For Polly (The Church Lady)

Props to Sensory Offense Writing Prompts for being the source of my inspiration.





What is something that happened to me at home that I will always remember?





Most of my good friends have already heard this story on multiple occasions, but I figured it was about time I got it down on paper. The story of the Church Lady.





The setting for this story is (in agreement with the prompt, first) my home, circa 2001. I was in 11th or 12th grade and my parents were going on a cruise for a week or so. Somehow, I was in their good graces at the time and was entrusted to manage the household while they were gone. I assure you, that I and I alone was in charge of all household duties while my parents were away. This was not a huge deal. The refrigerator was full of microwaveable foods and I was probably givin a hundred dollars or so to fend for myself for the week. All I really had to do was go to school during the week and make sure my little brother and sister did the same.





Where the church lady comes in is--she shouldn't have at all. My mom had merely told her in passing to be available if there was some sort of emergency. I must have been 17 at the time, and thus, not considered a legal adult. So the church lady was simply supposed to be responsible in the event of an emergency, only because I could not assume legal responsibility in the event of an emergency. Why my mom chose this particular lady to be responsible in the event of an emergency is beyond me still, but I'm sure my mom still regrets the decision.





Anyway, the church lady took my mom's word as an invitation to be responsible for my siblings and me for the week my parents were out of town. She made it a point to check up on us daily and tell us what we should be doing and how we should be doing it. Why she did this? Because she was completely and totally insane. First, she was literally on dozens of different anti-anxiety, anti-depression, and anti-sanity drugs. This was probably a product of her being married to our very controlling and demeaning pastor. (The Church isn't the only place you find these wackos, but it's definately a good place to start looking, if, for some reason, you were looking.) Second, she was of the general I'm-gonna-shove-my-bible-down-your-throat-and-make-you-believe persuasion. Not really my favorite kind of person to begin with, but my opinions weren't fully formed at that point. I basically just ignored her or tried to not be around when she was at my house.





At the time, we were all taking part in a confirmation class at the church because we had only joined within maybe that year. My younger brother and sister were in about the correct age-group for the class (11-13 years old). I was obviously about five years older than most of the other students in the class. Growing up my family was never a regular "church family." This was my first experience in the church, and to become a full member I had to take the confirmation class even though I was very old to be doing so. My parents encouraged me to take the class and I agreed. The class was really easy, and other kids my age at the church had told me I should take the class. Church was a new experience for me, and I didn't mind it at the time. Besides, I'd met some kids at the church that I enjoyed hanging out with (read: slutty church girls). On a side note, if you want to meet loose and easy women, a church is definately a good place to look for them.





Attendance at this confirmation class was not mandatory, and I wasn't so in love with the class that I dedicated my life to it. The week that my parents were away, I decided I didn't feel like going. I dropped my brother and sister off at the class and headed back home to do whatever 17-year-old boys do with a house to themselves for a few hours (I don't even remember, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't that exciting). A few minutes after I get back home, the phone rings. I pick it up and it's the church lady informing me that I'm supposed to be at confirmation class. I tried to be polite at first, told her that I wasn't really feeling well and wasn't up for it, etc. She told me that I really had to be there, and being that she was left in charge while my parents were gone, I had to come back to the church. At this point I tell her she's not really in charge and hang up.





Maybe 10 minutes later, she is pulling up my driveway and at my door. Screaming at me and telling me that I'm a sinner and that I'm not honoring god, and yada, yada, yada. She tells me that she's going to call my parents and tell them that I didn't do what I was supposed to do while they were away. I hand her the phone and explain to her that she was definately not left in charge of me, that my parents are comfortable with me making the majority of my own decisions at this point in my life, and that she is more than welcome to call them and let them know I told her so. Of course, she wants nothing to do with calling, and instead continues her biblical tirade. I had a horrible temper at this point in my life, and at this point I had had enough. I lash out. First of all, lady, I think you're a fuckin nut! And you need to get the fuck out of my fuckin house fuckin immediately! I don't give a shit if god himself sent you here! This is private property and you need to fuckin leave! I obviously don't remember this convo verbatim, but I'm pretty sure I used the word fuck in every possible capacity--as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb--I may have somehow even used it as a pronoun. Fuck off you crazy bitch! I'll come get my brother and sister when I'm done jerking off or doing whatever the fuck I decide I want to do. This bitch was persistant. I mean she was a weak and sickly crazy old bitch going toe to toe with me at this point. At the time, I was in my athletic prime, and I was pissed. It's not like I ever would have hit her, but what kind of crazy bitch stands toe to toe with someone of twice her strength and half her age who was as pissed as I was. Jesus must have been with her. Or she must have at least believed that he was.





This must have been the turning point. I'm screaming at her, she's screaming at me, and an early logical sense must have kicked in. I start thinking. This is commonplace for me now, but back then I was 160 pounds of shitty temper. I channeled it into football and wrestling, but I could still be a mean son-of-a-bitch. But for whatever reason, I decided arguing with this lady was not the answer. A clear stream of thoughts came in my head and I came up with a plan. I knew that she was really dumb and could easily be convinced if I pulled a complete 180. And I knew she had a variety of medical problems while I was in peak physical condition. The entrance to my house was on a 2nd-story porch. I knew there was no way the lady could even get close to me in a footrace up a flight of stairs, so I decided I'd take a new approach. I'd simply lure her down the stairs, run back up them, and lock her out of my house. I calm down completely. I tell her that she's right, that she's convinced me. I apologize politely. Say that I don't know what came over me, that she's in charge and that I really should be in confirmation class. Man, is this lady a dumb shit. She falls for it hook, line, and sinker. So I tell her that we'll walk down to her car (she should drive so I can calm down). She agrees and we head out. We get to the bottom of the stairs where I turn around and sprint back up them. She follows me, weezing immediately. She was no where near me when I opened my front door and entered the house. But, there was one thing I didn't plan on. The front door of my house snags on the welcome mat. I can't force the door closed as the lady catches up to me and starts pushing from the other side. It's an old wooden door with 9 small glass panes forming a window across it. I push too hard, and my hand goes through the glass.





At this point the lady is already halfway in the house, so I concede her the victory and accept that my plan is a failure. I feel a slight pinch and look down at my hand. The funny thing about severe lacerations is that they don't hurt nearly as much as you'd think. I don't say this to be a macho man or anything like that; I've just found it to be very true. Including this one, I've had two bone-deep lacerations in my life--neither was even close to being as painful as a good punch. I've never broken a bone, so I can't draw a comparison to that kind of pain, but I'd say the most painful things I've experienced are a badly sprained ankle and getting a tattoo. Both of those experiences were far worse than this cut. So I was surprised when I looked down at my hand and saw the amount of blood I was losing. I figured it was just one of those things where I'd been cut in a certain way that caused a lot of blood. At this point, I'm completely calm as I head over to my sink to rinse the blood off my hand. When the water washes all the blood away, is when I realize just how badly I've cut myself. This is when I freak out. With all the blood out of the way, I can see that my pinky is nearly severed. All I see is white on the inside. The bone is what creeped me out the most. People are not supposed to see their own bones. Later, the doctor told me that I may not have--that I more likely saw tendons or ligaments. All I know is that there was about an inch gap between where my hand ended (where my pinky should start) and where my pinky did start. In between there was a mess of white. If i had my hand under water. If I did not have my hand under water, there was a mess of red. I still didn't feel a great deal of pain, shockingly. I did at this point feel a great deal of fear and panic.



The church lady, crazy bitch that she is, is still screaming at me. Although now, her screams are somewhat sympathetic. Maybe sympathetic is a stretch. If you'd just done what you were supposed to do this never would have happened! Lord Jesus, save him! Save him! He was supposed to listen to me but he didn't! Now he's bleeding too death! I, of course, young, dumb, and full of...well you get the point, am blaming the whole thing on her. Internally. I've been beaten down past the point of attempting to speak to this woman. I wrap my hand in a towel, say I'm going to the hospital, and walk out. She tells me that I can't drive with my hand like that. Begrudgingly, I realize that she'll have to drive me. Not so much because I couldn't drive, but more because I've only been driving for a few months and have no clue how to get to a hospital. And I figure I'd rather bleed in her car then mine.



We take off. On the way to the hospital, she closes her eyes and prays while we're driving. The only quotes I do remember verbatim: "Dear Lord Jesus, please help Jim get through this trying time. He's lost, and he needs your help to find his way. We trust that you'll heal his hand, and that you'll guide him towards the righteous path--" I could not take it anymore. This is the point where I really flipped out. This may be the point where I lost my faith in god. If not, it's certainly one of the points in my life that will ensure my eternal damnation if the bible-thumpers do turn out to have it right. Again, verbatim: "You fuckin bitch! Jesus is not coming! Jesus is not fucking here! He's not gonna heal my fucking hand! And he's damn sure not going to show me the righteous fucking path! You shut the fuck up and drive this car to the fuckin hospital!"



We did not speak the rest of the way to the hospital, but I'm sure the church lady prayed silently for the remainder of the trip. Perhaps the worst thing was that since this did actually qualify as an emergency, she had to stay at the hospital with me and sign all the neccesary insurance paperwork. I was ready to kill her, but was of course treated as a typical insane patient at the hospital. She was the rational caretaker, of course. Talk about two-million spoons when all you need is a knife.



If my eternal damnation was not ensured on the trip to the hospital, then it was certainly ensured a few months later at a party thrown by the church lady's daughter. I lost my virginity in the church lady's and pastor's bed. Right under the crucifix. You gotta love slutty church girls.

Some Sort of Duality

I miss snowboarding almost every day.
I enjoy wearing jeans and a tee-shirt in January.
I miss "optional" 10:20 "early" classes.
I'm not a big fan of leaving for work before 8, but I enjoy getting paid to do so.
I miss drinking all night.
I'm going to love my new house.
I miss beerpong in Cortland.
I really like happy hour in South Tampa.
I miss being a student.
I like being a teacher.
I miss the days that were just cold enough that you needed a hoodie but no colder.
I love driving with my sunroof down singing along with 97X...in January.
I miss lacking responsibility.
The words still out on how I feel about having it.

Yesterday's Rant

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Six-Pack Abs

That's my tummy, for realz! I think it looks kinda like a sonogram, but I'm not pregnant. No worries.

The Tard Spelling Bee

Today, we had a spelling bee. To begin with, I was disappointed in my honors class, as they didn't spell quite as well as I would have predicted. I think I assume they're smarter than they really are. However, although it only took me six or seven rounds to crown a champion in my honors class, I wouldn't say they spell hilariously bad. My honors kids spell, correction, "poorly." (Just forget I teach English, Angglishhh!!!) My "regular" kids on the other hand, they spell hilariously bad (poorly).

"Eileen, your word is 'retreat."

"Hmmm...R-E-T..."

I'm really, very optimistic at this point, "Remember sweetie, you need to say the word out loud first, then spell the word, then say the word out loud again."

"Huh, ohh...okay. Retreat, R-E-T-T-A-C-R-E-A-T, Retreat," she's beaming nonetheless.

I have no idea how one could spell such a simple word so wrong. Or maybe I could see it, but just the fact that she had the correct spelling but inexplicably placed three extra letters in the middle of the word. It was tough to take. In fairness, she may be dyslexic. Lord, I hope so.

Next contestant:

"Aurora, your word is 'cloak."

"Oh my god, what in the world does that mean, Mr. Jim? I've never heard that word before in my life. I'm going to need a definition."

"A cloak is a piece of clothing typically worn over the shoulders. Would you like to hear the word in a sentence?"

"Yes."

"When I visit your mother at the strip club, I cloak my penis before things get too serious." I didn't really say this, but you could imagine. Needless to say, Aurora was incapable of spelling cloak. This is pretty much how the class went. At one point I just started picking words I knew would fuck with them.

"Jimmy, your word is gnome."

"Gnome, N-O-M-E, Gnome."

"Actually, the word begins with a G."

"A G, A mother-fucking G! Mr. Jim, you did not say guhh-nome, you said nome, N-O-M-E, mother-fucking nome."

Ants

"You're a drone, Craig! A fucking drone!"

"What does that even mean!?"

"You do the same fucking thing as everyone fucking else! You're a drone...a god-damned drone. And everyone follows, and no one leads. You know how exterminators get rid of ant infestations? I couldn't even believe it myself when I heard how dumb those fucking drones are. The exterminators they put little pieces of poison all around the ant hill that look like food, and the dumb-ass mother-fucking drones, you know what they do? One by one by fucking one they carry that shit right to the queen. Who sure enough, stuffs her fat fucking face with that poison. And guess what happens then. Guess! When the queen ant stuffs her fat fucking face full of poison and dies, the whole colony dies. The whole colony! Every last moronic drone ant. Pheromones and shit, they can't live without the queen. Ants, they can lift ten times their own weight, but they're weak. And that's you, Craig, you're a drone ant. You're weak. You're following all those other drone ants right to your death. Right to your death."

"Pheromones, ey?"

"What are you Canadian? You god-damned heard me!"

"I did. I do. I hear you loud and clear. And I smell your whisky-shit breath, too. And I've got your halitosis-tinged spittle in my eyes, too. I hear you, and I could give a flying fuck less what you've got to say to me. What have you ever done for us, huh? What have you done different? Are you the queen in this parade of ants? These weak, moronic, ever-marching ants. Because I remember going down to the corner store and buying your fifths, and I remember buying your Newports, and I even remember going the two blocks over to South Street when you were too dopesick to get your own fix. I remember. And so does Andy, and so does Billy. And Jenny'd remember too if she wasn't strung out on that shit herself right now. And you know what else? It did kill us--it's still killin us now. But not me, not anymore. Pheromones, my ass. I'm gone."

If this is my creative apex...

Coffee and Taxes

You'll get a job.
You'll pay the rent, pay the mortgage.
You'll pay the gas, pay the electric.
You'll pay the taxes, pay the insurance.

The job pays you.
The job pays them.

You learn. You live. You love(?). You die.

Oh, and taxes--always the taxes.

A Stolen Writing Prompt

1. What are my earliest memories? How far back can I remember?Can I remember anything about Kindergarten, Sunday school, etc?

I remember Kindergarten always smelt like macaroni.
...and I liked it.
I remember playing tag on the playground.
...and I liked it.
I remember making fun of the kids that couldn't draw in the lines.
...it was mean, but hilarious.
I remember scooter ball in the gym.
...MVP!
I remember showing off my cowboy boots during show-and-tell.
...no one thought I was a dork.
I remember sleeping 10 hours every night.
...no worries, no fears.
I don't remember much, but I remember...
Yea, I liked it...

Dreams

Stories come to me in my dreams. I'm not sure if I can articulate them into stories that are actually enjoyable to read, but I'm sure they're good stories. They scare me, sometimes. I don't know if it is some sort of a sign or what, but I know that it feels like a waste when I do not write them down.

A few days ago, I tried my best to recalculate a story I'd dreamt the night before. I tried to remember all the key points in the plot. I should have written the story down immediately, but I am not a morning person. I've heard of keeping a dream-journal. I'm guessing this would be the next step. Ahh...ambition. Something lost on me and my generation.

What I remember.

I'm at a gas station or corner store, something small town-ish. I've never been there before, but there's a vague feeling of familiarity. For whatever reason, I know the people who work at and/or are occupying the store. I would want to protect them if something bad were to happen.

Sidenote: I don't remember who was actually in the place. Typically the characters in my dreams are an odd mix of people I know, people I used to know, people I've seen but never spoken to, or people who are on TV or in movies. For instance, I might be singing in an acapella group with my friend Ray, a kid I played football with in HS but haven't spoken to since, some dude whose girlfriend I thought was hot at a bar, and Jerry Seinfeld. Weird, right?

I buy something and start to walk out of the place. There's a guy in the parking lot, and as he gets out of his car, he tucks a gun into his jacket. He doesn't want anyone to see this and doesn't notice that I'm watching. I instantly know that he and the man with him are going to rob the store. I have no clue what I should do about this.

I walk back into the store and warn everyone. (They're my friends--I don't know why I know this, but I know they're my friends.) Everyone seems as clueless as me. Soon, two men are in the store with guns blazing, and there I am with my hands behind my head begging for my life.

At this point, my memory becomes a bit hazy--I can't remember all of the significant plot points. I know there was more to this story, and I know I should have written it down as soon as I woke up. I think one of the men wants more than just money...or more money than the clerk has. I can't remember everything, but I know one key aspect was me having a gun in my face and freaking out. I know that my thoughts were centered on not being able to die because of my lack of faith. I think I begged for my life on these terms. I know this was the scariest part of the dream for me. "I can't die; I don't know what will happen if I die. Someone has to come to grips with their faith before they can die. You can't kill me. it wouldn't be fair. I don't know if I believe in God." Imagine that, begging for your life because you're not ready for what comes next. Not, "It's not my time! It's not my time!" but, "I'm afraid time stops. I'm not ready for time to stop." It's too logical as ways to beg for your life go.

I wake up. Or to be more accurate, I've been partially awake for some time now, but I finally give up the dream. I let it go. My dreams are sort of cinematic, and the really good ones I gain control over at some point in time. They start out as vivid and uncontrollable as I imagine anyone's dreams are, but when they get really exciting, when they get to the point where I know it's a great story and that I'm the protagonist, I can no longer handle them fully unconscious. I'm not awake, necessarily, I'm just somewhere in between awake and asleep. I gain control as time goes on. I open my eyes, check the time maybe, I decide I want to get back into it. It's like the end of a good movie, you don't want to stop watching. I close my eyes, will myself back into the dream.

But, there comes a point where I have too much control over the dream. When I get to that point, it's impossible to see it through to the end. I want someone else's ending, something cinematically beautiful, something I can just watch without control. It doesn't happen, not once I have control.

At this point, I'm hesitantly fully awake. This is when I recount the important plot lines. This is when I should have written this down. This is when I think about possible endings and what it all meant. I think about doing something heroic and gaining control of the situation. Stealing the gun from the man who I'd just been begging for my life and turning it on him. I think about bargaining, telling the gunmen where the storekeepers keep the really big money and begging to join forces with them for later robberies. I know where the money is because I'm friends with the clerk. I've realized that there's too much uncertainty in my life to live it in a boring way, anymore. What with my near-death experience. I think "bang!" and it's all over. It could end in so many different ways. Why can't it just end? How come it never ends? In the end, I think about what it all means. Some message from my subconscious about my god-complex? A sign that I need to write this all down? If I do, will the answers come? Can I have a dream that ends?

If I do, will I survive it?

Incomplete

A few weeks ago I received a new student in my afternoon class, Tiquana. Now this isn’t the least bit unusual as students are shuffled in and out of my 5th and 6th period “regular” language arts/reading class on a frequent basis. Where I teach they’re very pc, hence “regular” is the nice way of saying retarded, as opposed to “decaf,” advanced is your average kids and honors is your advanced kids. They’re indecisive on just how dumb a kid has to be to be considered regular (I have 2 autistic kids if that’s any help), so my class roster is shuffled quite a bit.

This Tiquana girl, though, is a lot stranger than most of my students (which is saying a lot). When I first got her I noticed that she was very twitchy and would shout out random things as if she had Turret’s: “Stop looking at me! I have to go! Look at me! Arf!…etc.” I ignored this behavior for as long as I could, thinking it was just attention-seeking. But eventually, I got around to talking to her previous teacher, who mentioned a peculiar problem with her always having to go to the bathroom.

The bathroom thing is a typical avoidance strategy, so as a teacher you kind of get used to just denying them their requests unless they’re dancing wildly. But Tiquana keeps a water bottle in her locker, so she can sneak drinks, hence making her have to pee. She twitches and crosses and uncrosses her legs repeatedly. She makes strange noises. I’m pretty sure I heard her barking, “Arf!”

“Tiquana, you’re being disruptive; I’m going to have to relocate you.”

“But…Mr. Jim, I can’t help it…I really have to go.”

“I’ve been given strict instructions that you are not to leave my classroom. Please sit up here next to my desk.”

“But…!”

“Now!”

Another one of my prized students, Jimmy, who also can not shut the hell up and was already located at one of the desks near mine, feels the need to chime in at this point.

“Mr. Jim, I don’t want to sit next to that girl; she’s crazy!”

At this point all the other students in my class are nodding in agreement. (I also agree but obviously can not say so.)

“Jimmy, Tiquana is being a bit disruptive, but I’m not going to be rude.”

“Shit, I would.”

I’m laughing on the inside, really. Actually—really, really hard.

The Perks of Snowfall

Today, I snowboard. We're heading up to Vermont in just a few minutes for four days of glorious powder riding in a winter wonderland. I'm psyched.

I'm going to do a 360º before the trip is over. I can feel it in my fingers--I can feel it in my toes.

After the trip I'll be remanded back to Florida where I will neither snowboard nor do/attempt 360ºs. I will do neither of these things because you can't snowboard in Florida. This is because there isn't snow in Florida. The lack of snow is one result of the pleasant tropical climate.

Win some lose some.

And in the great words of Forrest Gump, "That's all I really have to say 'bout that."