base, you need to two more (preferably decking size) boards to lay across the top. Now you have a redneck toilet. It doesn’t flush, and you have to change the bag after each use, but it kept us pooping indoors.
The sad part is, once that’s resolved you have to figure out what to do with the bags. Obviously we couldn’t burn them as we had other trash, no one picked up garbage this far out of town, we were baffled. Then we noticed the shed in our backyard. We were use to ignoring it after our first look, when we moved in we saw it was full of garbage and smelled of mold. “You think that would work?” I asked Hubby as we shared a knowing glance.
“I think it’ll have to, let’s check it out.” He carefully approached the shed with a shovel, using the spade to swing the broken door ajar. It couldn’t latch, but it closed far enough to get the job done. The shed appeared to be Dee’s first hoarding victim. We honestly believed if (big if) anyone ever discovered our shame, it would be years away with no reason to suspect it wasn’t Dee herself. Hoarders save all sorts of weird stuff after-all.
Pooping quickly became the worst part of each day, but when the shed could hold no more, we were forced to hike into the woods. We found a deep gully to throw our bags into, but ignoring the fact we had to add a lengthy walk to our waste disposal routine, it felt deeply wrong. It’s the one routine I couldn’t adjust to. As the weeks progressed, with no end in sight, we sank deeper into depression. While we only had to suffer the poo routine in the morning, other challenges faced us through each day.
We may have showered every Friday, but we couldn’t go more than a day without feeling gross. Bird baths with store water were a waste of time and resources, but it’s what we did most often. The first time it rained was on Day 5. “It’s raining hard enough to shower outside, do you want to try?” Hubby suggested, already collecting soap and shampoo.
“Yea, I think I do.” I was excited at the idea. I enjoyed playing in the rain, and this gave me a valid reason.
We don’t have snow here, our winters rarely have truly cold days, but apparently standing in the rain will make all the difference. As soon as we stepped into the open, rain hit us hard and cold, it felt like someone knocked the air out of me. Hubby was able to last almost five minutes for a complete scrub down, but I only managed to wash my hair. We felt better than we had in days regardless. We showered every time it rained for the entire 8 weeks.
The first time rent was due after losing water, I refused to pay. Dee was furious, but I wouldn’t budge. “No! We’ve been living without water for over three weeks, and no, we are not comfortable using yours. Even if we were that wouldn’t make this ok.” I was no longer trying to be polite. Those days were long gone.
“But I need rent money to pay for the water. You can’t have water until you pay rent!” She demanded as if she cut the water off as leverage.
“If I thought there was any truth to that at all, I would pay it just because that’s how desperate we are, but I know full well that’s not where the money will go. You had our money and several weeks before the first water bill, but you did nothing.” I was shaking with fury.
When Dee resorted to calling us con-artists and refused to discuss water further, I hung up mid rant. A few minutes later she realized I was no longer on the phone and tried to call back. I ignored the calls, well out of patience for the day. The biggest surprise of all came the following day. With no forewarning, a man resembling a dirty, redneck Santa knocked on our door.
He introduced himself as Dee’s son-in-law, and was not a plumber but explained, “She won’t leave me alone about it. I done told her over and over this place needs to be tore down, but she just don’t wanna hear it. I came by today just to shut her up. You all need to get outta here ASAP, she ain’t got no money, and if she did she’d just spend it on stupid shit from the tv.”
I thanked the man for his honesty and blocked Dee’s numbers. We already planned to run for it when the insurance money came, but I decided there was no point to suffer through any further contact with her. There was no fear of her coming in person, she wouldn’t even pull into the driveway. After having her blocked several days, she sent Mike in her stead.
Lucky for him, he arrived with a vastly different attitude. He apologized profusely, told us to continue ignoring Dee, and reminded us we could use their facilities anytime. It was all very amicable in their regard, but I’m sure he used a different act when reporting back to Dee. I didn’t care in the least as long as we had no contact with her. When the insurance money finally came through, we bought an Avenger and moved to a nice 2 bed 2 bath apartment in town. It was a wonderful, glorious home.
A few weeks after the move, Phoebe informed me Dee hired a lawyer and intended to sue us. She and Mike were present during the lawyer’s visit, and the conversation was phenomenal.
“Not only did they refuse to pay rent, they stole from me! I want all my rent money, my stuff, and then something for all the emotional distress they put me through. They lived there for 6 months!” Dee ranted at the lawyer.
“Well we can probably get the rent money, but pending what they did with the stolen items… what all did they take? Do you have a copy of your renters contract?” The lawyer asked, pausing to look up from his notes.
“We didn’t do no contract, but they robbed me blind! I’ll have to make you a list, we gotta get in there and look, but my beautiful glass cabinet is gone!”
“You didn’t have any contract? That’s going to make recovering rent very difficult if not impossible. What other big items were taken? Did any of you see them take it? What’s our proof?” The lawyer put his notes away, already suspicious of his “easy paycheck” Dee described over the phone.
“I told you, I gotta get in there and see, I don’t know what else yet! Of course they didn’t take it when we was looking! They ain’t gonna admit to it, they saying they never took nothing! Liars! Liars and thieves!”
With a deep sigh, the lawyer asked, “Well why wouldn’t they pay rent? Did they give a reason? They just didn’t have it, or what?”
“They said they wasn’t gonna pay till I fixed the water, but that’s bullshit! They wasn’t supposed to be using it!” Now fully exasperated, the lawyer asked, “Wait. Are you saying that house doesn’t have water?!”
“Course it did. They had water till they ran up a $400 bill and got it turned off.” Dee snapped.
Mike, tired of the conversation, sped things over the finish line. “Look, they paid rent on time every month until the water was cut off. Aunt Dee did the water in her own name, it was suppose to be included in the rent.”
Dee looked at Mike with black hatred, but the lawyer spoke first. “I think I’ve heard enough. Ma’am , if they decide sue you, give me a call. Otherwise you need to thank your lucky stars and leave those folks alone.
And that friends, was how Dee left our lives for good. You have to be very careful when house shopping. Whether it’s to rent or own, always do your homework. I’m glad I finally got to write this one. We didn’t have time to cover all the good stories from living there, but the water incident was easily the most difficult. Next up, I’ve decided to make my 50th post the Halloween Special! I hope to post it in the next few days, until then stay safe and suspicious. Remember, the paranoid ones survive horror movies longest.
If American Horror Story connects the seasons, is it still an anthology? Lately, I’ve had a hard time deciding what to talk about. I feel like writing Halloween stuff, but didn’t want to overload you with ghost stories. For my style, that pretty much leaves something embarrassing or scandalous so I thought hey, let’s do both.
I’ve told you about the western store I worked at and mentioned a pervy boss, he played a role in The Incest Cliche. The 2+ years I worked there are a rich tapestry of Dixie Drama at its finest, but today we will focus on the owner.
The only background you need is, Crook was fed up with my being jobless. I had to adult long enough to venture into the world for work. Applying online was a luxury for few, I had no clue where to begin. During a morning smoke with my neighbor, I explained the dilemma, hoping she could recommend how to proceed.
“Actually, I heard that little western store, the one across from the mall, was hiring. Do you know it? I think it’s called Giddy Up.” She said.
“If it’s not a restaurant or open past dark, I’m in.” With the world experience of a 19 year old, I clearly knew what I wanted from life.
I drove to town, found the store, and cursed my nervous pit stains as I walked in, arms tightly clinched. Approaching the counter, I saw a portly, older gentleman who suspiciously resembled Trump without the bleached wig and spray tan. Let’s call him Don, he was the owner. Don sat at a table with two women, both appearing close to my own age. Full disclosure, I can’t judge age. At all. If I ever guess, please understand I’m probably wrong. In this case, Sara and Jane were 10+ years my senior.
Sara was the manager, and Jane read magazines until closing when she did money stuff. Before we dive too deep, please understand, I have nothing but respect for my coworkers. They were mostly good people making the best of bad situations. Finding a good job in a small town is hard, we do what we must to feed our family. That being said, Don was a disgusting pig and deserved everything he got.
“Can we help ya?” Don asked with a head nod to Sara.
“Hi, my neighbor said you all were hiring, I wanted to fill out an application.” No stutter, it was a miracle. I directed my question to Sara as she approached the counter. She looked to Don for guidance.
“Nawp, I dunno where they heard that, but I can barely afford these two.” Don answered, waving his hand between the women with his best good-ole-boy accent. “You can leave your name and number if you like. We’ll give you a call if anything comes up.”
Sara passed a pen and sticky pad across the counter. Knowing this interaction was the southern way of saying ‘we don’t know you so we’re giving you the brush off’ I wrote my information with a smile and left quickly. Technically, I applied for a job. After sending Crook a highly exaggerated text about my fantastic interview, I drove home to recover. Tv told me it can take weeks, possibly months, before one is actually hired. Imagine my surprise when the very next day, not an hour after Crook returned home, my phone rang. In ye olden days, it was common practice to answer a number you weren’t familiar with. I knew I was doomed the moment I answered.
“Hi, this is Jane from Giddy Up.” After routine pleasantries, she got to business. “We hoped you could start tomorrow, we open 9-6 Monday through Saturday. Could you be here by 8:30?”
Crook was grinning like the Joker. I clearly had no choice. But tomorrow?! “Oh, absolutely… thank you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I answered with my best fake, happy voice.
One of my OCD traits forces me to arrive a minimum 30 minutes early. Sara was the first to show at promptly 8:30, and wasted no time approaching me. “We don’t open til 9, sorry.” She pointed to the store hours, clearly posted on the door, and walked away.
“Right, I’m the new girl, they told me to be here at 8:30.” I called after her, awkwardly trailing behind.
She paused in the middle of unlocking the door, looking me over closely. “They did? You sure?” She sounded confused, but I often misunderstood sarcasm.
She must be joking… “Haha… yes. I am sure.” I smiled, hoping it appeared genuine.
Spoiler Alert: she wasn’t joking, I was hired by accident. They genuinely didn’t like the look of me, but Don loved the pretty, single mom who brought her baby to apply shortly after myself. They considered her hired, but Jane mixed up our information. Several months later, after learning I wasn’t purposely offensive, they admitted the truth.
Don arrived shortly before 9, searching for his new eye candy. When he found me in her place, he was puzzled to say the least. “Uh. Morning. Ladies…” Before he could say anything untoward, Sara came to the rescue.
“Mista Don, this the new girl… member? You told Jane to start her today. She was earlier than me, we off to a good start. Ima finish showing her around.” With that, Sara led me on the grand tour. Without realizing it, her words translated into ‘I know she’s not the one you wanted, but I’m sick of opening alone.’
I would soon learn Don only hired women. Two kinds were employed; the Workers ran the store, helping customers, loading feed, etc. The others were… I’m sorry, there isn’t a delicate way to say they were his whores. Sara pegged me for a worker. I knew I had to work harder than others to compensate for my personality quirks, but had I been aware of the Worker or… Non-Worker… situation, I would have arrived at 8 to reorganize the outdoor plants.
You guys know how it is when a new person starts work, you can’t trust them. Everyone is on their best behavior, you won’t truly meet them until they drop their guard. Same sentiment from the new person’s POV, you’re surrounded by strangers, you have no idea who they really are. It’s like navigating a field of landmines, one wrong step and you’re dead.
I made several wrong steps, but Sara was desperate for a third Worker. Jane didn’t wait on customers, and only worked the register if the rest of us weren’t available. The third, Stephanie, also worked at a grocery store; she could only work a few hours before closing. It was she who first trusted me to explain how Don came to own the store. Or she just couldn’t resist good gossip any longer.
“Believe it or not, this store use to stay busy. There was no sitting around the table gossiping all day, no ma’am. Carey would roll over in her grave if she could see it now. She started this place from scratch, almost lost it a few times too, but she treated everyone like family. People were loyal because they knew she would take care of them if they fell on hard times.” Stephanie stacked boot boxes by size as we unpacked the new shipment. Her smile faded as she continued, “We couldn’t believe it when she passed. She was always a little sickly, but we had no idea how bad it really was. Even her sister, (Kay) Don’s wife, didn’t know. She passed two days after they admitted her to the hospital, she was 57.”
I have deep respect for the dead and grieving, but I’ve never mastered properly expressing those sentiments. I memorized several condolences, but always mess up the delivery. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I was careful not to look away from my task.
Stephanie continued, more concerned with telling the story than my response. “Now Don is running the store straight into the ground. He thinks we’re too stupid to notice his little cash bucket under the register. Thinks we don’t know what those girls really get paid for.” She nodded to the companion giving Don his after-lunch neck massage.
I decided to take advantage of her chatty mood. “I’ve been wondering why Kay stays with him. Why doesn’t she just take the store away?”
“That poor woman is clueless, but she’s one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet. No one has the heart to tell her the truth. She’s never been with another man, I doubt she would know how to leave even if she wanted to.” Stephanie shook her head sadly, and sighed before continuing, “Besides, he’s only had the money and freedom to do it for a few years, I doubt anyone would touch that nasty man before then.”
“You have a point there.” I admitted. Kay genuinely is a kind soul, I hope Don dies many years before her. She deserves a fair chance at genuine happiness. Even if she’s still ignorant of his affairs, I’ve seen how he speaks to her; it’s not okay. “How many side chicks does he have anyway?”
The way her head cocked to an almost 90 degree angle coupled with how wide her eyes grew seemed to say, “a lot.” Regardless, it was a very informative chat.
When you spend three years working in a restaurant/drug mart, you think you’ve been fully desensitized to the various evils of the world, but not so. Somehow, this kindly, old man cheating on his sweet, little wife seemed far-fetched. No matter how obvious their office tryst, I couldn’t see it as more than a silly coincidence. Even when you think you know, being told and seeing are two very different kinds of knowing.
I could tell you a book’s worth of anecdotes involving Don hiring a new playmate and the various resulting ventures, but many will come out in other stories. Besides, I still don’t understand what length you guys prefer in a post. Today, I want to focus on the one I found personally traumatic. Oh boy, this is harder than I thought. Ok first, let’s get the time he propositioned me over with. Due to my inability to judge sarcasm or social interactions, I repeated what I’m about to share with several others after it happened. All were unanimously agreed, I did not misunderstand this one. Unfortunately.
Within 6-8 months I was fully accepted and nested at Giddy Up. Don possessed a prescription for Xanax, and being a shady guy himself, was aware I knew how to take/sell them in bulk. He must have been particularly lonely one day when we were alone. One minute we were pleasantly discussing NCIS, the next he was setting his bottle of Xanax on the table.
“That’s nice… what? You need to sell some? I asked, confused.
“Yea, I guess so.” He didn’t sound very excited about it.
I assumed he stole too much money from the store. Normally he saved Xanax for special whore candy, it wasn’t surprising he would be upset to part with them. “Alright, well how much do you need? If it’s the full 90, it takes 4 of your Peaches to equal one Xanax bar. I could get $90, but that’s about it.” Best he would get at least.
“Oh, I don’t need money.” He said
“What else would people possibly… eww… dude, gross, be serious. You want the $90 or not.” I wasn’t capable of taking such a notion seriously. If I had, I’m sure I would have been speechless. As it was, I wanted that Xanax and hoped insulting him would end his joke.
“No, you’re not listening. I don’t want… Money.” He said it slower that time, each word almost it’s own sentence.
Joke or not, no drug was worth indulging that line of conversation. “Dude, that’s gross, there aren’t enough drugs in the world.” I walked away before Don could say more. To avoid tainting my experiment, I relayed our conversation verbatim without saying who said what until the end. No one was surprised, but upon hearing Don’s role, Jane changed her answer to “you just misunderstood, I’m sure he was joking.” but her heart wasn’t in it. Jealousy can blind the best of us.
This next part is the whopper, but if I can survive it without removing my own eyeballs, I can relive it long enough to share with all of you. It was New Years Eve, we had no customers all day, so we found various shenanigans to pass the time. Don was running errands, (whores) and therefore unlikely to make an appearance. If you’ve read Weird Science, you know I have an… inquisitive mind, if you haven’t, you need to know I enjoy taking things apart.
For some reason, I was fascinated with the roof at that time. For several weeks I fantasized what it would be like to climb into the ceiling. I had a theory it would exit into the warehouse, possibly providing access to the wide, metal beams and roof. Why the idea of walking across a 20-30ft drop appealed to me, I can’t say, but the compulsion was overwhelming.
With a 4ft ladder placed on the dressing room bench, a flashlight, and broom, I was finally ready to test my theory. Moving a panel to the side, I pushed the broom through the opening. If a spiderweb touched me, it would be game over.
“No way she’s going in there… is she?” Liz asked Sara. Liz was my age, and a real cowgirl. She was a Worker and good friend, but unimportant. Nowadays she’s a nurse, and happily married with two sons, so don’t worry about her.
“She dumb enough to get in. How long until she falls is the question.” I heard Sara’s answer, but was too busy to engage in their foolishness.
“What if she breaks something?!” Liz exclaimed, cringing as I prepared to stick my head through for a real look.
“If she break herself we call 911, if she break the store we tell Mista Don she did it behind our backs.” Sara answered simply.
“Hey! If you break something are you gonna say we let you?” Liz was talking to me now.
I couldn’t tell if it was a serious question, but either way, it was distracting. “Nah, you’re good. I’ll say whatever you want as long as you let me focus.”
“But why are you…” Liz started to ask, clearly not listening.
“I said long as I focus!” I snapped, testing my weight on the wall. I knew the flimsy ceiling panels couldn’t support my weight, they were held in place by skinny metal racks and wire. If I didn’t locate support beams or follow the wall, I wouldn’t be crawling anywhere. Aside from a few giggles and gasps, the girls remained silent.
After a few moments testing the dressing room walls, I decided it was time to go. I situated myself like a bird on a perch, shining the light through decades of cobwebs and dust. “Guys, I think it really does go all the way to the warehouse! I can see really far, and I think I can see sunlight at the end!” I was excited, but the dust was already effecting my allergies. I had the nose itch of a first time codeine user and couldn’t stop rubbing it.
“I wanna see!” Liz was standing atop the ladder, eyes scrunched, looking through the dust we disturbed. “I think you’re right! That is light down there!” She was excited too, caught in my moment.
“I want to see if I can make it across, see how this wall connects over there? I think it’s the chemical room, it looks like I can follow the wall to where that metal starts on the other side.” I pointed, wanting Liz to confirm she saw the same thing. The more we moved, the thicker the air filled with dust. Even with a flashlight it was difficult to see. “Pass the broom up, please.”
Liz passed the broom, and we struggled to maneuver it through the wires. It cleared what it reached, but I had much less space than anticipated. If I weren’t a tiny woman, I wouldn’t fit past the opening, but I was providing too much entertainment to quit. The wires made excellent broom holders, but were otherwise the most difficult obstacles to overcome. It felt like several minutes passed as I struggled to crawl a few feet, but I focused on keeping my weight on the wall.
“I wonder how far I’ve come.” I leaned over to lift a panel. Anxiety paired with a lack of fingernails exacerbated the simple task. The frustration was coming on strong, but I doubled my efforts and finally pulled it askew. “Hey guys! I’m already over the office! Have you ever seen it? It’s just a desk, computer, and futon. Who doesn’t have a desk chair?” I called out, pleased my adventure would have two purposes. The office was always locked, even Sara and Jane were denied access.
“What did you expect? He doesn’t need a chair, I bet he only watches porn in there.” Liz laughed, but stopped abruptly. Sara was telling her something but I couldn’t hear the words. I dropped the panel, not thinking. It landed askew, leaving a wide gap into the office exposed. Before I could try to fix it, Liz screamed for my attention, “Shit dude, don’t move! Don and his current pet just pulled up, we gotta hide this mess! Don’t talk no matter what!” Her head was gone before she finished speaking.
I hoped they were joking, but doubted it. She was terrified, and the clumsy sound of removing the ladder was unmistakable. I heard the door buzzer followed by several minutes of silence. I was too afraid to attempt fixing the crooked panel. The office was rarely used on a normal day, if I risked movement now, I would likely fall through the ceiling. Waiting for Don to leave was the wiser choice no matter how you did the math. I laid flat, unmoving, and stared into the office, letting a daydream carry me away before a claustrophobic panic set in. Without the distraction of impressing Liz, the walls were closing in, pushing out my precious oxygen. I like that shade of green on a futon. I want a futon.
As the fire in my lungs extinguished, I noticed sounds of laughter and keys. More specifically, keys being used to unlock a door. No way, if he sees me I’m dead. Did they tell on me? Did he think it was funny and now he’s going to screw with me? He’s going to see the ceiling the second he opens the door, I’ll kill them both for this.
The door swung open, I held my breath, waiting. Softer giggling reached my ears and confirmed the betrayal. I gritted my teeth, formed the angriest face possible, and prepared to be caught. But I wasn’t. Instead, I saw the Pet lead Don into view. By his penis. She had a firm grasp oh his erect member, through his slacks, and used it to guide him to the futon. Sara and Liz definitely hadn’t betrayed me.
You know how you can’t look away when you see something horrible? This had the same effect. Plus I was too chicken to move. One sound, any reason for one of them to look up, spelled my doom. There was no chance they wouldn’t notice the large, open gap in the ceiling. I’m not trying to give my audience nightmares. I would very much like to use the word ‘fans’ one day, and I feel like a blow by blow (no pun intended, but it is accurate) would be a step in the wrong direction. Instead, I will FF past the use of a dildo hidden in the desk, and skip to their departure.
When they finally left, I remained completely still. Eventually, Liz returned, calling out to me. “Hey! Oh my God, what happened?! Are you okay?” By the tone in her voice, I felt they already suspected what I saw.
“I need to get out of here right now, I’m not joking, I don’t wanna play anymore, I’m done, I gotta get out.” I repeated a mixture of those phrases in one long, run-on sentence as I shakily replaced the crooked ceiling panel. After checking several times to be sure it sat correctly, I began the difficult process of turning around. Not falling off my perch required focus, I continued ignoring Liz as she berated me with questions.
As I came down the ladder, I saw Sara and Liz’s facial expressions, and knew mine was worse. I stuttered out every painful, disgusting detail, gagging several times in the process. I only told it once, after which, I began protocols to erase the memory entirely. Some things, not even bleach can clean. Needless to say, I never crawled into the roof again.
The Pet ‘worked’ at Giddy Up a few more weeks, but she felt so ostracized by the other girls, she quit. Don called a staff meeting and gave a long lecture explaining his disappointment. “I expect better! You aren’t children anymore. Pet was a sweet, caring person, just trying to support her little girl! But you all made her feel so unwelcome, she quit! Do you understand how horrible that is? I can’t even look at you right now.” He turned to leave, paused, expecting us to trip over ourselves with apologies, but no one stopped him. Little did we know, the store would be closing forever by that time the following year. Turns out, prostitutes are expensive.
He always pouted when he lost a pet, but we were far past indulging his delusions. Don was the worst kind of predator, truly believing we were clueless to his hobby. His complete faith in our stupidity was insulting, it took all my willpower to remain silent. I knew I was incapable of a convincing sympathy act, and stopped trying after this ordeal took place.
If I’m wrong and should have written the gorey details, let me know, but I feel like the majority of you would be happier without. Hubby had a few days off recently which makes writing impossible, but for my next story, I was hoping to try something new. So far, I shared a few spooky stories from my hometown, but I have been wanting to try my hand at a real scary story. Something that makes you nervous to look outside and gives you chills. If it sucks, it can go into the future psychologist pile, if not, maybe I can finally break 300 followers! Either way, I’ll take it.
I had some wine last night, and Drunk Me prepared this for you. Unfortunately, Drunk Me is incapable of correcting typos, but otherwise, I left this one alone. It will be perfect for our future psychologists.
It’s Drunk Me y’all! I’m posting behind Sober Me’s back so that bitch can’t censor me! If you have any doubts, you can tell it’s really me by my use of the word ‘y’all.’ Sober Me hates that word! She thinks it shows her inner hick, and I’m sure you’ve had time to notice that’s a sensitive issue. Today, I’m here to discuss Dixieland, or more accurately, how I use the word Dixieland. My way involves sex and reconstructive surgery, and whatever you’re guessing, I promise, it’s wrong.
First, who knows what the Dixieland Nationals actually are? I don’t. I grew up hearing the phrase, but never listened long enough to learn what it was. I had to Google Dixieland Nationals to make sure it’s real and not something I made up. I was too lazy to click on any of the links, but it looks like some kind of rodeo. That would certainly fit the theme. The only thing these people love more than NASCAR is a rodeo.
Why is NASCAR all caps anyway? Is it suppose to be an acronym? At what point does an acronym need it’s own acronym. Is that possible? I guess not; an acronym of an acronym would only be one letter. Maybe there could be 26 acronym acronyms, but I think it would be too confusing. I don’t know why we have to be backwards down to our sports… or why NASCAR is called a sport. It’s like they learned nothing from the metric system mistake. Sorry, tangent. It’s harder to avoid when you’ve been drinking, I’ll come back to NASCAR another day. Right now, I should really get back to explaining Dixieland before I lose the rest of your attention.
This tale starts in December, at Nana’s with Bestie. She was home from college and Crook was working on an oil rig through the holiday. Nana had three sons; Bestie’s dad, Goku’s dad, and Kevin. Kevin lived in a city two hours away with his wife, Medusa, and their son, Jimmy. Kevin also has two stepdaughters who are a goldmine of trashy drama, but I’ll save that honor for Sober Me.
This year, Kevin came to Christmas alone. Medusa and her ilk spent the holiday at home, gloriously far away. The days leading up to Christmas Eve were so dull, there isn’t a single anecdote worth sharing, but that’s ok, we only came for one. Christmas Eve started normally. Bestie, cousins and I still considered ourselves ‘the kids’ and continued our traditional Christmas movie marathon. The adults came and went as they made last minute preparations. Life was good y’all.
That evening, the phone rang. We heard Nana answer, and knew something horrible happened almost immediately. “Kevin! Get in here! It’s Medusa, she’s frantic I can’t understand her. Sounds bad.”
We appeared in time to see Kevin take the phone. We could only hear his side of the conversation, and his reactions were terrifying. We thought the worst when he said, “No! Not that, not my boy! I’m leaving right now, I’ll be there soon.”
*** SPECIALWARNING ⚠️ TAKE NOTICE ***
Listen up, it’s come to my attention some people need rape trigger warnings. I myself need animal harm warnings, so I take that shit seriously. I have to mention rape now, but don’t worry. It’s totally not what you think, just keep reading.
Kevin explained while we helped him prepare to leave. “It’s Jimmy, I guess he was with a friend and they went to the mall… I don’t know. I don’t how it happened. He was at the mall, and some guy just… I guess… I guess he jumped him. He… they raped my boy!” He burst into tears, falling to his knees.
We were all traumatized, it definitely put a damper on the festivities. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to people you know. “Call me as soon as you know more.” Nana said to Kevin, following him outside.
“I will. I just… Momma they’re taking him to surgery! Who does something like this?!” Kevin cried.
“A monster. Baby, only a monster does something like that. Pure evil.” Nana patted his back, hugging him hard before he left.
Everyone went inside to wait for the long drive back. It was obvious Medusa wouldn’t bother to update us in the meantime. We lost all interest in our movies, preferring to wait in the kitchen together. There was nothing to do but speculate what happened. We talked through many scenarios, but none seemed to make sense. Jimmy was 16, but he couldn’t drive yet. If he went with friends, where were the friends?
Kevin’s first call came almost three hours later. He still wasn’t sure how it happened, but Jimmy was undergoing surgery to stop ‘massive internal hemorrhaging.’ He also needed reconstructive surgery before he would use the bathroom normally again. The good news was, his life was no longer in danger. Knowing he would live, we returned to our movie marathon to await further developments. The mood was dampened, our small, innocent world felt violated. These things don’t happen to people you know.
The next significant update didn’t come until Christmas Day, just before noon. Kevin and Medusa slept at the hospital, and Jimmy was awake. Obviously, being a sex crime against a minor, the police were anxious to speak with him. They were unable to locate him in any of the mall security tapes. They couldn’t even find proof he went to the mall.
Jimmy’s story fell apart quickly. He didn’t go to the mall. You guys have no idea the things I would do to hear that conversation play out, but sadly we can never know exactly what was said. Kevin was too ashamed to go into much detail, but Nana felt we were old enough to hear what she knew. Allow me to pass that story along.
It seems Jimmy recently became aware he was more attracted to men than women. Great, good for him, but remember where we live? Jimmy was a 400 pound kid who looked like (I’m so sorry, but it’s true) the butt of an incest joke. Even if he were a quarterback who looked like Brad Pitt, his life would be hell if he admitted to being gay in that place (especially over 10 years ago). I understand his secrecy completely, but not how he chose to… experiment. You see, Jimmy had access to Google for his teen years, lucky prick. Unsurprisingly, it made him curious about anal sex. Being a teenage boy, I suppose vegetables never occurred to him, but a screwdriver did.
Ok hold on, I know what you’re thinking and I need to correct you before we continue. Don’t feel bad, I got it wrong too. You think he used the handle end first, don’t you? But he didn’t. I know, I know, but I can’t tell you why. I never got a ‘why’ so you don’t either. Ok, now that you’re picturing the correct end first, we can proceed.
With screwdriver inserted, all he lacked was the desired pumping motion. He just needed to figure out how to simulate it. Personally, I would have removed the screwdriver before standing. Or at least taken my pants off properly. Jimmy was not so cautious, he tripped almost immediately. Gravity is a bitch, and she took him down… backwards.
Never say I’m not loyal to my fans. I googled ‘screwdriver in rectum’ for you because they won’t give me his real X-rays. I admittedly should have thought of a good reason before I asked, but no point crying about it now.
The X-rays from Google all look fake, I won’t waste your time there. After hearing the truth, we were more confused than ever, but it boiled down to simple facts. Jimmy made a choice of his own free will, he was not attacked. He was a confused teenager going through something, and he got the help he needed. Most importantly, he goes on to make a full recovery. That’s why we can talk about this now.
Nana had the most difficult time recovering from the shock of it all. She spent several hours imagining the worst for her grandson, but she soldiered through for the rest of us. Christmas continued; we opened presents, ate fancy food, and the adults drank. After consuming enough alcohol to lighten the dark moods hovering over us, the first jokes emerged.
“I just don’t understand why anyone would do a thing like that. But if they were gonna… why the hell would he use the business end first?” Uncle B (Bestie’s dad) asked.
“I dunno man, shits crazy. Maybe he couldn’t get the handle to go in… so he turned it around to get started. Just be glad he don’t live here.” Uncle G (Goku’s dad) laughed.
“Shit, ain’t like everybody won’t know anyway. You think them kids ain’t told 50 people each by now? Shit. I can already hear it, gonna be calling that shit a Dixieland.” Uncle B spat.
And that is how the act of shoving a screwdriver in your bum became known as a Dixieland. Kids, please don’t try this at home.
In the end, Jimmy had 3 surgeries, and spent several months pooping in a bag before life began to feel normal again. He’s extremely lucky he is not spending the rest of his life with the poo bag. There are thousands of safe ways to experiment, never do it with pointed objects.
Has anyone seen the talking buttons people are using to train dogs? I saw some people on YouTube use them with their cats! I must have them! I’m a little concerned this may be what pushes their critical thinking skills over the tipping point in evolution, and ultimately results in their becoming the master race… but I don’t know. Now that I say it out loud, I kinda want some even more. This has nothing to do with my topic, I just really, really want to feel like my cats are talking to me.
I’ve been thinking about Past Me again. It’s getting to be a dangerous hobby, but I thought it be nice to check masochism off my bucket-list. I wonder if there’s a world record for most diagnosed mental illnesses. If so, I have to be close… though, this does loop us back to the psychologist problem. Crazy how that keeps popping up. At least I know I’ll get hypochondriac off the bat, that’s a given.
We binged Superman and Lois (so freaking good) all week, and the season finale did the cliche motivational ‘determination conquers all’ speeches. The universal commonality shared by all genres, the ultimate mind-fuck for a dumbass raised by tv. “Remember, no matter how hopeless the situation, you can win with enough determination.” If anyone out there is twisted as I am and enjoy others’ embarrassments to lessen their own, then do I have a treat for you.
It took a while to accept determination would not guarantee victory under any circumstance. Sure, they weren’t all preceded by speeches of the motivational variety, but they include me opening my fat mouth when I shouldn’t because tv taught me the underdog always wins. I wish I could have heard how backwards that sounds when I was 9. The first two times weren’t far apart, both happened in 4th grade. To complete the picture in your head, make sure you picture the unkempt girl with mismatched clothes and a boy’s bowl haircut.
Our school had a different “activity” each day of the week. In PE, we played flag football, but keep in mind, there are only 15-20 kids in the class. It goes without saying I was picked last in everything, my team always lost. One day, probably after watching Little Giants, the score was tied, and only a few minutes remained. The other team had the ball, but if we could get it back, I might be on the winning team once. Maybe I could be promoted to second to last… or third… no, don’t get cocky. One step at a time.
“Who cares? I’m hungry, let’s just get this over with.” Team Captain said in the huddle. After setting my hopes on such a vivid daydream, I found this to be disappointing.
We’ll lose for sure… unless… (insert fantasy of the most rousing locker room speech in history). “Wait! All…” Oh crap, I’m really saying it! “…we have to do is get their flag one more time, then we could really win!. We can do this! If we work together, I know we ca ca can ca.” Their faces were not encouraging, but realizing the other team could also hear me allowed my anxiety to overcome the fantasy induced auto-pilot. Once my stutter kicked in, my eye-twitch started, and the resulting laughter was enough to effectively clamp my mouth shut.
“Nobody cares! Whatever team you’re on is the team that loses.” Team Captain taunted.
My lesson learned, I kept my mouth shut and head down. That’s what I wish I could say, but it wouldn’t be worth talking about if I were that intelligent. No, I showed my ass and made it worse.
Don’t panic, this happens sometimes. All you have to do is get that flag. Then they’ll see. “Oh yea?! Well, ju just you wa wait.” I shrieked over a new burst of laughter.
When I said that, I said it with full knowledge the other team’s quarterback was the fastest kid in class. So fast, our Freshman year, he would be a starting player on the high-school football team. I’m told it’s a big deal, I don’t actually know how to play football, but I know you have to hit whoever has the ball.
You won’t be surprised to hear Mr. QB decided to run the ball himself. I was the only kid to chase him. His teammates opened a path for me, and sat back to enjoy the show. If he had ran fast, straight for the touchdown, I would have given up when the gap grew too large. As it was, he ran justthe right speed to keep the distance tantalizing enough for me to believe I had a chance. Not that I understood that, I believed I was extremely fast and about to give him the surprise of his life. My fingertips grazed a flag, and he dodged just out of reach. I chased him across the gym floor, believing one last push would get me the victory I craved. I wanted to see the look on all their faces when I held that flag up high. As he approached the finish line, I desperately lunged forward with both feet, flying through through the air, and across the finish line behind him. Everyone was already laughing before I face-planted, but my fall gave way to a fresh roar with increased volume.
The next incident was a few months later, in daycare during handball. We played in the cafeteria when it rained, and a since it doesn’t require much skill or muscle mass to hit a ball made from tape with your hand, I wasn’t terrible. I felt more confident in daycare, I was far from last picked. There was only one group of older kids, and if I stayed out of their way, they didn’t bother me. Normally, I gloated silently as I dreamed of the day I would be the oldest, and therefore, a Captain, but something must have gotten into me that day. Instead of keeping my head down and taking no chances, I tried to participate in the game. The longer I played without making a mistake, the more I dropped my guard. The game was almost over when I blew it.
One of the younger kids on our team struck out. The pitcher taunted him, “Wanna try again? You’ll never hit it, so I don’t mind watching you try for a while.” He won a round of laughter.
My smartass-reflex triggered. “Be careful, the way you swing you’re liable to slap yourself in the face.”
If given a choice, I would have been too chicken to say it. But once it was out there, well, everyone laughed. At myjoke, not just at me. It was intoxicating. Never-mind it was at another’s expense, my primitive mind could only handle so many revelations at once, and a big kid was laughing at my joke. The point is, I was drunk on their laughter, and wanted more. Oh! That might have been the first definitive sign of my predisposition for addiction! Anyway, the kid wouldn’t try again and it was our third out. As we switched sides I couldn’t help myself, “alright, let’s hurry up and get three quick ones so we don’t lose because of Loser over there.”
It was the last inning, all I had to do was lay low while we maintained a one-run lead. But I didn’t. No, when we had 2 outs with kids on first and second, the batter hit a line drive straight to me. Did I catch the stupid piece of balled-up tape and win the game? Ha! No. Did I pick the ball up, and throw it to the third baseman for the final, game-winning out? Nope. I stared into space as the ball bounced off my chest and fell to the floor. I picked it up, and saw kids running everywhere. I had no clue where to throw it. I watched every kid run around the bases while three different teammates screamed for the ball. We lost. Because of me. Karma justly served.
“If you don’t know what to do, throw the ball to the pitcher, dumbass.” is permanently seared into my memory. The 6th grader screaming at me was extremely fat, I couldn’t look away from her flapping jowls as she shook her head with each word.
I was already so upset with myself, I didn’t have time to stop my mouth from saying, “Does it feel funny to talk with those jiggling all the time?” (I genuinely wanted to know, I wasn’t trying to insult her.) My hand also turned traitor, clearly pointing to her triple chin to eliminate any confusion toward my meaning. My mistake was immediately apparent, but I also felt my second laughter high. Granted, that one was shorter lived. It stopped when the girl tried to attack, but teachers intervened before she could catch me. I suffered the usual old taunts anew for a few weeks until she felt satisfied with her vengeance, but it was worth it. It made most forget my handball blunder.
I’m not sure if it falls exactly into this category, but it reminded me of an incident from the only year I played league softball. If you read the 14 Year Old Virgin, you may remember the softball fields where everyone went to socialize. I was 11, and the bleachers were packed, we were the oldest group playing.
Somehow, I made it to first base. That had never happened before. My routine for the two innings Coach was legally required to let me play was hit the ball, and run as fast as I can to first. As I walked back to the base, I looked at Coach to learn the ball was caught, and returned to the dugout. This time, no one caught it, I had to stay on first while the next person batted. I couldn’t watch what happened to the ball or I ran diagonally. I focused every ounce of my attention on making it to second, forcing the distracting fantasy of scoring out of my mind. One step at a time.
The familiar crack of ball on bat sounded like a starting gun and I was off. I never ran faster, my feet slapped the bag at full speed, with a satisfying feel. As per routine, I looked to Coach on my walk back to base, but this time a girl stood in my way. She was coming at me. I didn’t have time to look around, I tried to ask, “what are you…” but she lunged at me! I dodged backwards, stealing a glance at Coach, wondering why someone wasn’t stopping this crazy chick, but they were laughing! I was furious. Here we were trying to play a serious game, but they were going to let this happen?! Unbelievable!
I dodged backwards 3-4 times before I tripped over my feet and she tagged me. “Fine!” She got me, good for her, maybe we can get on with the game now.
I tried to get back on base, but the referee guy started screaming, “You’re out!” all dramatic like with the handle signals and everything. I couldn’t believe he was going along with this charade too.
I tried to explain to the man, “my foot touched the base way before she had the ball in her hand.” I was beginning to worry they might think she had the ball sooner than she did. That was the farthest I had ever gotten, I wouldn’t be cheated out of it.
But I guess technically I was out. Coach had to come explain, “first base is a special exception. You can run past first, go back, and be safe, but any other time, you have to stop on the base. You got that?” He was giving me the Look and the Tone. I’m sure you know the Tone, it’s universal when used with theLook. The ‘am I talking slow enough?’, or ‘got it, dumbass?” Tone. The laughter was deafening. Thankfully there was no YouTube, but the number of home videos out there is terrifying. I should look into changing my name, maybe in a Covid world I could do it without leaving my house.
Softball successfully turned me off sports until Sophomore year. To my dismay, I sucked at sciences. We had a very easy school, I was on honor roll for 7-12 without ever taking home a single book. I’m actually really proud of the scams I worked out, but it will have to be its own story one day. It gets to be a long list if you go into every different tactic, which the god complex side of me kinda wants to do… sorry. Anyway, moving on.
Sophomore year I was forced to take Anatomy & Physiology. It was extremely disappointing to learn that’s what A&P stood for all those years. The class came along with the first teacher to ever be too strict to cheat. Try as I may, I couldn’t find a way around her system. The only kids getting any breaks were the few on her tennis team. Thelma and another friend of ours I’ll have to introduce later also joined, but to everyone’s surprise, I was good at it. Believe me, no one was more shocked than this bitch right here. Something about tennis just clicked for me.
Tennis became a huge part of my life, but all that matters right now is my first tournament. We were down a player, and the #2 singles spot was mine. I’m going to continue to shock you for another moment. I won my first match. I won it by so much, the other girl cried! Coach came to the fence, “I’m so proud of you!”
“I know! Can you believe it?! She’s full on blubbering!” I was literally bouncing with excitement.
“Well… yea I guess I am kinda proud you made her cry,” Coach chuckled, “but I’m more proud of how considerate you were to call a break and take her some water so she can calm down a little.”
“Oh! Yea, that’s why I did it! Good looking out.” I winked.
“Why.. why else would you?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t to get a closer look. Alright, has it been long enough?”
I finished my first match 6-0, 6-2. We had an hour break before the next match began. During that time I lived up to my snobby bitch reputation admirably. “I was worried last night, but if those are the kind of players I have to beat, I’m going home with a trophy!”
You probably already know that isn’t how tournaments work, but please do keep in mind I was a sheltered fool from a tiny private school. Hell, by the worlds standards, a poor private school. I still struggle to tell the difference between wealthy, rich, and the 1%. If you live in a home that didn’t come with wheels, to me, you’re rich. The end.
The school my next opponent was from had a professional tennis player for a coach and they began learning tennis in elementary. Well, that’s what they claimed. My theory is steroids. That chick hit like-a-man! Her serve looked like an MLB pitch! I stood completely still as the first ball wizzed by. I never moved a muscle. It took a full 10 seconds to register what happened. I finally switched sides and backed up when I saw her make ready for the next serve. The same thing happened. A green blur passed by, my arm twitched as if it were going to swing, but chickened out. I switched sides and stood far behind the court. The girl threw the ball high for another ace, then barely tapped it over the net. I couldn’t run fast enough. She had me 0-3 (in school, they did 1-4 to keep score, it’s easier for people who don’t know the real way) in the first game.
I looked at games around me to copy where others stood to receive their serve. I finally returned the ball. She smashed a volley at me, (my specialty, if you hit your opponent, it’s your point) I only had time to hold the racket up. When the ball hit, I heard the strangest popping sound. The ball didn’t work like it should have, it lost all momentum, barely managing to bounce off the net and roll to her side. I scored one point. First of 3 I would receive throughout the match. The strange popping sound was my string breaking. We had to stop while my racket was re-strung, I cannot stress enough, this tiny, tiny girl, was a beast.
I should have seen enough to understand it was beyond my capabilities to beat her. It was my first year playing, I made it much farther than anyone else. That in itself was enough to be proud of. But no. The break gave me long enough to think about all those underdog victories. I sat amongst my peers and Coach ranting, “I can come back from this! She’ll underestimate me now and I can use that! I want it more than she does, that’s what really counts. People come back from worse all the time. I’m going to make her work for every single point and she’s gonna cry just like the last one!” What the hell is wrong with me?
The first game, I was pumped. It was my turn to serve, it was my weakest point, but I didn’t care how pathetic my lobs looked after her all-star aces; I was going to win. How many times have I seen someone save the world with sheer determination? I knew I had the exact feeling Naruto and Sasuke had when they freed Kakashi from Zabuza’s water prison, I had to beat her. They were totally the same thing.
I had a fleeting moment of, ‘holy shit it’s really happening’ when I scored an amazing point on my first serve. I returned the ball 3-4 times before she hit it out-of-bounds. Then it was over, she pulverized me quickly and efficiently with only one further out-of-bounds error. When I lost the first match 0-6, we took the customary 10 minute break before she finished me off.
During the break I sat quietly, hoping all forgot the long, conceited speech I made 20 minutes earlier. Fooled you again! No, I totally made it worse. “Well it’s just so hard to focus when she has an entire crowd cheering her name and I’m the bad guy wrestler getting booed off stage.”
I said it as an excuse for my poor performance. I couldn’t think of anything else, and it spilled out of me before I could apply any filters. It wasn’t taken that way. It was taken more as, “wah wah, poor me, boo hoo, no one is cheering for me, I want cheerleaders.”
For the duration of the second match, Coach stood alone and cheered my name through all six games. She never stopped, not even when the two girls willing to stand with her abandoned ship. I found it touching, on one level it meant a lot to me. She is a very special person and I hope the years have been kind to her. On another level, it was incredibly awkward, I was getting creamed the whole time. I kept thinking her voice is going to be hoarse, she needs to chill. But that would be an incredibly rude, ungrateful thing to say. I was also upset about how awkward the thank you would be. I assumed that kind of thing surely required a thank you, but how painful would it be to say? ‘Thanks for cheering me on while I got my ass handed to me!’
You know what, I’m not saying I ever would do it, but the super villains that want to destroy the universe and all existence… I mean, I understand why. I accept it would be wrong to do so because it would involve making life-changing decisions for others, but I see their point. It’s important to honor basic moral principles, otherwise one tends to implore emotionally flawed decision making skills. But in a hypothetical scenario where everyone else was cool with it, I wouldn’t argue.