I am often surprised to hear people speak with such zealous nostalgia for their years in college. They talk as if there will never be a better time in their lives, and when I look back on the sunrises I watched through bleary, sleep deprived eyes, away games and strenuous off-season workouts, and more general social malaise that dominated the majority of my four years, I find it difficult to echo the popular “I would kill to do that again” refrain so many others are want to tell me. But I was fortunate to meet some of the singularly most amazing and endearing people ever to enter my life while I otherwise fumbled my way through an undergraduate education, and for them I would subject myself to the experience a thousand times over.
Recently, two of the more uniquely special of those amazing people converged on my decreasingly quaint hometown; Virgil, a dark comedian with the power to intellectually intimidate strangers by accident, wandered down from his home in the former Confederate capital in the same weekend that Mattie Silver, the only woman on earth capable of quelling my once door-biting rage, drove up from her well appointed apartment on the outskirts of the country’s largest Delta and AirTran hub bringing her good friend Little Spoon along for the adventure. Virgil and Mattie were some of my favorite people to converse with during my final year in school, both understanding and appreciating the sheer genius of Matt Groening while also nursing a growing disdain for the tiny environment that was what so many others were happy to call the best time of their lives. To this day I feel some guilt for graduating before them, but they seem not to notice.
Their visit came and went without any particularly dramatic or impressive story, but to describe the weekend as typical suggests that the places we went and drinks we consumed could have happened any other time and were the defining moments. Sure, like so many other weekends Winkle stayed on the couch and attempted to make drunken, ham-fisted moves on Little Spoon. Of course, we called upon the same dingy yellow Ford Windstar that has been my chariot into battle for two years now. And yes, we did end up going to the almost universally unobjectionable Dark Flipper bar one night and the neighborhood favorite Samadillo Sam’s another night, but the words, glances, smiles, and thoughts exchanged were different and otherwise impossible without Virgil and Mattie.
For example, while imbibing the only beer brewed colder than the Rockies in mason jars popularized by southern moonshiners in a bar that was originally famous for showing every Manchester United game, we sat and stood around a chest height table playing the world’s lamest game of one-upmanship by trying to figure who had gone the longest without an intimate (or clumsy) union with the opposite sex. We had finally found a game the happy couples could not win and the lonely and desperate among us reveled in finding humor and pride in our situations, but I’m not sure anyone was prepared for Virgil’s amazing victory:
“Last time I was even WITH a woman, a prom dress was involved, and yes it was actually PROM” he began. “I’m practically a virgin by now. It’s been so long since anyone has seen my penis that you could declare it legally dead. The only thing I could tell you about a vagina at this point is that babies come from there and the diagram from my high school biology book made it look suspiciously like the University of Texas Longhorn. The last boob I saw that was more than two dimensional was one actually one of MATTIE’S that accidentally escaped from a low cut tank top and I know exactly one other person saw it because Thaddeus could not have moved faster to cover it up like a ‘decent’ person otherwise I would have assumed I just hallucinated the whole thing like a desperate legionnaire mistaking heat for water while crawling through the desert.” Through the laughter he began to wind down his tirade, but not before admitting “I don’t even remember what a vagina actually feels like.” He next looked directly at me, shrugged his shoulders in a sincere expression that I might be able to lend some clarity to his confusion regarding the female anatomy, and cracked just the slightest smile to let me know his next words were going to be worth remembering. “A freshly mopped floor??” he asked before letting his shoulders drop and sighing a very real sigh through a very real smile.
A few more shots and a couple of beers later, a surprisingly early last call snuck up on us and kicked us out. It was in fact a Sunday night, and even though most of my banking, court house needing, and educating friends had the next day off to honor Christopher Columbus’s discovery of what he was really hoping was India, I had to work, and for that reason was the only person sober enough to drive everyone home and translate the hieroglyphics on the remote that would allow my drunk guests to watch a DVD. I went to bed hoping that four hours of sleep would be enough to get me through eight hours of work, and dozed off to the sound of a movie I knew no one was watching.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Chapter 4: Jason Chimera
Two years ago, before I returned to my hometown with the eventually successful intention of caring for my family and the eventually far less successful intention of starting my own, I was a government-employed statistician living in our Nation’s Capitol. The city was a perfect place, populated by some of the most interesting people currently residing on this planet. In my first weeks there, I took up residence on a couch while I became acquainted with the Useless Accessory Board, a company whose reputation for selling the scent of the sizzle even before seasoning the steak while simultaneous crushing the foolish dreams of the so called Marketing Associates who made luke warm calls to initiate this process between otherwise useless meetings. It was as rewarding as it sounds and I was all too happy to quit. After several part time opportunities to learn the art of checking IDs, serving tortilla chips, and asking rowdy guests to “please leave”, I had the good fortune to restart my career crunching numbers for the greater good of public transit and the even more serendipitous adventure of working with a particularly unconvincing cross dresser. I could travel nearly as far as I needed with only my feet and a Smartrip card, though driving was often slower than crawling. Winters were bitterly cold and summers suffered from the sort of humidity one can only experience on swampland reclaimed by our founding fathers from the Chesapeake watershed. But any description of the experience there is hollow without the friends that made so much of the time there into stories worth telling.
The Dutch Rudder: Bearing the snarky confidence that can only come from generations of the same people who felt it perfectly acceptable to enslave the lower horn of Africa until roughly 1990, and living the sort of adventurous dating life that his ambiguously asexual but not entirely autoerotic nickname might suggest, the Dutch still represents the greatest thing I have ever found on Craigslist. Though we never successfully finished a year long lease together, despite signing two, the stranger I met for the purposes of splitting rent still ranks among my best friends and is all a once slovenly man could ask for in a roommate.
Lieutenant Commander Bruce “Mr. Spock” Wayne: Generous, patient, and moodier than a menstruating sixteen year old. His loyalty is more constant that the speed of light and occasionally comes with fresh baked apple pie.
Richard Branson: So named for his long standing presidency of virgin and dual citizenship, as well as his dashing good looks and always appropriate facial hair. He has a particular way with the opposite sex, especially those members of the opposite sex who he would rather not have any way with. As a former cohabitant, he knows me better than most men should, and as a result of so many hours in close proximity, feels that keeping in touch is best done without reminiscing and as rarely as needed.
Ben Bernanke’s Right Hand (on lonely nights): Ben communicates with a specific sort of humor that has been derived from years of being the first to get any joke on the internet. It is a brand of comedy that can only be delivered by Ben, and I was very fortunate to enjoy it from point blank while staying on his couch in my first weeks at the Capitol.
Princess: only because she would pitch a fit otherwise.
The Ultimate Accessory Crew: While it may be unfair to attach so many people to the company which nearly all of us have since left, it was a pivotal time in my life during which I met many influential people, a few pretty girls, and managed to make friends on the way out the door with Wolverine the entrepreneur, Bucknell the Publisher, and Steel Town Girl the last one of us to soldier on at that miserable place of business.
Ben, Dick, Bruce, and Dutch were kind enough to take me in, treat me to a meal, and otherwise endure my antics on a recent trip back to visit the big city, but Steel Town Girl provided inspiration for this story. She has at many points in the past helped to collaborate any number of implausible identities which I have temporarily assumed. On evenings out, she often encouraged my mischievous and easily bored side to find increasingly interesting answers to the oh so obsequious questions “where are you from?” and “what do you?” mostly to avoid answering Ultimate Accessory Crew to the latter question. The response started simply, but soon its outlandishness became a point of pride, and my faux career ranged from amateur stuntman to semi professional wrestler on the underground circuit in Japan, and was always lion tamer when the circus was in town.
On a Friday night at one of my favorite bars, Steel Town Girl introduced me to the locals and convinced me to take on the persona of Jason Chimera. For the first time, I was to assume the identity of a living person, a professional hockey player for the Washington Capitols, and notorious brawler. I was up to the challenge, and was even introduced to a cute young lady enjoying a red colored mixed drink at the bar. We talked for a while about my difficult schedule, the hazards of my line of work, the fact that she thought I would be in better shape (bitch) and a bit taller (fair) before she finally asked “where are you from?” Having previously utilized someone’s 3G network to know this answer, I blurted out Cleveland, Ohio. What a great coincidence, the young lady with the red drink was from Cleveland, and was eager to know what highschool I had attended. I parried her first joust by explaining that I had attended boarding school in Massachusetts for the sake of hockey, a lie which I was instantaneously proud and ashamed of. Moments later, she described a charity function she hoped I could help, and being Jason Chimera, I offered up an autographed stick. At the moment that I began to take down her number in order to contact her later provide this future forgery, I was struck in the side of the head and pushed.
Normally a blow to the face is accompanied by pain and anger, but turning to see the tiny furious fist and scowling face that that had decided to pick a fight he knew he could not win and smelling the sweet smell of jealousy, I laughed knowing that I was looking into the eyes of a stilted boyfriend. My smile did not have the calm, soothing, pants melting effect it always has on women, and instead enraged the small man even further. He lunged, not really considering the consequences of his actions, and before he could make contact, the lady with the red drink interceded exclaiming dramatically “NOOOO, he’s a HOCKEY PLAYER! He could probably kill you, and he was just helping me with charity.” With the impasse passed, I was able to laugh with Steel Town Girl about the whole experience.
But the next morning I could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. Not because I hit on a girl with a boyfriend who obviously cared for her. No, I consider that good sport, but I could not shake the notion that I had defrauded a charitable organization under the influence of alcohol. No joke should deprive anyone in need from the resources that might help them. As an act of retribution, I have sent the following email:
From: Thaddeus
To: Jason Chimera
Re: A great cause
Mr. Chimera
I must begin this message with an apology. I have recently borrowed your identity and noticeably limited fame for my own selfish and hilarious purposes. While drinking, I convinced a young lady that I was you and in doing so sullied your good standing within the singles community of the greater Washington DC area and more egregiously promised to provide an item for charity that I cannot deliver since I am, in fact, not Jason Chimera.
I am contacting you in hopes that you will see the humor and flattery in my attempt to be you for just one evening, and more importantly will feel that the particular charitable cause with which I intend to connect you is worthy of your time. Please call the person listed below, understanding that by doing so you will be serving your community, serving humanity, and creating at the very least, two life long fans.
The lady with the red drink
xxx-xxx-xxxx
Thank you for your time, consideration, and considerable on ice talent.
Thaddeus
The Dutch Rudder: Bearing the snarky confidence that can only come from generations of the same people who felt it perfectly acceptable to enslave the lower horn of Africa until roughly 1990, and living the sort of adventurous dating life that his ambiguously asexual but not entirely autoerotic nickname might suggest, the Dutch still represents the greatest thing I have ever found on Craigslist. Though we never successfully finished a year long lease together, despite signing two, the stranger I met for the purposes of splitting rent still ranks among my best friends and is all a once slovenly man could ask for in a roommate.
Lieutenant Commander Bruce “Mr. Spock” Wayne: Generous, patient, and moodier than a menstruating sixteen year old. His loyalty is more constant that the speed of light and occasionally comes with fresh baked apple pie.
Richard Branson: So named for his long standing presidency of virgin and dual citizenship, as well as his dashing good looks and always appropriate facial hair. He has a particular way with the opposite sex, especially those members of the opposite sex who he would rather not have any way with. As a former cohabitant, he knows me better than most men should, and as a result of so many hours in close proximity, feels that keeping in touch is best done without reminiscing and as rarely as needed.
Ben Bernanke’s Right Hand (on lonely nights): Ben communicates with a specific sort of humor that has been derived from years of being the first to get any joke on the internet. It is a brand of comedy that can only be delivered by Ben, and I was very fortunate to enjoy it from point blank while staying on his couch in my first weeks at the Capitol.
Princess: only because she would pitch a fit otherwise.
The Ultimate Accessory Crew: While it may be unfair to attach so many people to the company which nearly all of us have since left, it was a pivotal time in my life during which I met many influential people, a few pretty girls, and managed to make friends on the way out the door with Wolverine the entrepreneur, Bucknell the Publisher, and Steel Town Girl the last one of us to soldier on at that miserable place of business.
Ben, Dick, Bruce, and Dutch were kind enough to take me in, treat me to a meal, and otherwise endure my antics on a recent trip back to visit the big city, but Steel Town Girl provided inspiration for this story. She has at many points in the past helped to collaborate any number of implausible identities which I have temporarily assumed. On evenings out, she often encouraged my mischievous and easily bored side to find increasingly interesting answers to the oh so obsequious questions “where are you from?” and “what do you?” mostly to avoid answering Ultimate Accessory Crew to the latter question. The response started simply, but soon its outlandishness became a point of pride, and my faux career ranged from amateur stuntman to semi professional wrestler on the underground circuit in Japan, and was always lion tamer when the circus was in town.
On a Friday night at one of my favorite bars, Steel Town Girl introduced me to the locals and convinced me to take on the persona of Jason Chimera. For the first time, I was to assume the identity of a living person, a professional hockey player for the Washington Capitols, and notorious brawler. I was up to the challenge, and was even introduced to a cute young lady enjoying a red colored mixed drink at the bar. We talked for a while about my difficult schedule, the hazards of my line of work, the fact that she thought I would be in better shape (bitch) and a bit taller (fair) before she finally asked “where are you from?” Having previously utilized someone’s 3G network to know this answer, I blurted out Cleveland, Ohio. What a great coincidence, the young lady with the red drink was from Cleveland, and was eager to know what highschool I had attended. I parried her first joust by explaining that I had attended boarding school in Massachusetts for the sake of hockey, a lie which I was instantaneously proud and ashamed of. Moments later, she described a charity function she hoped I could help, and being Jason Chimera, I offered up an autographed stick. At the moment that I began to take down her number in order to contact her later provide this future forgery, I was struck in the side of the head and pushed.
Normally a blow to the face is accompanied by pain and anger, but turning to see the tiny furious fist and scowling face that that had decided to pick a fight he knew he could not win and smelling the sweet smell of jealousy, I laughed knowing that I was looking into the eyes of a stilted boyfriend. My smile did not have the calm, soothing, pants melting effect it always has on women, and instead enraged the small man even further. He lunged, not really considering the consequences of his actions, and before he could make contact, the lady with the red drink interceded exclaiming dramatically “NOOOO, he’s a HOCKEY PLAYER! He could probably kill you, and he was just helping me with charity.” With the impasse passed, I was able to laugh with Steel Town Girl about the whole experience.
But the next morning I could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. Not because I hit on a girl with a boyfriend who obviously cared for her. No, I consider that good sport, but I could not shake the notion that I had defrauded a charitable organization under the influence of alcohol. No joke should deprive anyone in need from the resources that might help them. As an act of retribution, I have sent the following email:
From: Thaddeus
To: Jason Chimera
Re: A great cause
Mr. Chimera
I must begin this message with an apology. I have recently borrowed your identity and noticeably limited fame for my own selfish and hilarious purposes. While drinking, I convinced a young lady that I was you and in doing so sullied your good standing within the singles community of the greater Washington DC area and more egregiously promised to provide an item for charity that I cannot deliver since I am, in fact, not Jason Chimera.
I am contacting you in hopes that you will see the humor and flattery in my attempt to be you for just one evening, and more importantly will feel that the particular charitable cause with which I intend to connect you is worthy of your time. Please call the person listed below, understanding that by doing so you will be serving your community, serving humanity, and creating at the very least, two life long fans.
The lady with the red drink
xxx-xxx-xxxx
Thank you for your time, consideration, and considerable on ice talent.
Thaddeus
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