McDonaldland: to some, a beacon shining from the rocky shores of a forgotten country. A country built on the backs of men like Ronald McDonald and whatever Grimace is. A country built on a foundation of dreams and hope, where hard work is rewarded with meat and drink and playtime. But to others, McDonaldland inhabits a much darker recess of the great halls of memory. To a silent many, McDonaldland is a psychedelic deadfall for the imagination and, to a brave few, a literal prison for mind and body.
My name is Brandon Reilly and I was once stuck inside the giant burger head of Mayor McCheese for an entire afternoon in 1984. This is my story.
It was a beautiful day in the suburbs outside of Pittsburgh. The big orange sun was drying the previous evening’s rain. A pleasant petrichor rose from the steamy sidewalks on which my tricycle tires came rolling to a stop in front of the apartment in which my mother and I lived. Belly rumblin’. Nuggies needed.
Nuggies is what I called Chicken McNuggets at the time. I was four. Suck it.
“Lunch time!” my mother called out, as if hearing my insides rumble, restless as a manor-less meerkat. “What would you like to eat this afternoon?” My mother knew damn well what I wanted.
“Nuggies.” I folded my arms and gave her my best you-MUST-be-joking face.
“Chicken nuggets it is!”
“Nuggies…” I corrected.
After a short car ride in which I was forced to repeatedly turn down the Carly Simon cassette my mother used, I believe, to ruin my childhood (maybe it wasn’t about me), we made it to our destination. The McDonald’s closest to our apartment was packed with a hapless band of regulars: Itchy Black Guy in a Dirty White Tank Top Who Won’t Sit Down, Extraordinarily Fat Family Shamefully Giving In, Nervous Asian, Emo Teen with Ironic Happy Meal.
The line to order was long, so I was relieved of my station and ran to the barbed metal hellscape of McDonaldland. For some of the younger readers out there I should take this moment to explain that prior to 1992 everything intended for use by a child was painstakingly manufactured with the sole purpose of maiming or otherwise causing severe physical or emotional trauma. Kids in the ‘80s were women in the ‘50s were 19th century blacks were 18th century Native Americans. Kinda.
I scrambled past the Fry Guys, Ronald, the Early Bird, and Hamburglar. I had my eye on the H.N.I.C. – Mayor McCheese.
Mayor McCheese was an enormous cheeseburger who appeared from 1971–1985 in the mythical McDonaldland Universe; he sports a top hat, a diplomat's sash, and a pair of pince-nez spectacles. In McDonaldland he lorded over all, a giant metal humanoid with a hollow tube for a torso leading to a large cheeseburger head with actual steel prison bars for teeth.
Prior to that day, I had been afraid of the rusting monstrosity, but, no, not this day, I thought. I was four, becoming a man; I had to face my fears. I carefully made my way up the ladder, through the tube, and into the hollowed out head.
My fears were unfounded. It was surprisingly comfortable, and soon I was dangling my arms between the bars, calling out and waving to the people going in and out of the restaurant. Just as I was beginning to get comfortable, my mother called from the restaurant’s door. Lunch was ready. I turned to climb down the ladder when I was immediately, irrationally paralyzed with fear. The fall was thirty-five feet if it was a foot. Death was upon me, and at such a tender age. I would never ride a dinosaur, I thought, never stab a guy, never meet the California Raisins. I was too young to die. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to climb down the ladder.
I called to my mother. She ran to the mayor and buried her hand shoulder-deep into his torso. A relatively large woman, she was unable to fetch me from my Golden Arches Gulag. I wept with embarrassing girl-like sobs and generally freaked out.
This went on for some time. My mother pleading for me to climb down, telling me there was nothing to fear. Foolish woman, I thought, if I climb down now there will certainly be lava. Coming to her senses, my mother ran into the McDonald’s, fetched the unassuming middle aged Asian man, and returned with him, directing him to where I was being held. He quickly maneuvered his body into the Honorable McCheese and plucked me from my fast-food fortress.
No worse for wear, I ran off to eat my cold nuggies.
The moral of the story? Well, it’s more of a really, really specific parenting tip: out of the hapless band of regulars at your local McDonald’s, Nervous Asian is always your safest decision when looking for help getting your kid out of a big hamburger head. Probably because the Asians are generally very small.
The former mayor was banished from McDonaldland in the late fall of 1985. He lives in Palm Springs with his wife, the Early Bird, and their two adopted Fry Guys. Mr. McCheese plans on running for Comptroller of the Carl’s Jr. on Palm Canyon Drive.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Grandmother
Growing up the only son of a single mother, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, Bernard and Felice. Bernard was a big Irishman with a taste for whiskey and the ability to stay silent for great periods of time. Felice was a spindly French bird with a loud mouth and a penchant for standing on a chair to bat Bernard across the head when he’d had too much to drink. They loved each other deeply, as far as I can tell, and were married for fifty-some years. Until one morning, while whistling Blackbird over a cup of black coffee and a newspaper, my grandfather dropped dead of a massive heart attack.
I was six so I didn’t really know what the fuck was going on. Hell, I’m twenty-nine and who the hell knows? All I knew at the time was: everyone is sad, grandpa’s gone and not coming back, some shit about heaven that seemed suspicious to me even then, and I was getting hooked up with lots of ice cream. I loved my grandfather, and his death has impacted my life a great deal, but at the time I was, thankfully, easily distracted.
My mother was heartbroken, but sturdy for her mom, brother and sister.
My grandmother, the tiny French woman with a long crooked European nose and a cigarette dangling from the dry corner of her ancient mouth, was broken for good. My mother rented her a small apartment, and that summer I spent my days there with Felice.
We would walk the half mile to the grocery store at lunch time and she would buy me Mad magazine and Jello parfait. When we got back to the apartment, after sandwiches and Jello, we would lie in her big four post bed, she would whisper “Back to back…” and we would lie there with our backs together telling each other tall tales about fumbling heroes until we would both drift off to sleep.
It was the end of that summer that grandma claimed to be visited by her dead husband. She swore it was true. She had awakened in the night to find Bernard at the end of her bed, dimly illuminated from the night-light in the hallway. According to her, he told her that he was happy, in a better place. He told her to move on. He said goodbye.
She believed this, and because she believed this, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It brought her a moment’s peace before a tragic storm.
My grandmother’s vision was the first sign that something was very wrong. When she would forget her daughter’s name or call her neighbor asking if they’d seen Bernard, we worried. When she locked herself out of her apartment and got lost in the parking lot of the complex, we took her to the doctor.
The diagnosis was so cliché: Alzheimer’s disease.
But this is where the cliché breaks down. In the movies and on television Alzheimer’s is portrayed as somehow quaint or, at very least, easily managed by wheeling the half-catatonic patient to a nice breezy window to let them fade away peacefully. While this is the case with some patients, many others find losing their mind to be terrifying, a descent into unfathomable madness. My grandmother was one of those people. She was so headstrong in life that when she recognized her mind was slipping, she fought.
Soon after her diagnosis she needed constant care. We found a nursing home and checked her in. The home was scary and, yes, smelled like piss. Drooling, screaming, scared shitless old people clawing at the last ribbons of their unraveled lives. Felice was no exception.
Visiting was hard, and, one by one, the rest of my family stopped going. Soon it was just my mother and I that could handle it. My grandmother was, at this point, only ever screaming in terror, babbling nonsense, or restlessly sleeping. It was simply awful.
On one of our final visits in the following years, something happened that will stay with me until I inevitably stumble in front of a bus someday.
My mother and I walked into my grandma’s room where she was cuffed to the bed with wide leather straps. This eighty-five pound woman, tethered. As we approached her bed her eyes shot open, filled only with fear and confusion. My grandmother was gone. She’d been replaced by this breathing nightmare. It was around this time I made some serious, lifelong decisions about the nature of our place here on Earth. There’s a spot deep in the terrified eyes of a loved one where God is eaten by instinct, where you can nearly see the primordial sludge engulf our pretty little myths.
But somewhere through that nightmare of a million memories exploding in her brain, my grandmother’s eyes locked on mine and she whispered something I couldn’t quite make out.
I leaned closer, keeping my eyes on hers.
“Back to back…”
My grandmother’s voice, fragile as paper, speaking words I hadn’t heard in years, conjuring memories long dormant.
I unbelted the straps that held Felice’s tiny arms, she rolled to her side, and I laid with my back to hers. I managed a short story about a fumbling hero before she fell peacefully asleep.
Grandma died the following week.
I don’t know if any of it means anything. Probably not. All I know is that an old lady came back from the edge of madness to find a moment of peace with her grandson.
If there is a god, he lives in that moment.
I was six so I didn’t really know what the fuck was going on. Hell, I’m twenty-nine and who the hell knows? All I knew at the time was: everyone is sad, grandpa’s gone and not coming back, some shit about heaven that seemed suspicious to me even then, and I was getting hooked up with lots of ice cream. I loved my grandfather, and his death has impacted my life a great deal, but at the time I was, thankfully, easily distracted.
My mother was heartbroken, but sturdy for her mom, brother and sister.
My grandmother, the tiny French woman with a long crooked European nose and a cigarette dangling from the dry corner of her ancient mouth, was broken for good. My mother rented her a small apartment, and that summer I spent my days there with Felice.
We would walk the half mile to the grocery store at lunch time and she would buy me Mad magazine and Jello parfait. When we got back to the apartment, after sandwiches and Jello, we would lie in her big four post bed, she would whisper “Back to back…” and we would lie there with our backs together telling each other tall tales about fumbling heroes until we would both drift off to sleep.
It was the end of that summer that grandma claimed to be visited by her dead husband. She swore it was true. She had awakened in the night to find Bernard at the end of her bed, dimly illuminated from the night-light in the hallway. According to her, he told her that he was happy, in a better place. He told her to move on. He said goodbye.
She believed this, and because she believed this, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It brought her a moment’s peace before a tragic storm.
My grandmother’s vision was the first sign that something was very wrong. When she would forget her daughter’s name or call her neighbor asking if they’d seen Bernard, we worried. When she locked herself out of her apartment and got lost in the parking lot of the complex, we took her to the doctor.
The diagnosis was so cliché: Alzheimer’s disease.
But this is where the cliché breaks down. In the movies and on television Alzheimer’s is portrayed as somehow quaint or, at very least, easily managed by wheeling the half-catatonic patient to a nice breezy window to let them fade away peacefully. While this is the case with some patients, many others find losing their mind to be terrifying, a descent into unfathomable madness. My grandmother was one of those people. She was so headstrong in life that when she recognized her mind was slipping, she fought.
Soon after her diagnosis she needed constant care. We found a nursing home and checked her in. The home was scary and, yes, smelled like piss. Drooling, screaming, scared shitless old people clawing at the last ribbons of their unraveled lives. Felice was no exception.
Visiting was hard, and, one by one, the rest of my family stopped going. Soon it was just my mother and I that could handle it. My grandmother was, at this point, only ever screaming in terror, babbling nonsense, or restlessly sleeping. It was simply awful.
On one of our final visits in the following years, something happened that will stay with me until I inevitably stumble in front of a bus someday.
My mother and I walked into my grandma’s room where she was cuffed to the bed with wide leather straps. This eighty-five pound woman, tethered. As we approached her bed her eyes shot open, filled only with fear and confusion. My grandmother was gone. She’d been replaced by this breathing nightmare. It was around this time I made some serious, lifelong decisions about the nature of our place here on Earth. There’s a spot deep in the terrified eyes of a loved one where God is eaten by instinct, where you can nearly see the primordial sludge engulf our pretty little myths.
But somewhere through that nightmare of a million memories exploding in her brain, my grandmother’s eyes locked on mine and she whispered something I couldn’t quite make out.
I leaned closer, keeping my eyes on hers.
“Back to back…”
My grandmother’s voice, fragile as paper, speaking words I hadn’t heard in years, conjuring memories long dormant.
I unbelted the straps that held Felice’s tiny arms, she rolled to her side, and I laid with my back to hers. I managed a short story about a fumbling hero before she fell peacefully asleep.
Grandma died the following week.
I don’t know if any of it means anything. Probably not. All I know is that an old lady came back from the edge of madness to find a moment of peace with her grandson.
If there is a god, he lives in that moment.
Friday, June 11, 2010
The Karate Kid Review
Will opened his eyes. Light streamed into the room from the venetian blinds that covered the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over L.A. His wife, Jada, lie next to him, small and muscular like an African-American Chihuahua, or that weird muscle-baby he’d seen on TLC last week, or was it the week before, whatever. Her relative freakishness didn’t phase him though. Ever since seeing her star alongside Billy Zane in Tales from the Crypt presents Demon Knight, he knew he had to make her his beard. It’s a classic story, really: boy meets boy, boy can’t deal, boy meets girl who looks like boy, boy becomes multi-millionaire international superstar of films such as Independence Day, Men in Blacks 1 and 2, and, nap time favorite, Seven Pounds. He loved his wife like he loved Aunt Viv: just enough to make it believable.
Will reached over, grabbed the remote control to his 72 inch Sony television, and, as he clicked it on, admired the job Jose had done on the TV’s Hancock-themed after-market customization using only a little bit of papier-mâché and a whole lot of that immigrant go-get-‘em spirit. The television hummed to life. Will turned the volume down as to not wake his wife or disturb Jaden’s weekly Kung Fu and Cupcake Conference taking place in the living room.
The albino African elephant that wandered the grounds of the estate hated Bad Boys 2, but Will had made a pledge to his nana that he would watch BB2 every single day for the rest of his life in her honor right before she shrugged and died. He could tell that that was an important moment in his life, so Will pretended that he had feelings like regular people and he wasn’t an emotionless sociopath like American Psycho’s “Patrick Bateman,” which he was (well, more like Mila Kunis from the sequel, but whatevs). Honoring his promise to nana, Will popped in the Michael Bay classic and set about his morning routine.
Will Smith’s morning routine consists of push-ups, sit-ups, and a three hour long “play sesh” with his action figures. And I mean HIS action figures. Be it Captain Steven Hiller from Independence Day or Captain James West from Wild Wild West, he’s all there, a god unto himself, Big Willie Style.
On that day, something was amiss. One of him was missing! Will poured the box out on his bedroom floor in a panic. Bagger Vance was accounted for, as was Del Spooner - I, Robot’s charming lead. It came to him in a flash. Agent Jay. Gone. Will rose from his play corner in a rage. “Where is me!” he bellowed. “Give me back my me!”
Jada awoke with a start. “Honey,” she said, “calm down. Everything is going to be alright! We’ll find you.” Will growled at her “ME!” as he came at her wielding his Hancock like a weapon. Jada screamed, “No! Will, stop!” but before she could say “Welcome to Erf!” he had plunged the action figure deep into her eye socket, killing her instantly. Will stood over Jada for a moment and squeezed out a tear thinking about the third act of his hit rom-com Hitch before bending down and removing Hancock from her head.
Jaden was next, the little shit. Daddy was God and Jaden was Jesus and now it was time to crucify somebody. You see, Jaden had started thinking himself some kind of fancypants movie star, and there just wasn’t enough room in the multi-winged marble mansion for the two of them. Plus, it was probably Jesus/Jaden who misplaced Agent Jay.
Covered in the blood of his youngest son’s mother, Will Smith slowly walked to the expansive living room to confront Jaden. Jaden was covered head to toe in frosting. The Kung Fu and Cupcake Conference had gotten out of hand. Will moved toward his son with the smooth movements of a jungle cat. Jaden, having seen the blood and assuming the worst, had already crouched into the Viper Claw stance, prepared for the oncoming attack. A dove from some other actor’s movie flew across their path in slow motion.
The battle had begun…
Editor's note: Brandon has yet to see the new Karate Kid remake. He's sure it's nice.
Will reached over, grabbed the remote control to his 72 inch Sony television, and, as he clicked it on, admired the job Jose had done on the TV’s Hancock-themed after-market customization using only a little bit of papier-mâché and a whole lot of that immigrant go-get-‘em spirit. The television hummed to life. Will turned the volume down as to not wake his wife or disturb Jaden’s weekly Kung Fu and Cupcake Conference taking place in the living room.
The albino African elephant that wandered the grounds of the estate hated Bad Boys 2, but Will had made a pledge to his nana that he would watch BB2 every single day for the rest of his life in her honor right before she shrugged and died. He could tell that that was an important moment in his life, so Will pretended that he had feelings like regular people and he wasn’t an emotionless sociopath like American Psycho’s “Patrick Bateman,” which he was (well, more like Mila Kunis from the sequel, but whatevs). Honoring his promise to nana, Will popped in the Michael Bay classic and set about his morning routine.
Will Smith’s morning routine consists of push-ups, sit-ups, and a three hour long “play sesh” with his action figures. And I mean HIS action figures. Be it Captain Steven Hiller from Independence Day or Captain James West from Wild Wild West, he’s all there, a god unto himself, Big Willie Style.
On that day, something was amiss. One of him was missing! Will poured the box out on his bedroom floor in a panic. Bagger Vance was accounted for, as was Del Spooner - I, Robot’s charming lead. It came to him in a flash. Agent Jay. Gone. Will rose from his play corner in a rage. “Where is me!” he bellowed. “Give me back my me!”
Jada awoke with a start. “Honey,” she said, “calm down. Everything is going to be alright! We’ll find you.” Will growled at her “ME!” as he came at her wielding his Hancock like a weapon. Jada screamed, “No! Will, stop!” but before she could say “Welcome to Erf!” he had plunged the action figure deep into her eye socket, killing her instantly. Will stood over Jada for a moment and squeezed out a tear thinking about the third act of his hit rom-com Hitch before bending down and removing Hancock from her head.
Jaden was next, the little shit. Daddy was God and Jaden was Jesus and now it was time to crucify somebody. You see, Jaden had started thinking himself some kind of fancypants movie star, and there just wasn’t enough room in the multi-winged marble mansion for the two of them. Plus, it was probably Jesus/Jaden who misplaced Agent Jay.
Covered in the blood of his youngest son’s mother, Will Smith slowly walked to the expansive living room to confront Jaden. Jaden was covered head to toe in frosting. The Kung Fu and Cupcake Conference had gotten out of hand. Will moved toward his son with the smooth movements of a jungle cat. Jaden, having seen the blood and assuming the worst, had already crouched into the Viper Claw stance, prepared for the oncoming attack. A dove from some other actor’s movie flew across their path in slow motion.
The battle had begun…
Editor's note: Brandon has yet to see the new Karate Kid remake. He's sure it's nice.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Alaska Ass Quacks
I was going to write a story about buying dime bags in downtown Detroit in the late 90s from a giant woman named Candy who looked just like Mo’Nique in Precious. I was going to attempt to run a bead of racial tension through the story, and allow my discoveries to hopefully illuminate the darker reaches of the reader’s, for lack of a proper agnostic equivalent, soul, letting a slash of light across our common experiences, forcing us to recognize our one-ness.
But instead I’ve decided that this poem about Sarah Palin containing liberal use of fart puns is a more appropriate addition to this sunny Friday:
Hey Sarah Palin
I can smell you through the TV
You should consider
seeing a doctor
I bet he’ll give you a pooscription
for the fartmacy
because you’re blowing up
like a stinky Snoopy
on Thanksgiving Day
Some people find you attractive
I just want to find you a gastrointestinal specialist
with references
It is cute though
that you try so hard
But don’t strain
because
you know…
The farts
But instead I’ve decided that this poem about Sarah Palin containing liberal use of fart puns is a more appropriate addition to this sunny Friday:
Hey Sarah Palin
I can smell you through the TV
You should consider
seeing a doctor
I bet he’ll give you a pooscription
for the fartmacy
because you’re blowing up
like a stinky Snoopy
on Thanksgiving Day
Some people find you attractive
I just want to find you a gastrointestinal specialist
with references
It is cute though
that you try so hard
But don’t strain
because
you know…
The farts
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Brain
This is a short story about heaving a fat kid into a recycling bin with a retarded fellow in Michigan in the early 90s.
Frank was a stereotype. At five feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds, he was barely able to lift his perfect-replica light saber to illuminate his Dragonlance novel. Frank was your classic nerd, he was a geek, and he was my friend. During Spanish class I would write and he would illustrate a comic we conceived called Udder Destruction about a mutant, bipedal, well-armed, fast-talking milk cow with an axe to grind. We spent a week in detention together for co-authoring a play that envisioned Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man venturing to Sea World to liberate Shamu. The opening scene saw Rain Man engaged in a messy slap fight with the snap-crackle-pop of his Rice Krispies. We deserved the adulation we received from our fellow seventh graders. The play was a hit in our writing class. We also deserved, and graciously accepted, our detention. Frank and I were thick as thieves.
Brian was a quiet, unassuming kid. He had a very small group of friends and he didn’t venture out into gen-pop often. The times I spoke with him prior to eighth grade were few, but he was funny and smart and kept to himself by choice, not because he couldn’t make friends. You knew this kid too. Every school has him. Frank and I called Brian “The Brain”. He was the guy who was going to be on the cover of Forbes one day. Unfortunately, he made the cover of the local paper instead.
I spent the summer before eighth grade wearing out my second cassette of Pearl Jam’s genre-definer, Ten, and, in hindsight, enjoying one of my last summers before the women, booze, and drugs of early adulthood complicated everything. Frank lived down the road, and we would spend entire days playing pool poorly in his basement (which is not a euphemism for something tawdry, like it sounds, but actual poor pool playing). That’s where we were when we heard Frank’s mother call out to us, her voice somber.
Brian had been in a car accident. He’d smashed his head into the glove compartment, causing severe brain damage. He’d have multiple brain surgeries and months of physical and psychiatric therapy in order to find a version of himself that could operate in the world. The news hit me and Frank hard. We liked the Brain and looked up to him. We saw in him a person who, without compromising who he was, was able to survive middle school without much detection. Frank and I, on the other hand, screamed “nerd”. We never compromised, but, for it, we would catch the ire of a quarterback here or a star power-forward there. It seemed that a colorful imagination did not make up for a girly layup and cowering in a corner during dodgeball. We didn’t know what to expect from the new Brian, and it was a subject of much conjecture leading up to the first day of our last year in middle school.
That day came in late August and I wore my worst smelling flannel shirt over a BBQ sauce-stained Nirvana t-shirt for the occasion. Remember, it was the early 90’s. I walked to school and, upon entering the building, began searching for Brian. I wish that I could say that I was searching for him in order to tell him how sorry I was and to let him know that I would be there for him, whatever he needed, but honestly, I can’t say that. I was a kid and I was morbidly curious as to how fucked up his bean got. When I found him outside the “special” kids’ classroom, I came to find that his bean got fucked up real good. His head was covered with deep scars, patches of hair growing wispy and unsettling. When he spoke, he spoke loudly, his hands gesticulating madly, his words slurred and ill-considered. He called out to me upon seeing me and I called back, “Hey, Brain!” The nickname took on a dark tone, and I considered abandoning it.
Brian in many ways became the opposite of his previous incarnation. He was boisterous and embarrassing and simply fantastic. That first day, he leaned into me and whispered, “Let’s throw Frank in the pop cans.” Our school, as most schools do, had large recycling bins to collect empty soda cans. This was an anthropologically important time in history when soda was what one drank in middle school. This sounded, logistically speaking, like a tough endeavor. Frank was a couple hundred pounds, I was a weakling, and my partner in crime was retarded. Not one to back away from a challenge, I accepted.
We agreed to meet at the vending machines at lunch and conspired to wait for Frank to pass, pull him from the stream of hallway traffic, and tip him into the bin. When lunchtime rolled around, I was nervous. We weren’t going to get away with it. Frank would be too heavy. A teacher would see us. The bin would tip, spilling soda cans everywhere. There were a million ways for our plan to fail. Little did I, or even Brian I assume, know that, since his accident, the Brain was about as strong as the big Indian in One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest. The moment came, Frank approached, Brian was standing with his back pressed against the Pepsi machine, and I was at his side with my back against the Fruitopia machine.
Suddenly, Brian darted out from behind is post, puma-quick, and grabbed Frank. I pulled him by his arms out of the hall and Brian Hulk-heaved him into the air and dropped him, ass first, into the bin. Mission accomplished. Frank was unharmed and amused, as we knew he would be. Brian was joyously basking in his accomplishment, and I wore a wide, shit-eating grin. We helped Frank out of the bin and went to class, our heads buzzing with innocent glee and too much Tangerine Wavelength.
Throwing Frank in the pop cans became our way of dealing with the relative hardships of the eighth grade. If one of us was rejected by a girl; throw Frank in the pop cans. When I failed my first class ever (first of many); throw Frank in the pop cans. When Frank’s dad divorced his mom; sorry, Frank, pop cans.
After eighth grade, Brian went to a different high school, a place better suited to his needs. Frank and I remained friends through freshman year, but drifted apart soon thereafter, as is the way these things go. Last I heard, Frank got married and joined a cult, which seems about right. I don’t know what happened to the Brain. I like to think that he’s found, figuratively speaking, a new Frank and a new recycling bin in which to toss him. I like to think that the buzz of innocence and youth is still alive in that banged up bean of his. Hopefully one day we’ll get to do it again. Watch your ass, Frank.
Frank was a stereotype. At five feet two inches tall and two hundred pounds, he was barely able to lift his perfect-replica light saber to illuminate his Dragonlance novel. Frank was your classic nerd, he was a geek, and he was my friend. During Spanish class I would write and he would illustrate a comic we conceived called Udder Destruction about a mutant, bipedal, well-armed, fast-talking milk cow with an axe to grind. We spent a week in detention together for co-authoring a play that envisioned Dustin Hoffman’s character from Rain Man venturing to Sea World to liberate Shamu. The opening scene saw Rain Man engaged in a messy slap fight with the snap-crackle-pop of his Rice Krispies. We deserved the adulation we received from our fellow seventh graders. The play was a hit in our writing class. We also deserved, and graciously accepted, our detention. Frank and I were thick as thieves.
Brian was a quiet, unassuming kid. He had a very small group of friends and he didn’t venture out into gen-pop often. The times I spoke with him prior to eighth grade were few, but he was funny and smart and kept to himself by choice, not because he couldn’t make friends. You knew this kid too. Every school has him. Frank and I called Brian “The Brain”. He was the guy who was going to be on the cover of Forbes one day. Unfortunately, he made the cover of the local paper instead.
I spent the summer before eighth grade wearing out my second cassette of Pearl Jam’s genre-definer, Ten, and, in hindsight, enjoying one of my last summers before the women, booze, and drugs of early adulthood complicated everything. Frank lived down the road, and we would spend entire days playing pool poorly in his basement (which is not a euphemism for something tawdry, like it sounds, but actual poor pool playing). That’s where we were when we heard Frank’s mother call out to us, her voice somber.
Brian had been in a car accident. He’d smashed his head into the glove compartment, causing severe brain damage. He’d have multiple brain surgeries and months of physical and psychiatric therapy in order to find a version of himself that could operate in the world. The news hit me and Frank hard. We liked the Brain and looked up to him. We saw in him a person who, without compromising who he was, was able to survive middle school without much detection. Frank and I, on the other hand, screamed “nerd”. We never compromised, but, for it, we would catch the ire of a quarterback here or a star power-forward there. It seemed that a colorful imagination did not make up for a girly layup and cowering in a corner during dodgeball. We didn’t know what to expect from the new Brian, and it was a subject of much conjecture leading up to the first day of our last year in middle school.
That day came in late August and I wore my worst smelling flannel shirt over a BBQ sauce-stained Nirvana t-shirt for the occasion. Remember, it was the early 90’s. I walked to school and, upon entering the building, began searching for Brian. I wish that I could say that I was searching for him in order to tell him how sorry I was and to let him know that I would be there for him, whatever he needed, but honestly, I can’t say that. I was a kid and I was morbidly curious as to how fucked up his bean got. When I found him outside the “special” kids’ classroom, I came to find that his bean got fucked up real good. His head was covered with deep scars, patches of hair growing wispy and unsettling. When he spoke, he spoke loudly, his hands gesticulating madly, his words slurred and ill-considered. He called out to me upon seeing me and I called back, “Hey, Brain!” The nickname took on a dark tone, and I considered abandoning it.
Brian in many ways became the opposite of his previous incarnation. He was boisterous and embarrassing and simply fantastic. That first day, he leaned into me and whispered, “Let’s throw Frank in the pop cans.” Our school, as most schools do, had large recycling bins to collect empty soda cans. This was an anthropologically important time in history when soda was what one drank in middle school. This sounded, logistically speaking, like a tough endeavor. Frank was a couple hundred pounds, I was a weakling, and my partner in crime was retarded. Not one to back away from a challenge, I accepted.
We agreed to meet at the vending machines at lunch and conspired to wait for Frank to pass, pull him from the stream of hallway traffic, and tip him into the bin. When lunchtime rolled around, I was nervous. We weren’t going to get away with it. Frank would be too heavy. A teacher would see us. The bin would tip, spilling soda cans everywhere. There were a million ways for our plan to fail. Little did I, or even Brian I assume, know that, since his accident, the Brain was about as strong as the big Indian in One Flew Over a Cuckoo’s Nest. The moment came, Frank approached, Brian was standing with his back pressed against the Pepsi machine, and I was at his side with my back against the Fruitopia machine.
Suddenly, Brian darted out from behind is post, puma-quick, and grabbed Frank. I pulled him by his arms out of the hall and Brian Hulk-heaved him into the air and dropped him, ass first, into the bin. Mission accomplished. Frank was unharmed and amused, as we knew he would be. Brian was joyously basking in his accomplishment, and I wore a wide, shit-eating grin. We helped Frank out of the bin and went to class, our heads buzzing with innocent glee and too much Tangerine Wavelength.
Throwing Frank in the pop cans became our way of dealing with the relative hardships of the eighth grade. If one of us was rejected by a girl; throw Frank in the pop cans. When I failed my first class ever (first of many); throw Frank in the pop cans. When Frank’s dad divorced his mom; sorry, Frank, pop cans.
After eighth grade, Brian went to a different high school, a place better suited to his needs. Frank and I remained friends through freshman year, but drifted apart soon thereafter, as is the way these things go. Last I heard, Frank got married and joined a cult, which seems about right. I don’t know what happened to the Brain. I like to think that he’s found, figuratively speaking, a new Frank and a new recycling bin in which to toss him. I like to think that the buzz of innocence and youth is still alive in that banged up bean of his. Hopefully one day we’ll get to do it again. Watch your ass, Frank.
Friday, May 14, 2010
The Beaver
It’s Pittsburgh in the 80s and I’m The World’s Biggest Masters of the Universe Fan. Official title. My mother’s at work, and her doughy Boy Scout husband, Chuck, a man whose physical appearance clumsily lands somewhere between Jon Favreau and Teddy Ruxpin, is click-clacking at a typewriter in the dining room. Chuck is jobless. A freelance photographer for NASA, he’d recently witnessed the Challenger explosion while on assignment and, understandably shaken, has decided to find other work. But for now, he’s a deadbeat stepdad. A deadbeat dad can happen to anyone, but when a deadbeat stepdad creeps along, it’s hard not to question Mom’s decision-making skills. I don’t much like Chuck, and Chuck shows little fondness for me. We stay out of each other’s hair. He types. I play. He casually makes sure that I don’t get impaled or crushed or kidnapped. I chew the soft rubber head of He-Man while watching Three Stooges reruns too loud on our new-at-the-time television, a beast of wood and knobs and convex glass that sits on the floor with me and my toys.
This is one of many stories collected from my time with Chuck.
Chuck’s job search would take him out of town for two or three days at a time, which was fine by me. The neighbor I stayed with while my mother worked was a bit of a pothead and would let me watch The Twilight Zone, which I loved but would scare the shit out of me. I was six. When my mother came to pick me up that day, I was eager to get He-Man back to Castle Greyskull, a hard plastic grayish-green skull-shaped castle that mustn’t have been difficult to name. Silverhawks were invading. He-Man was needed.
My mother was happy because Chuck was going to be home after traveling out of state for an interview and she needed the help looking after me. I was happy because Chuck had told me over the phone during one of our weird, forced “let’s both pretend you’re not fucking my mom” conversations that he had gotten me a “surprise”. A surprise is to a six year old what oral sex or a low utilities bill is to an adult. My mother and I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex in our shitty red Chevette (which, incidentally, was the name of the first draft of Prince’s now-classic Little Red Corvette), I hopped out and ran inside, my mother trailing behind, hands full of whatever it is parents carry that gives them that burdened, clumsy walk.
Upon entering the apartment, I was met by Chuck. He threw a poorly wrapped package my way and gave me a polite nod while walking past me and embracing my mom. I ran to the living room, cranked the giant knob that turned the television on and it rattled to life as if it were steam-powered. Might’ve been. I patiently waited while Chuck sat on the couch and my mother came out of the kitchen with three small cups of homemade chocolate pudding she had prepared for this very occasion. I was given the go ahead to open my gift. I ripped the wrapping paper away to reveal a round, furry, stuffed…
…beaver.
Polite to a fault (as a kid, at least), I graciously thanked Chuck for the kind present while I thought of ways that this stupid stuffed animal could terrify the population of Eternia (He-Man’s home planet) before He-Man could come in and slay him with the magical Sword of Power (He-Man’s magical sword. It has powers). But in the meantime, I figured I’d throw the damn thing in the air a bunch of times. Given, this was a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Pittsburgh; it may as well have been a Haitian box-house, so the words Chuck spoke to me that day make sense from a safety standpoint. That doesn’t mean the fact that this string of words was spoken in English at all isn’t of great importance to the idea and power of language itself. It certainly does. Upon the third attempt at swinging the beast into the air by its quilted felt tail, Chuck, my deadbeat stepfather who resembles Teddy Ruxpin and the director of Iron Man 2, in theaters now, bellowed to me sternly:
“Brandon, do not throw your beaver in your mother’s pudding.”
For a long moment there was silence. It was as if an elderly holocaust survivor farted loudly at the most dramatic swell of his own tragic recounting. It was as if everything was drained from the room and all that remained was that ridiculous sentence, hanging in the air like a hobo-fart. And suddenly, we laughed, all of us together. The beaver lay alone on the floor, ready to wreak havoc on Eternia. Pudding safe.
Since that day in 1986 in a grey Pittsburgh suburb, I have heard many more ridiculous sentences spoken, but that one would definitely make the starting lineup. Thanks Chuck.
This is one of many stories collected from my time with Chuck.
Chuck’s job search would take him out of town for two or three days at a time, which was fine by me. The neighbor I stayed with while my mother worked was a bit of a pothead and would let me watch The Twilight Zone, which I loved but would scare the shit out of me. I was six. When my mother came to pick me up that day, I was eager to get He-Man back to Castle Greyskull, a hard plastic grayish-green skull-shaped castle that mustn’t have been difficult to name. Silverhawks were invading. He-Man was needed.
My mother was happy because Chuck was going to be home after traveling out of state for an interview and she needed the help looking after me. I was happy because Chuck had told me over the phone during one of our weird, forced “let’s both pretend you’re not fucking my mom” conversations that he had gotten me a “surprise”. A surprise is to a six year old what oral sex or a low utilities bill is to an adult. My mother and I pulled into the parking lot of our apartment complex in our shitty red Chevette (which, incidentally, was the name of the first draft of Prince’s now-classic Little Red Corvette), I hopped out and ran inside, my mother trailing behind, hands full of whatever it is parents carry that gives them that burdened, clumsy walk.
Upon entering the apartment, I was met by Chuck. He threw a poorly wrapped package my way and gave me a polite nod while walking past me and embracing my mom. I ran to the living room, cranked the giant knob that turned the television on and it rattled to life as if it were steam-powered. Might’ve been. I patiently waited while Chuck sat on the couch and my mother came out of the kitchen with three small cups of homemade chocolate pudding she had prepared for this very occasion. I was given the go ahead to open my gift. I ripped the wrapping paper away to reveal a round, furry, stuffed…
…beaver.
Polite to a fault (as a kid, at least), I graciously thanked Chuck for the kind present while I thought of ways that this stupid stuffed animal could terrify the population of Eternia (He-Man’s home planet) before He-Man could come in and slay him with the magical Sword of Power (He-Man’s magical sword. It has powers). But in the meantime, I figured I’d throw the damn thing in the air a bunch of times. Given, this was a two bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Pittsburgh; it may as well have been a Haitian box-house, so the words Chuck spoke to me that day make sense from a safety standpoint. That doesn’t mean the fact that this string of words was spoken in English at all isn’t of great importance to the idea and power of language itself. It certainly does. Upon the third attempt at swinging the beast into the air by its quilted felt tail, Chuck, my deadbeat stepfather who resembles Teddy Ruxpin and the director of Iron Man 2, in theaters now, bellowed to me sternly:
“Brandon, do not throw your beaver in your mother’s pudding.”
For a long moment there was silence. It was as if an elderly holocaust survivor farted loudly at the most dramatic swell of his own tragic recounting. It was as if everything was drained from the room and all that remained was that ridiculous sentence, hanging in the air like a hobo-fart. And suddenly, we laughed, all of us together. The beaver lay alone on the floor, ready to wreak havoc on Eternia. Pudding safe.
Since that day in 1986 in a grey Pittsburgh suburb, I have heard many more ridiculous sentences spoken, but that one would definitely make the starting lineup. Thanks Chuck.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Fear
The first words I write in this blog, aside from these, are as follows: I am afraid. Strange words with which to start a blog? Maybe. But there they sit, three little words, thin and black. A strange confession. A nip-slip.
I've called this blog The Infinite Monkey Theorem. The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In other words, on a long enough time-line, anything is possible. Nice thought. And then one realizes the tail of history is growing behind one and that the cat's ass of oblivion is approaching fast, dark, and puckered. We do not have eternity. The monkey behind this keyboard is finite, and if he's going to create something worthwhile he better start typing. Type, monkey. Type.
So, of what am I afraid?
Mechanical dinosaurs too close to an unstable nuclear reactor, for one. Plus, I'm turning 30 and I need a place to freak out about it. The Internet seems as good a place as any.
In closing: My name's Brandon. Nice to meet you.
I've called this blog The Infinite Monkey Theorem. The infinite monkey theorem states that a monkey hitting keys at random on a keyboard for an infinite amount of time will almost surely type a given text, such as the complete works of William Shakespeare. In other words, on a long enough time-line, anything is possible. Nice thought. And then one realizes the tail of history is growing behind one and that the cat's ass of oblivion is approaching fast, dark, and puckered. We do not have eternity. The monkey behind this keyboard is finite, and if he's going to create something worthwhile he better start typing. Type, monkey. Type.
So, of what am I afraid?
Mechanical dinosaurs too close to an unstable nuclear reactor, for one. Plus, I'm turning 30 and I need a place to freak out about it. The Internet seems as good a place as any.
In closing: My name's Brandon. Nice to meet you.
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