TouchedByMadness

Their Eyes Were Watching Girls

I became an entertainer at the age of nine.

That year we moved from Undiscovered Ghetto of the All American Valley to Quietsville, USA. The first thing we noticed (other than the notable absence of a crack house) was that the people in our new neighborhood were completely different from our former neighbors . . . even if you ignored the fact that our former neighbors were dealers, addicts, hookers, and unmedicated whackjobs. When we lived on our old street, everyone around us was young enough to run from the cops (who made regular visits). Our new neighbors, however, were just . . . old.

For awhile I was entirely convinced that our parents had moved us into a retirement community. I was disappointed in the quality of the place because I expected more Jell-O. Every now and then the decaying woman in the house next door would call and complain to my mother that her three children (there were only three of us then) should not be allowed to play in the backyard during the afternoon hours because we continually woke up her husband from his nap.

It was when we were banished to the front yard to jump rope or play hopscotch in the driveway that we noticed them. At first it was just Amel, the eighty-something year old man who lived directly across the street from us. Every day he’d plop a lawn chair on his front walk and stare at our house.

“He’s watching us!” we complained to our mother, but she insisted we were paranoid and that the old man probably couldn’t even see that far, and sent us back out to play.

In the following weeks, Amel was joined by Norman (his next door neighbor), and Joe (our next door neighbor). With a combined age of approximately 232, they were a fiery trio. Every afternoon, Norman and Joe would trod over to Amel’s house with their lawn chairs. Then the three amigos would crack open some Budweisers and stare at our house.

“They’re watching us!” we complained to our mother. Again she insisted it was nonsense, that the gentlemen were merely sitting outside, enjoying the weather, and sharing old people gossip.

That’s what she said until the day she got the lawnmower stuck up a tree (another story entirely) and the old men laughed so hard that one nearly had to give himself oxygen and another almost fell off his chair and broke a hip. Mom stormed back into the house. “I can’t work with those geezers watching me,” she huffed.

My brother, who was three at the time, decided to make the best of his audience. Our front yard was a steep embankment that ended near the road with a four foot stone wall. Little brother would hop on his Big Wheels and ride it down the embankment, swerving just before arriving at the stone wall (and subsequent four foot drop into the street). Each time he pulled this little stunt, the elderly trio would jump up and attempt to scurry their brittle bones across the road to catch Evel Knievel before he became a smear on the pavement. I’m pretty sure we witnessed a heart attack because of this game, but I was too young to recognize one.

My sister also used public appearances to her favor. Whenever she was in trouble (for say, kicking a hole in the bedroom wall) she’d run out onto the front lawn to receive her punishment.

“Go ahead and beat me!” she’d yell at my mother. “Hit me. Come on! These people will call DCF on you and you’ll go to jail!” (FYI, my mother never beat her children. My sister could be a tad melodramatic.)

“Stupid, they’re old people,” I’d hiss at her. “They’ll take out their wooden spoons and help!”

Ah, yes. Never a dull moment.

We grew older, and so did they, but after their naps, Amel, Norman, and Joe would faithfully set up their chairs across from our house. I suppose that’s what happens when you can’t afford cable (and competitive cheerleading on ESPN).

Today my childhood home is no longer its own reality show. My family isn’t any less interesting, but Amel, Norman, and Joe have long since passed on. Sometimes I think that wherever they are in the afterlife ether, they may be looking down on us.

And it still creeps me out.

You’ll Find Me in “Drama”

I realized recently that before I enter a bookstore, I have a habit of turning off the ringer on my cell phone. I was tiptoeing around a display of paperback bestsellers with ninja-like stealth when I began to think, “I wonder why that is? After all, this is a store not a library.”

But as I glanced around me, I came to the awareness that the bookstore really is practically a library. Everywhere I looked there were people sitting down deeply entranced by a text. To my right a woman’s brow furrowed as her eyes darted over the advice of a dating self-help book. By my elbow was an older man in tweed with a penchant for Dickens. To my left was a young man enjoying Stephen King and a cappuccino.

I wanted to yell, “Aha!” “Eureka!” or even “Gadzooks!” but couldn’t for fear of being shushed. I didn’t dare disturb the intellectuals pouring over each work of literature with admiration and reverence . . . but no apparent intentions to buy.

Yes, eventually each person would check his watch, put his book back whence it came, and leave the store empty-handed. That’s amazing! I thought. Can they do that?

Surely if I wandered into Target and rode a mountain bike around the store “just to test it out” someone would stop me. But here in the bookstore, people live to read and reshelf.

At first the whole notion unnerved me. Do I really want to purchase a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover after a teenager has been reading it in the corner, clandestinely touching himself?

But then such an idea came to me! If I ever became homeless, I would spend my days in the bookstore! Instead of sitting on a street corner feeling sorry for myself and drinking myself into oblivion, I would spend the daylight hours surrounded by literary genius. One day I might enjoy the classics, the next day science fiction, and perhaps humor the following day.

And while I was expanding my knowledge of everything that could possibly be found in print, I would do the world a public service. Every time I spied a student desperately searching the the CliffsNotes section I would idle up to him and selflessly offer assistance. “King Lear, eh? Buy me a latte and I’ll tell you how it ends.”

Sure, eventually the bookstore staff might notice my ever-presence, but I’ve got that covered. “What do you mean I have to leave? I work here! That’s right. I work my ass off for this company. Or maybe you haven’t noticed that I’m here every day from the time we open until the time we close. Even on weekends and holidays! Tell me, what time did you show up for work this morning, Bucky?”

If they don’t believe me, that’s when I’d get loud. “Who do you think you are? I don’t answer to you. I’m corporate, dammit. This is going in my report!”

Ah yes, I’ve got it all figured out.

Well, except for one thing. Should I live at Borders or Barnes & Noble?

In Trouble in a Flash

When I was four years old, I informed my parents that I was going to school. If any tears were shed that first day, they were my mother’s. I happily plopped myself down in a tiny chair and dismissed her: “Ok, Mom, you can go shopping now.”

I don’t know what I expected from the Kindergarten experience. I had known my letters (uppercase and lowercase) since I was eighteen months old. I was trying to read by two. I knew right from left. If I hoped for a challenge, there was none to be found. Except for shoe tying, which I made my parents teach me the same day I was humiliated by my sense of failure. It was all their fault, I informed them. They always bought me shoes with buckles.

Academically, Kindergarten was a bore, so I found other means to amuse myself. My mother would tell you this is why she picked me up from the principal’s office every day. I believe that my mother grossly exaggerates the facts. I have no recollection of spending most of the school year in the principal’s office. And even if I did, I deny being in trouble. Because, you see, bad kids sat at the “Shame Shame Desk” and I couldn’t have ever been sent to the Shame Shame Desk. I’m certain of that because it was permanently occupied by Claudia. I remember nothing else about Claudia, except that clearly she was the naughty little girl.

Now, I won’t claim that I never went to the principal’s office. Because it’s simply not true. I did spend a fair amount of time there due to my attempts to entertain myself. Most of my punishable offenses occurred during nap time. There was no AM/PM Kindergarten. We went to school full days. Somebody decided that it was necessary for us to nap for a portion of the afternoon. Maybe my teacher needed a break . . . or at least a martini, but I didn’t require rest time. I never slept but once, and I swear that woman drugged me. When another student finally woke me up, I got the sense that nap had long since been over. It was probably the happiest day of my educator’s life.

Anyway, generally nap time was the perfect time for me to create a disturbance. One day I was off my mat trying to catch a bug. Another day I started screaming that Stephanie was eating green spiders from under the stage. And then there was the flashing incident.

I’m not exactly sure how it started, perhaps quite innocently, but I discovered one afternoon that boys found undershirts hilarious. Well, once I realized I had a captive audience, I was pulling my shirt up and down repeatedly to elicit those squeals of delight. First I would lift my top slowly, coy and calculating. Then I’d feign surprise. “Oh my God! You can see my undergarments!” I’d pull my shirt back down quickly and blush with maiden shame. It got roars of laughter every time.

Who knows how long this went on before the teacher realized we were having way too much fun for sleeping children. I was perfecting the nuances of my shocked expression when I heard her call my name. I walked over to her slowly, my head hanging.

“Why were you lifting your shirt up?” she asked.

“I had some lint itching me,” I said to my shoes.

“Let me see your tongue,” she commanded.

We were regularly warned that if we told lies, black spots would appear on our tongues. I believed this wholeheartedly . . . until the day I told the truth and still wound up with a black spot. In that instant I realized that there never were any telltale marks to report our sins. The teacher had been lying to catch liars! The hypocrisy sickened me. I wanted to jump up on a chair, point at her and yell, “Mrs. Winnick is full of shit!”

On the day of the flashing incident, however, I believed in the black spot more strongly than I believed in Santa Claus, so I stuck out my tongue quickly before the mark had a chance to appear.

I think, I think I was sent back to my mat unpunished. I don’t remember for sure, but I suspect that if I had wound up in the office for my antics, my mother would still today be regaling strangers with the story of the nap time striptease at our fine Catholic elementary school.

Bitter Buddy Battle

I was nine years old when I discovered that I am socially inept.

My family had just moved to a new town and I was entering the fifth grade in a new school. A public school. Besides the sheer ecstasy of shedding the hideous green and gold plaid jumpers, this would be an opportunity to make new friends.

I didn’t make even one.

In later years I met with slightly better success, but despite usually having a best buddy, I decided that friends were highly overrated. By college I had become a loner. It suited my temperament better and it made Christmas significantly cheaper.

I promise, this is going somewhere.

Our senior year of over-priced higher education culminated with a special dinner for the graduating class. Parties and social events are not my thing, but for some reason, I was there. My roommate and I sat down at the first empty table we saw. Over the next half hour, we were joined by an assortment of social pariahs — geeks, church-going homewreckers, neurotics, really ugly chicks, and non-trads. In the movies, we’d be involved in lively conversation, uniting as one sad social circle. But everyone was relatively quiet, staring at each other in awkward silence.

Suddenly, our table was approached by several Ambassadors of the Beautiful People (aka nursing students). The fascinating thing about our nursing students is that they all were blonde, long-legged, and on the cheerleading squad. I still have to wonder whether our educational institution was supplying the medical field or the adult entertainment industry.

“Excuse me,” purred one of the naughty nurses, flashing us a perfect white smile. “We need this table.”

I looked at her incredulously. WTF?!!!

As no one ventured a response nor made any effort to move, Naughty Nurse shifted somewhat uneasily and explained, “You see, we just have sooooo many friends that we can’t all fit at one table. And your table happens to be next to ours . . .” She trailed off and smiled again.

“But there are no empty tables where all of us can sit,” my roommate protested. I watched a few other heads nod.

“But there are empty seats at lots of the other tables,” Naughty Nurse #2 interjected. “I mean, it’s not like you guys are together, right?”

Naughty Nurse #1 pouted her glittery glossed lips. “We don’t want to have to separate all of our friends.”

She jabbed at us with that last “friends.” It was kryptonite. I looked around our table at despondent faces, at heads hung in shame. Some of the girls began to gather their belongings. I looked at the nursing students who were still smiling in a way that either said, “Get a move on!” or “No cavities!” And I realized, I had to do something.

I needed to show the naughty nurses that just because they were gorgeous and blonde and fabulous didn’t mean they could push us around.

I wanted to give the rejects a sweet sense of camaraderie as we matched our will against the Circle of Friends.

I had to restore justice to the collegiate world.

And, most importantly, I had to devise a way to prevent me from having to move my lazy ass to another table.

Now, realistically, we could have all just refused to get up. It was a simple enough solution. But I was fired up and I wasn’t about to take crap from anyone.

I picked up a spoon and twirled it delicately between my fingers. “Ok,” I piped up, “you can have the table.” And then I instructed everyone to lick their silverware.

The naughty nurses’ dazzling smiles quickly contorted into looks of utter disgust.

“That is revolting,” they hissed before storming back to their table, their heels clicking angrily against the Pergo floor.

Our merry band of spoon-suckers finally began chattering amongst themselves, empowered by their victory. I descended back into my quiet solitude, satisfied with the triumph. It wasn’t World Peace, granted . . . but I didn’t have to get up.