The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here.  It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater.  I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher.  I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors.  It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater.  She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school.  Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired.  This usher, however, was different from the rest of us.  His name was Peter.  Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes.  He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow.  His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out.  I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage.  It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little.  But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around.  He also liked to talk up the female workers.  Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her.  Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter.  That’s nice of you to say.”  Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said.  “You know him.  He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.”  And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him?  You can do much better!”

Ouch.

Sorry for the lack of updates recently.  I wish I had some kind of awesome excuse for why I haven’t updated this blog in a few months, but I don’t.  Honestly, I’m just lazy.

I have a younger brother, and as kids we fought all the time.  No big deal really.  A few inept punches  thrown (few landed), perhaps a wimpy kick or two, and a lot of rolling around on the ground.  But there comes a time in almost every young man’s life when he has to engage in a fight with someone who isn’t his brother (or sister, for that matter).  Some young men actually yearn to engage in fisticuffs with another person and relish the idea of beating the crap out of someone.  Then there are those who fear fighting.  Intensely.  As a short, underweight kid with braces and glasses, I was one of those kids.

One afternoon after school—I guess I was in 5th or 6th grade—myself and three friends got together to play a game of backyard football.  There was Dave, Justin, Adam, and myself.  Now, at one point during the game, Dave and Justin got into an argument.  I don’t remember what they argued about.  All I know is that they ended up rolling around in the grass together.  No punches were thrown, just two dudes rolling around on the ground.  Adam and I watched together and laughed.  How ridiculous! we thought.

Then, Adam looked at me, smiled, and asked: “Hey, do you want to rumble?” (Yes, he said “rumble.”)

Judging by Adam’s smile, I assumed he was joking, so I said, “Sure.”

Next thing I knew, Adam had put me in some kind of hold to keep me from moving.  I squirmed around a bit and managed to break free.  I turned and looked at Adam.  He was no longer smiling.  He looked serious.  Surely he wasn’t expecting us to really fight, was he?  But before I could make any sense of what was going on, Adam squared up and punched me right in the eye.  (Remember, I was wearing glasses).  I hit the ground like a sack of dirt.  Adam stood over me.

“What the hell?” I managed to say.

“Asshole,” Adam said.

Completely dumbfounded, I stood up, covered my eye with my fingers and told Dave I was going home.  Walking home, I thought, was that a fight?  Was that my first fight?  I didn’t even know it was a fight!  Had I known, I would’ve at least tried not to get punched in the eye.  But, alas, that’s what happened.  And it suddenly occurred to me that come the next school day, Adam would tell everyone how he punched poor me in the eye and how I did nothing and just went home.  And that, my friends, is exactly what he did.

Here’s another example of why I don’t like clubs…

So, once again two of my female friends (the same ones from Dancing Machine) dragged me to a club, this time a club in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.  Once again, off the top of my head, I can’t remember the name of the club, which gives you an indication of the impression it left on me.  At any rate, at this point in the evening, I was tired of dancing and was leaning against the wall in a darkened section of the club, drinking a beer.

From where I was standing, I could still see my two friends dancing.  This club, if I recall correctly, had these platforms (with vertical bars) interspersed throughout the club where only girls were allowed to dance.  Kind of cage-like, I guess.  Anyway, while I was watching my friends from afar, I saw an African-American gentleman in oversized clothes approach my then-ex-girlfriend, who was still in one of those cage things.

This guy started chatting up my friend, which was fine with me, but then my friend starting pointing in my direction as if to say, “I’m here with him.”  Now, technically, I was there with her, but not in any kind of romantic capacity, so I was kind of annoyed that I was being singled out.  Leave me out of it, I probably thought.  Anyway, the guy stepped away from my friend for a moment but then returned moments later with what appeared to be a piece of paper and a pen.

He approached my friend again and was ready to either get her number or give her his own.  Again, my friend pointed me out to the guy as if to say, “No thanks, I’m here with him.”  Yes, me.  The short, wimpy guy standing in a dark corner looking totally uninterested in what is going on.  So, this guy gives me a strange, smug look then proceeds to write his information on the piece of paper before handing it to my friend as if to say, “Who?  That guy?  Whatever…here’s my digits, baby.”

What the fuck?  If I was my friend’s date, this guy’s move would have been a total slap in the face.  At this point, I had a vague urge to throw my beer bottle at this guy or at least the crowd in general and run for my life.  But instead I probably just sighed, took a sip of my beer, and tried to look inconspicuous.

Stupid clubs.

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post…

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.

It’ seems to me that almost everyone has a good car crash story. Fortunately, I’ve never caused a car wreck myself, but I’ve been in a few. This one happened back when I was a mere sixteen-year-old on a rainy Friday night in Pennsylvania…

I didn’t have my license yet, but my friend Chris (same guy from “That was Awkward”), who was also sixteen, had just gotten his license recently. He picked me up from my parents’ house in his blue Oldsmobile, which had many amusing quirks, one of them being that you could take the key out of ignition while the engine was running. Yeah, that’s safe.

We were on our way to the local movie theater when it started to rain. Now, Chris was never that great of a driver, but he was especially inept when it came to driving in areas that he wasn’t familiar with. So, we drove down Orrs Bridge road, which curves sharply to the right just before you go over a short

bridge. Chris, not being familiar with this particular stretch of road, took the turn a little fast, fast enough for me to brace myself and say, “Whoah, dude!”

We made the turn but the car slid over the center line and smashed almost head on into an oncoming car. After the impact, we sat in the car, silent, for a few moments before Chris said, “Man, accidents suck.” From that point on, Chris and I for some reason could not stop laughing. We laughed as we exited the car. We laughed as we realized the three people in the other car were safe. We laughed when we realized that we knew the other driver—a girl from our high school class, who was in tears. And we even laughed when the cop showed up. Now, this wasn’t a very “funny” moment per say, but our laughter probably came from a source of relief or nervousness. It also didn’t help that Chris was wearing shorts, sandals, and a pair of outrageous rainbow-striped, knee-high toe socks for some reason. “Man,” he said, looking down, “why did I wear these socks?”

As Chris went over things with the police officer, and as the other driver and her two guy friends regained their composure, I picked up a piece of Chris’s bumper from the side of the road, a memento from car crash number one.