It may not be one of my finest moments, but it was one of my proudest. By this time, so many years later, which, to be honest, feels even longer than it is, it really doesn’t matter. The woman in question is probably dead and unless she cried out about the experience on her deathbed, which I find unlikely, never gave what happened a passing thought after that day. On the afternoon of the Fourth of July there are many more things to be concerned with, and as I assume she was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, I’m sure she had other things of greater importance than rude young men with fantastic spiky rockstaresque hair.
In my defence, I was having a rough year. I’m not sure I am removed enough from it, even now, to maturely write about the circumstances of that year. Suffice it to say, I would not be where I am now if things had turned out differently. In much the same way that an earthquake in 1812 caused the Mississippi River to flow backwards, the events of the better part of 2006 could have disrupted the course of my life. I survived that year reasonably in tact due, in no small part, to good friends and a buttload of Jameson.
I was having a rough year. Tack onto that the fact that my friends mostly worked a nine-to-five schedule with weekends off and a plethora of floating (paid) holidays, a luxury that I, working in retail, still cannot grasp the concept of.
It was the Fourth of July, and unlike my friends, who had gotten out of work at five the previous day with the promise of a day off, I mostly likely had to work… and then be back bright and early on the fourth. Now, I don’t remember, but given that July 4th, 2006 was a Tuesday, I’m willing to bet a couple of those douchebags took Monday off as well. This would have pissed me off.
So I went to work, weighed down with the knowledge that all my friends are having fun without me. At least it was in the days before we were beholden to Facebook status updates for proof of our unique existences (which is actually what spawned my sudden desire to tell this story—thank Vic for asking for the backstory) and I wasn’t reminded via staged yet spontaneous in-the-moment photos what I was missing.
I probably went to work hungover as shit. No, I’m trying to be honest here, I probably went to work drunk from the night (morning) before. I told you, it was a rough year. So by the time I got out of work I needed to procure three things: beer (to go with my whiskey), pizza, and solitude. The first two were easily accomplished with a brief stop at Tops on my way home, and third, as cranky hermit luck would have it, had taken care of itself. My friends were all going down to South Buffalo where in true drunk Irish fashion, residents promised to blow a ton of shit up in the middle of the street.
I don’t know if I was ever excited about fireworks as a child, probably only so much as a typical little kid is, I suppose. I remember sparklers and those popper things you threw at each other’s feet. I don’t remember much about fireworks as a child other then fragments of sitting on the grass at Riverside Park, and to be honest, I could just be thinking of the time I went there with my high school girlfriend. As an adult, or the nearest approximation of one I’ve managed so far, I don’t recall an affinity for fireworks shows.
As my friend and her family no longer live in South Buffalo and the chance to witness this epic fireworks display my friends still talk about today, I do regret hiding away from them. I wish I had taken hold of the events of my life rather then brood and allow the events to build swaying drunken walls around me I’m still trying to tear down. Sadly, I’ve only recently realized I’m capable of doing so. Instead, I’ll have to enjoy the stories I hear from that other life that occurred that night, and hope I have enough sense to learn from my mistakes.
And so I went home to drink heavily and play the Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, which to this day I still have not beaten. But first, a stop at Tops for frozen pizza and a case of High Life, neither of which would survive the night.
I tell this story as though I were the victim and the old lady the aggressor, but really, Us Weekly and poor timing is to blame. Goddamn their flashy covers and utter lack of substance or passable writing! The real victim here is that old lady, taken in by the promise of secrets about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes… or maybe it was Johnny Depp… you know what? It doesn’t matter who was on the cover. The feature articles could have been written by throwing a handful of magnetic poetry letters at your fridge. I imagine the employees of these magazines to be the girls from middle school who always had a Mad-Libs book with them on bus rides. Insert celebrity name, insert adverb, insert noun. That’s your article on how “Halle Berry shamelessly exposed a hippopotamus tea party last Orange” gets on the cover of In Touch. Orange was supposed to be a day of the week. The author of that article has a little trouble with those still.
But there she was, little cart and all, that fucking old lady reading her Us Weekly while standing at the edge of the 10 Items or less line.
Have I mentioned it was mid afternoon on the Fourth of July? With day drunk poor party planners scrambling around and clogging up lines with carts of food they just realized they needed? Have I mentioned I had only a case of beer and a frozen (that was thawing as all this occurred)? Can you imagine the sigh of relief that collectively escape the Jews who glimpsed the Promised Land after wandering the desert for forty years? The noise I made when I saw the ’10 Items or Less’ line with only two people in it was better.
Except for Old Lady Us Weekly who had parked her empty cart across the entrance to this cash-line so she could take a moment out of her, clearly, oh so busy freakin’ day to catch up on the latest made up news of Tom Cruise or Captain Jack or Aaron Spelling’s ugly son.
I waited. I waited as along as one should in this situation. I clearly wanted to get into this line. I needed to get into this line. I had just spent eight hours dealing with people when I was in no condition, physically or psychologically to be anywhere near people, and then what did I do? I went to a supermarket. On a holiday. I waited as long as one could in this situation.
She looked up. She glanced up from her magazine.
“Excuse me,” I said again, nodding so sweetly, so innocently at the line behind her.
She rolled her eyes and with what may have been one of those upper lip curls of disgust, pushed her cart out of the way.
I moved forward victoriously, a smile in her direction, and perhaps inward a bit too for my winning the right of way I did in fact deserve.
And then , with all the snotty snootiness of a spoiled high school girl Old Lady US Weekly says, “And you’re welcome.”
Under normal circumstances, I may actually have said ‘thank you’ before being prompted. But that would have been a sign of weakness, a sign that I was in the wrong for simply asking her to move when she was absolutely and without a doubt in the way. I apologize when something is not my fault, and I say thank you when I have given something up. It’s a major character flaw that’s been lost to the idea of politeness that few believe in anymore. No one understands what it actually means to be polite and so we overcompensate with apologizes when we, in fact, deserve them and thank you’s when we should be compensated by others with a simply thanks for our patience, or kindness, selflessness , a smile or offer of help.
She had to say that.
So I slammed my case of High Life on the conveyor, turned back to her and said clearly and with great feeling, “Yeah, well fuck off,” and turned around.
How did she react to this? I have no idea. I reacted by paying for my pizza and beer and leaving, and then going home to drink half a bottle of Jameson and wallow in the fact that the video game character Link, with his pointy ears and magical sword, was more of man then I’d been up until that point.
That lady? I don’t know what happened to her. How she may have told that story later, with her as the victim, just as I’m telling you mine in the same way. She may have been the sweetest old lady and my reaction made her finally snap, after years of taking shit from other people. Maybe that was the last straw and she ended up driving her car into a restaurant in Amherst in revenge for my vicious attack on her decency, since old people were doing that pretty frequently for a while. Not necessary for that reason, I don’t know why they were driving into buildings so much. I swear, she was the only old lady I yelled at, that shit was not my fault.
No, she probably forgot about it. She probably didn’t even hear it. Or didn’t care. Whatever. Life can suck sometimes. You let all the garbage pile up like I did, you try to keep it all to yourself because you’re scared or embarrassed or whatever else you claim to justify being afraid to ask for help, eventually it’ll find a way out. And it’ll find a way out in any number of ways, some productive, some aggressive, some destructive to yourself or others. And sometimes, you just need to tell someone to fuck off, even if it’s not the person that deserves it.
Like I said, it wasn’t my finest moment…
According to my fun Google homepage trivia crap, Counting Crow lead singer Adam Duritz claims in some interview that vampire Keith Richards once called his bitch-ass out for sipping chicken soup to cure a cold. Instead Duritz was given a bottle of Guinness and probably slapped in the fleshy spot where his’ balls used to be.
I don’t doubt that Guinness can cure a cold. There isn’t much Guinness can’t do. But maybe you don’t have a simple cold, what if it’s something a little harsher?
A few years ago I was going to Las Vegas—the problem was I developed this wicked sore throat. I tried a handful of thing; cough drops, cough syrups, Vitamin C’d myself until my piss could brighten the bathroom in the middle of the night without turning on a light. I even tried this all natural hippy cure of honey, lemon juice and apple cider vinegar.
You know what puke smells like? I mean a good, all night bender, puking as the sun comes up and you’re late for work kind of puke? That’s how this stuff tasted. That didn’t work either. Go figure.
I get to Vegas, throat killing me, can barely swallow, cringing when I manage to as it feel like someone’s dragging their nails down the inside of my throat, and to top it off its as hot as Kevin Smith’s ass crack in a steam room.
Don’t give me that shit about dry heat out there—hot is hot, so go fuck yourself. Since this trip to Vegas I’ve been some hot places; I took a road trip from Texas to Florida in July and that wasn’t nearly as bad as the Midwest in August—Cincinnati, I’m looking at you. I’m from Buffalo, so we take the phrase “all you can eat” very seriously. In Buffalo we eat, we drink and we eat and drink while watching foozball, so when there’s the option for unlimited food, we take it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it was so hot in Cincinnati that myself and the other seven people I was with couldn’t eat. We couldn’t eat. We couldn’t do anything other than refill our soda and pray for death.
Long before Cincy proved itself to be a wretched and heinous bitch though, there was Vegas. I ventured out once in the daylight and that was only to buy Jameson. And that was only because none of the stores inside the three or four hotels connected to each other carried it. I had to go outside and cross a street. I think I bought a pair of sunglasses at that liquor store it was that bad outside. I only had to walk a block but I wanted to curl up and die.
I only ventured out in the daylight twice more on that trip, once because I was allowed to fire several guns, including an Uzi and a Desert Eagle—sorry, the AK was down for cleaning; and the other was because someone paid for me to go on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon after which time I was caught in a flash flood and stranded in a cowboy ghost town where I ate the nastiest macaroni and cheese ever snot-rocketed out of some demon’s nightmare.
Yeah, that’s my luck—I go to the desert in the middle of a drought and get caught in a freak thunderstorm at the Grand Canyon that washes the roads out for miles.
Back to day one though, and I’m racing back to the hotel with my Jameo. Once back in the safety of tinted glass and central air I met up with a curious assortment of… gentlemen. Two Australians and two sonsabitches from Pennsylvania—friends of friends and cousins and study abroad friends and whatever. It’s not important. That we all came together in this wonderfully air conditioned room in an ugly as shit castle in Las Vegas was a miracle, and not just because years later I still consider these guys friends.
No, I consider this a miracle because it was that day, in that hotel room, in that asshole of the world that I learned the best cure for a sore throat is a bottle of Corona and a shot of Jameson. Or, three bottles of Corona and several shots of Jameson. Or, a lot of Jameson—
Look, my point is: if you have a cold, Keith Richards that shit and Guinness it out of your system, but if it’s a sore throat, then only the combination of some shitty Mexican beer and this most beautiful of all whiskeys, this Irish water of life, this love child of John Jameson and God, can cure you.