Trip to the Lake.
Part II

Kelly and I stood under the flight board in disbelief. 20 minutes before our flight had been schedule to arrive on time. Now it, and every flight south of the Mason-Dixon Line was canceled.

Kelly and I looked at each other, mouths agape. “It’s like I willed it to happen,” Kelly told me, “willed it to happen…with my brain…”

At this point, the line to the terminal desk seemed to wrap around the airport. Without speaking, we picked up our bags and went to the end. There was a hundred angry travelers in front of us, and five minutes later another hundred behind us. While I was slightly disappointed (having decided just a few moments before that I was actually looking forward to going), truth be told, I really didn't give a fuck. And Kelly? She was down right giddy. Within seconds, she already had a date for later that evening.

It was hard to not feel somewhat superior to everyone else standing in line. Not caring really gave the two of us an edge. Kelly and I stood silently, eavesdropping on the young woman whining behind us. Over the phone, she sighed and in a mark of passive aggressive genius she stated “I guess God doesn’t want me to come see the band concert. I guess God hates me.” Kelly mouthed no, but I do bitch.

Time dripped by as we waited in line. To entertain ourselves, we practiced different approaches for what we would say when we got to the front. “Let’s pretend like we’re really upset,” I suggested. “You start crying and I’ll pound the desk and demand to see a supervisor.” Kelly suggested reverse psychology. “I didn’t want to fly on your shitty plane anyway!”

Finally we got to the front. Standing behind the desk was a tiny old woman. She looked like the type that if allowed, would wear a t-shirt to work that said “I can only please one person a day. Today isn’t your day, and tomorrow isn’t looking good either.” She’d smirk every day when she stretched it over her saggy frame (not laugh mind you. No, she never laughed), and when people spoke to her, she would simply point to the shirt. If they persisted she would respond by warning “don’t make me point to the shirt again."

I put our tickets on the counter and said “so, there’s probably no way you can get us to Richmond tonight, is there?”
Without looking at her computer, she stared me dead in the eyes and said “nope.”
“And I’m guessing you probably can’t get us to North Carolina either.” I added.
“Nope.”
“And can I go ahead and assume that you’re probably already booked on all the flights to North Carolina tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
Kelly and I looked at each other and shrugged. “Well I guess that does it for us. aThank you.”
Kelly added with all sincerity, “It’s been a pleasure, truly.”

We grabbed our bags and peaced. Being as I lost my phone, Kelly was forced to call our parents to give them the bad news, and for that ten minutes I was genuinely happy I had left it in the cab. At first, Kelly thought she had gotten off easy. Her dad had picked up and the conversation went a little something like this.

“Dad, our flight was canceled…Yeah…okay…love you too bye.”

Moments later Aunt Lynn called back. Kelly sighed before she picked it up. I heard my Aunt through the phone “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE NOT COMING?” For the next ten minutes I heard Kelly muttering “Mom…but they said...no…mom…ALL THE FLIGHTS ARE CANCELED …mom...no…there is no bus to Raleigh…”

She finally snapped her phone shut. She released a long breath and said “she said that they’re going to miss us and that they’re sorry we can’t come. Oh and your mom thinks you’re a dumbass for losing your phone.” And we left it at that.

Considering the drama that had just taken place, we decided to treat ourselves to a cab ride home. “The last thing I need right now,” Kelly told me, “is some crazy subway drama.” Before she could complete the sentence, a large Hispanic dude jumped in front of us.

“You guys looking for a cab? I got one waiting over there…” he said, pointing to some distant parking lot.

I shook my head no, but before I could verbalize the negative, Kelly jumped all over it. “Why yes, cab driver. We will take you up on your offer. Please, lead us to your parked vehicle”
I screamed a little inside.

We followed the large fellow into the parking lot, farther and farther, until we came to a pimped out Explorer. It had fat rims, and even fatter dude sitting behind the wheel.

“Nononononono” I said, turning around. Kelly looked at the guy and said “Um…sorry…this isn’t really what I expected. I think we’re just going to take a regular cab.”

The large fellow jumped in front of me. “Is it Phat Joey? Dude, he’s my cousin. We’re just two honest guys trying to make enough money to feed our family.”

I looked back at Kelly and then the dude, and then continued heading back to the airport. The guy turned to Kelly. “Man, we do this a hundred times a day. You don’t want to go back there and wait in line for a cab. It will take 40 minutes, and they’ll charge you twice as much.”

Kelly stood there, and I saw her hesitation. I put my bag down, and being the man in the situation, I thought it was high time that I stepped up and started acting like one. “Um...it's up to her I guess,” I told him.

The guy turned to Kelly. Like a giant douche, I had put her on the spot and she looked at me with panic in her eyes. “Come on sweetie,” he pleaded. “If something happens, you have your boyfriend here to defend you.” Somehow, neither one of us found any comfort in this statement.

“I mean…,” she said, her eyes darting back between me and Phat Joey, “fuck it.” She threw her bag into the back seat and climbed in. “But if I die I’m going to be very upset with you two.” The large guy hopped into the passenger seat, and I screamed a lot inside.

Looking around the car, nothing added up. First of all, why were they both here? How could this be a profitable business if they charged less then a cab and then split the money two ways? Second, how could two men, who claimed to be struggling to feed their families, afford a small plasma screen TV playing live satellite under the rear view mirror? How could they afford the seven suits, hanging fresh from the dry cleaners in the back? It would be offensive logic to think that this would result in anything other than a shiv in the neck.

As we drove through the airport parking lot, I plotted ways to get out. I would tell them that I forgot my bag at baggage claim. I would tell them I had to go get it. They would have to let us out, and we could make a break for it. It would be the best decision I ever made. It would save our lives.

So I sat there silently and we pulled out onto the highway. We were on the road to our certainly violent and eminent deaths, but I didn’t want to be rude…

Kelly and I sat in complete and utter silence; the only noise was coming from Keyshia Cole and Missy Elliott playing on their on-road entertainment center. I nervously fidgeted with a piece of paper, all the while picturing how it would go down. Instead of taking us home, they would drive us to some sketchy neighborhood. One of them would then remove his gun from his pocket and instantly shoot me in the head. Luckily, I wouldn’t be around to watch them make Kelly their play thing. When the cops found our bodies floating in the East River, they would comment on how tragic it was, two beautiful lives taken down for what must have been just a few bucks ($7.24 and a sugar packet to be exact).

I started to relax a little when Phat Joey took the exit ramp towards Queens. However, Phat Joey and his amigo started arguing. “You said 44^th Ave. right? Not 44^th St? Because there is no 44^th St in Queens”

My heart immediately started pounding out of my chest. This is how it was going to happen. They were going to play stupid and get lost and take us down a back alley and then cut us into pieces. I could actually see my heart pounding.

“Yes there is!” Kelly spoke up. “I know this because I live on it.”

The two guys looked at each other. “My mistake” one of them said. I thought I was going to pass out, or pee myself, or most likely both. I started praying like a mad man, asking God for forgiveness for eating meat on Friday during Lent and having sex with all those strangers. Maybe if I just gave them my wallet, they would let us live. They could just take my wallet, drop us off in the middle of no where, and call it day.

I reached for my wallet, and then suddenly we came to a stop. Phat Joey had pulled the car over, and I quickly tried to make peace with God. Kelly grabbed me. I screamed a lot…but this time not inside.

“Are you going to get out or what?” She asked me. Phat Joey was staring at me like I was crazy. We were parked in front of my apartment.

I almost kissed the curb when I got out of the car. The young man grabbed my bag and handed it to me. “See, you made it out alive didn’t you”

“Yessir” I shrugged. He got me!

We paid the ridiculously cheap fare and i gave him a big tip for not killing me. The trip-that-didn’t-happen from hell was over, and we had made it home alive,.although cell phone and topical cremeless.

As a post script, I would like to add that shortly after we returned home, I noticed that I had quite a few new IM's waiting for me. I opened the first one from my friend Diane. She wrote:

“So, I spoke to your cab driver a few minutes ago. Apparently you left your phone in his back seat. He said to call him and he would bring it to you.” I had about seven other messages that said the same thing. Apparently he was answering all my calls.

My mother called Kelly’s phone a few minutes later. “Chris! Rahul has your phone!”
“How do you know his name?”
“Oh I know a lot about Rahul. He’s a real delightful man. But anyway, he said he would drop your phone off if was in the neighborhood.”

I called my from from Kelly’s and Rahul answered (naturally). “RAHUL!” I shouted. “You have my phone!”
“Oh yes, you left it in my seat.” He responded. “I bring it back if I go to Queens.”

And sure enough, 4 hours later brought it by. I was so relieved I would have kissed him on the mouth, you know, had he not been so unattractive. He wouldn’t even take the cash I offered him as a reward. He just waved me off and when on his way. Amazing. And that’s why I will name my first born Rahul.

Or my next fish. Either way.

THE END

Trip to the Lake.

Part I

About six weeks before we were suppose to leave, the phone calls began.

My cousin Kelly had just moved to New York and was temporarily staying with me while she looked for an apartment. Sitting together on her cot in my living room, first her phone would ring. She would look down and roll her eyes and place her phone on silent. “It’s her again” she’d warn me, shaking her head. Next, my phone would ring.

“Hi Auntie Lynn…” I would say, watching my cousin wave her arms and mouth I’m not here.

“Hi Chrissyfer” Aunt Lynn would say, “Is my daughter there? I’m trying to get a hold of her but she’s not answering her phone.”

“No Auntie Lynn” I would tell her, flicking off Kelly with my free hand. “I’ll tell her you called when she gets back from the gym though…”

“Well will you ask her…” and that’s when my Aunt Lynn would start rattling off information into my ear a mile a minute. Even if I was listening…even if I had intended on giving my cousin the message, it was doubtful I would be able to retain any of this. Instead I would write “fuck you slut” on a piece of paper for Kelly and doodle a picture of her getting eaten by a dinosaur, and she would love it forever.

With summer upon us, there was only one thing on my Aunt’s mind; the annual family vacation. Every year for the last 7 or 8 years, my parents and Kelly’s parents would burn their two weeks of annual leave at a lake house in North Carolina, noodling and talking about corn (noodling; a verb my parents made up to describe the action of placing a Styrofoam flotation noodle between one's legs, and floating in water for hours). My brothers and cousins and I would usually join them for few days, but for the last two years I had declined my invitation. The constant and incessant nagging by my mother and Aunt Lynn, in combination with the drunken antics of my father and Uncle Ed was all too much for me to handle, and when my father shattered his hip in a freak knee boarding accident three years ago, I found the perfect reason never to return.

This year was different however. My invitation was not so much an invitation, but a demand…crippled father or no crippled father. My mother and her sister decided to hold a celebration for my grandfather’s 85^th birthday at the lake house, and my attendance was “highly suggested.” By my mother’s tone, I could tell that Christmas presents hung in the balance, so I reluctantly agreed. Kelly was like-wised cornered.

To sweeten the deal, our parents told us they would fly us down together. We would only have to stay through the weekend, and with the promise of a free trip I told myself it couldn’t be that bad right?

Oh fuck me was I wrong. As soon as we agreed to take them up on their flight, Aunt Lynn and my mother would call us every night with a litany of questions. And as the date approached, the calls only became more frequent and more frantic.

Urgently, our mothers would ask:

“What airline would you prefer to fly? Jet Blue or American? Well neither one is available, so what’s your feeling on Delta? Would you prefer to sit window or aisle? If Kelly wants to sit window too, how should we work it? Maybe rotate? Maybe she can sit window on the way there and you can sit window on the way back? Oh well I think she wants to sit in the aisle anyway. Now you might be sitting in the emergency row. Is that going to be a problem? Do you want me to change it? How do you plan on getting to the airport? Do you think you and Kelly should ride together? Can you get to Kelly’s work and then go to the airport from there? Do you think you’re leaving yourself enough time to get there?”

The answers were always the same. “Whatever, I don’t care. Leave me alone.” Then about two weeks before the big birthday bash, our mothers convened and decided that instead of flying us to South Carolina, they would fly us to Richmond, where my cousin John would pick us up and drive us the rest of the way. So the litany of questions began again. See above.

The night before we were to fly out, Kelly and I reluctantly packed our bags like two convicts preparing for prison. As I shoved my clothes into my 17 year old duffle bag, I debated as to what the worst part of the trip would be. Would it be the nagging? The unfriendly demand to shuck corn? The “can you get my reading glasses? Can you get my sunglasses? Can you get my reading glasses with the sunglasses attached to them?” The way Aunt Lynn stills refers to our seating arrangement as “the Kids Table” (even though the youngest one of us is 22)? The way my brother and his wife make cat noises when they’re angry with one another? The way my father pronounces filet mignon phonetically every times he says it, repeating himself until someone politely laughs. The way my uncle “gooses” me when he’s had one too many? The way my twin’s head smells when he’s worn his hat all day? My cousin John’s ridiculously long nipple hair?

As per my mother’s recommendation, Kelly and I decided to meet up after work and split a cab to LaGuardia. I met her at her office, and then the two of us spent 20 minutes trying to find a cab. It took forever, but we finally convinced an off duty cabbie to stop and take us. Things from there seem to go without a hitch. There was no traffic…no long lines to check our bags. We printed our boarding passes without any problems.

Our good luck was ruined though when we got in line to go through security. Kelly looked at me. “Oh shit!” She said. “I brought liquids.”

“Why God why would you do such a thing?” I asked her. Clearly she had not read her mother’s three page email breaking down new airport security procedures. Clearly.

“It’s fine” she told me. “As long as you can fit it all into a plastic bag you’re fine.” I had already given her up for dead. I was picturing how I would explain to our parents as we sunbathed on the dock the story of how Kelly was snipered down right there in the security line when she pulled out her bottle of Scope. Kelly turned around to find where she could pick up a plastic bag to stow away her liquids. She had difficultly located one however, and so she grabbed an airport employee she thought would be able to help.

He was a small Indian man. He looked at Kelly like she was a crazy woman when she asked for a plastic bag. “FOR MY LIQUIDS!” she shouted repeatedly. I ducked to dodge the sniper bullets. With a smile on his face, he finally nodded as if he understood. He walked over behind a counter and pulled out a plastic bag…a large plastic garment bag that could have easily fit the three of us in it. Kelly shook her head in frustration. “Look, I need a small regulation plastic bag to put my liquids in. I don’t mind throwing away my makeup, my shampoo, my mouthwash. I just need this one cylinder of medication.” The Indian dude finally understood. “Oh! Liquids!” he shouted triumphantly. “What kind of medication is it?”

Kelly squirmed a little and I could tell she was embarrassed. I recognized the bottle. It was her topical acne medication, the one I had drunkenly confused with my toothpaste and brushed my teeth with a few nights before. “It’s for my face…” she told the guy. He smiled and grabbed the bottle from her “Oh! I see. Follow me!” Kelly then hurried to follow him as he dashed across the airport, waving her acne cream in front of every attendant in the terminal.

I put my bag down so that I could more readily enjoy the spectacle. I stuck my hands in my pockets, and then realized that something was missing. My phone was gone.

I threw my bag on a chair and started rummaging through it like a mad man. I told myself that I had probably mindlessly thrown it in there when I had gotten my itinerary out, but deep down I knew exactly where it was. I had left it on the seat of the cab, and it was probably gone forever. I had come to terms with its loss about the time Kelly returned.

“So apparently they don’t have a single fucking plastic bag in this airport. That Indian dude told me he would take care of it though.” She noticed my look of concern and I told her I had lost my phone.

“It begins…” she responded.

We went through security, and once on the other side, Kelly began looking for her Indian friend. He was gone though. He had taken her acne medication and ran. She came to the same terms of loss that I had come to about my phone, and downtrodden, the two of us made it to our gate.

“Fuck it” Kelly said. “Lets get fucked up.” I laughed and she responded “I’m serious. We have an hour to kill. We’re going to need this. I need this. I need this now. Let’s drink.” So she and I made a detour to Chili’s and started throwing down.

“This trip is going to fucking suck.” Kelly said over her giant novelty margarita. “It already sucks. Let’s just fucking go home. Let’s tell them our flight was cancelled. It could happen right?”

And for the first time, I started to think that maybe this trip wasn’t going to be that bad after all. I mean, I was ready for a break of the city. I was tired of cramming myself onto the subway, getting bumped into on the street, squeezing into overcrowded bars. I could use a break. And I was with Kelly. As we pounded our overpriced airport drinks, we laughed together at the elderly woman in the wheel chair being padded down by the security guard. I mean, yeah, we had already had a few setbacks, but things were looking up. She and I were having a good time and I was actually looking forward to getting down to North Carolina.

And it would be at about this point that we heard our flight was canceled.

To Be Continued...

Night of the Living Hobos

April 29^th is an unavoidable birthday gang bang for me, spawning both my mother and my best friend Lindsay. This year I was torn on whether I should go back to Virginia or not to attend their parties. I’ve been going home a lot lately and the back and forth is exhausting. I had made up my mind just to send cards in my stead – a Mahogany card for my mother and a discounted “He has Risen” card for Lindsay. But having had a terrible week, at the last minute I decided that a trip home was just what I needed. And since my mom and Linds have both been going through tough times as of late, it seemed like the right decision.

I wasn’t going to tell either of them I was coming. It was going to be a surprise, and then I wouldn’t have to get them a gift. My presence could be gift enough. So Saturday morning, I stuff my clothes into a bag and headed to Grand Central. My roommate suggested taking the Greyhound. The last time I road in a Greyhound is a story in and of itself – a two hour trip taking four as I sat behind a man who described his fondness of “eatin’ a fat pussy” ad nauseum. Needless to say, I was reluctant to try again, but since I didn’t have a lot of options I went for it.

The trip itself was uneventful. No pussy talk. However, when I got off the bus in DC, five hobos ran up to me, asking me if I had change or if I needed a ride (I’m guessing they were going to give me a piggy back ride to my next destination). At the time I was puzzled why they had all chosen me and not any of my other travel companions, but in retrospect I guess I had all “easy prey” written all over me. The combination of the large Yves Saint Laurent bag I was carrying my luggage in, along with my unzipped fly suggested that I was both well off and mildly retarded. (I just want to take a second to clarify that I’ve never actually shopped at Yves Saint Laurent. I had taken the bag from work weeks earlier to help me sneak all of my roommate’s umbrellas I had stolen back home.)

I blew threw the first hobo blockade with ease. Rounding the corner, I was accosted by four more. These ones more aggressive then the first. I pushed my way threw them, but two followed me for another block yelling “MISTA! MISTA!” I hurried my pace, but I knew that walking alone down the long narrow stretch in front of me was going to be tricky. I put my headsets in and my extra grumpy face on, which fended off the next beggar. I couldn’t get over the amount of hobos. It was like something out of Night of the Living Dead. As I started to near the metro station I thought I had finally made it unscathed. However, as I got towards the entrance, one last hobo jumped in front of me. I accidentally made eye contact and it was all over.

With his sad eyes digging into my soul, he asked “do you have any change you can spare? I have a kid at home…” It was all so sad and pathetic I couldn’t take it. I rustled through my pockets to find some change. Nothing. So I reached into my bag and found some quarters at the bottom and gave them to him. He smiled and we both went on our way.

It was approximately 3 minutes later when I realized I was no longer carrying a wallet.

I turned around and headed towards the bus station to see if my bus was still there. I knew deep down that I had most likely dropped it while sleeping on the bus, but in route I convinced myself that I had been pickpocketed. It was that asshole I gave change to I told myself, I was distracted as I rummaged for change. He must have grabbed my wallet when I wasn’t paying attention.

I got to the bus station only to find that the bus had already left. When I asked the woman if anyone had turned in a wallet to lost and found she just laughed. “Honey, I wouldn’t hold your breath” – definitely not the words of encouragement I was looking for.

As I walked out of the bus station, the same five hobos I had initially encountered when I first got off the bus confronted me for a second time. Filled with anger and desperation, I snapped. As I pushed through them I yelled “You fucking hobos already took my fucking wallet! What more do you fucking want from me?!” (In the heat of anger I tend to repeat “fucking” several times in a single sentence, usually causing people to laugh at me more than anything else).

With my adrenaline high, I rounded the corner. And there he was. The hobo I had given change to. He was just standing there, smoking a cigarette. Smugly. Smug cigarette smoker, with MY wallet. Something got into me, and before I realized what I was doing, I was standing next to him. “Excuse me, sir?” I asked him. “Do you have my wallet?”

He looked up from his cigarette and looked at me. “Your wallet?” he asked, “Did you lose your wallet?” He looked concerned and apologetic, which only made me suspect him more.

“Look, maybe it fell out while I was looking through my bag,” I said to him, “maybe you found it on the ground. You can have the money inside it, I just want me driver license and ATM card back.”

“Sorry man, I don’t have it. Good luck though. Sorry to hear about you losing your wallet.”

Fucking hobo fuck! Why did he have to be so fucking nice?

Whether pickpocketed or on the floor of the bus, I conceded that my wallet was forever gone. I sulked on the steps in front of Union Station until my father picked me up. “I know you lost your wallet,” he said “But it means a lot to your mother that you’re coming down. She’s been asking all day if you were going to surprise her or not.”

My mood started to improve when I got home (although when my brother asked me for a second time if I have found my wallet I screamed “I already fucking told you I fucking didn’t!”) At the end of the night, somehow my brothers and I convinced my mom and dad to come with us to karaoke at the bar down the street. And while losing my wallet was a horrible ordeal, watching my mother wave to the crowd as Brian, Matt and I dedicated our favorite Journey song to “our mother, the bitchinest birthday girl ever” – somehow made it all worth it.

And in case you were wondering, three days later I got my debit card resent in the mail. And two days after that II lost it at a bar.

The Hunt.

My mother has a monopoly on holidays. Over the last few years, she’s been slowly accruing the rights to host large family events at our house. She swindled Christmas away from my grandmother, claiming that our home was the only one big enough to accommodate “five Burton asses.” With Christmas under her control, she quickly gobbled up smaller functions, including birthday parties, baby showers, and Cinco de Mayo. This year, she annexed Thanksgiving with the promise of deep fried turkey. And then, this spring, she seized the final stronghold – Easter.

Traditionally, Easter has been held on my Grandma and Grandpa Miles’ farm in Round Hill, but with my grandma fresh out of surgery (something involving gallbladders, throat tubes, and urination…I tried not to ask too many questions) we decided to hold festivities at my parents’ house. I could sense that my grandma was uneasy about giving up her Easter glory, so my brothers and I brainstormed ways to ease the transition for her. Immediately, we thought of one of her most cherished traditions – the annual Easter Egg Hunt. Every year since I could remember, Grandma littered her yard with Easter eggs, mismatched, Scotch taped shut, and filled with mixtures of jelly beans and pennies. It wasn’t uncommon to come back with two or three eggs filled with nothing but a faded Hershey kiss wrapper and several dead insects. These were the eggs we had missed the year before. My grandmother continued to orchestrate it even after her arthritis started getting bad, although her hiding spots became slightly less inventive. Instead of concealing eggs inside bird feeders or dangling them from wind chimes, grandma took to hiding them in, for example, a small pile in the passenger seat of her car. But even still, we ate those hard jelly beans and liked it, because that’s what Easter was about. Dammit.

So this year my brothers and I proposed that we continue the annual Egg Hunt at our house, and my mother acquiesced. Early Easter afternoon, she brought down several groceries bags and dropped them in front of the three of us. We peered inside and saw mounds of candy and brightly colored plastic eggs – the good kind too. None of the cheap shit. “Have at it, boys,” mom said.

“Woah woah woah,” I told her, “This sounds like woman’s work.”

She eyed me up and smirked. Point; mother.

“But I’m drinking beer,” Matt said. “You can see the predicament I’m in.”

She left us with the eggs without saying anymore, and we all knew that we had lost. I looked around the room for people I could recruit to take my place. I saw my younger cousin Tatum (with whom I know little about) walking towards the table, so I shouted out to her, “Hey Tatum, do you still believe in the Easter Bunny?”

“I’m 12.” She said. Or maybe she said she was 9. I don’t know, I’m a bad cousin, but the inflection in her voice told me she did not.

“Well then help us with these eggs.” I told her. She pulled up a chair and happily started filling the plastic eggs with Skittles and mini chocolate bars. T.J. convinced his wife Heidi to join, and pretty soon we had a gaggle of women surrounding us, all stuffing eggs. I knew that this was woman’s work.

I sat there listening to the family chitter-chatter as I blindly filled up eggs, but I soon was lost in thought. Every year, same old Egg Hunt. Where’s the challenge? Where’s the fun? You find an egg, you win. That’s so expected. It’s so boring. You know what, life isn’t about having eggs laid out for you, always filled with candy. Did Forest say that life was like an Easter egg…every time you open it BAM there’s candy? No! Life is like a box of chocolates dammit! You never know what you’re going to get. Everyone knows that. And frankly, I think children should have to work for their eggs. I mean, did Jesus die on a cross so that we can have candy basically thrown at us? Um, NO! This was MY house and this was MY hunt, and this year, things were going to be a little different.

With an empty egg in hand, I walked over to a vegetable platter my mother had put out and shoved two or three pieces of celery into it. I fought back the laughter, picturing the look of disappointment on the small child’s face as he or she opens the egg, expecting candy but instead looking at raw vegetables.

It was about this time when I noticed Matt digging through the fridge. He turned around with a guilty look on his face. He looked at me and I looked at him. I then looked down at his hands. He was shoving diced carrots into his egg. We pointed at each other and started laughing. Twinsies.

As the women filled eggs with candy at the kitchen table, Matt and I started going through the pantry. I filled an egg with raisins as Matt filled one with Special K. I filled one with French fried onions, and Matt filled one with potatoes flakes.

We stopped when we heard someone approaching behind us. It was T.J., and he was shaking his head. “You guys are sick,” he said. We all looked at each other awkwardly for a second, and then T.J. reached behind us and put a handful of beef bullion cubes into an egg.

The three of us moved through the kitchen, finding other things to put into the “loser eggs”. T.J. filled one with paper clips. Matt filled one with shrimp. I took a post-it note and wrote “Jesus loves you” on it put it into an egg. I took another post-it and wrote “Jesus does not love you, play again.” Matt laughed. “You go too far…” he said as he grabbed the egg and mixed it with the rest.

It was then time to hide the eggs. Tatum and Heidi shared a bag, and placed them in easy to find spots across the lawn. My brothers and I agreed that we would hide our eggs in slightly more challenging locations.

T.J. wedged one under the wheel of our SUV. Matt placed one inside the raccoon trap my father has set up in the back yard. I placed one on top of the barbecue grill, which my dad was using to grill a leg of lamb (however, my mother moved it when the plastic started melting).

Matt put some atop a lily pad in the center of our pond, T.J. wedged two in between a garden gargoyle’s legs to give the allusion of testicles, and neighbors watched in horror as I placed two eggs in the middle of the street. T.J. yelled from across the lawn “Chris! What are you thinking!?” I thought to myself that perhaps he was right. Maybe this was going too far

“Don’t put two eggs in the middle of the street,” he continued. “Save some for the thorn bush!”

Having scattered all the eggs, we walked triumphantly back inside. My mother asked us how it turned out. Matt told her “This year’s theme is ‘the most dangerous game’”

I dipped my fingers in the lamb drippings and smeared it under each eye, and in a low voice I grunted “The hunt…..is on.”

My brothers and I waited with anticipation for the hunt to begin. It was going to be sick and awesome and we couldn’t wait. But we did. We waited and waited and waited. Finally I asked my grandmother “when are we going to do the Easter Egg hunt?” Matt, remembering his shrimp egg, added “time is of the essence.”

“Easter egg hunt?” she responded. She looked surprised. “Your youngest cousin here is Tatum, and she’s twelve (or nine). Didn’t you notice that there weren’t any kids here young enough to want to hunt for eggs?”

My brothers and I stared at each other, jaws wide open. Strangely, we had not.

“What…about…Sadie’s…kids?” Matt stuttered.

“They’re not they’re not coming.” Grandma told us.

“Then why did you help us fill up the Easter eggs?” I asked. “Why didn’t you stop us?”

“I thought it was funny.” Point; grandma. She looked at us, all standing there in shock, and started to laugh as she walked away.

And I’m pretty sure I heard her mutter “Easter is mine bitches.”

The Intern.

There are so many wonderful things I’ve taken from Seinfeld – hundreds and thousands of life lessons that I’ve internalized and incorporated in my day to day life. When I first started work, for example, I was getting slammed with stuff do. It seemed like every time I turned around, there were three new projects waiting for me at my desk. Reaching a breaking point late one evening, I tapped into the wisdom of George Costanza. I whipped off the chipper grin I had been forcing over my usual grumpy disposition, and started acting extremely irritated. When I knew others were looking at me, I would shake my head furiously and pull at my hair. My stride became rapid and arm movement frantic, even when just getting up to get a glass of water. When people asked me how I was doing, instead of responding I would just sigh and shake my head. And frankly, it worked like magic.

Soon my desk was empty. When coworkers would ask me to do something, they would always preface it with “I’m so sorry to do this to you, but…” Even the simplest tasks became “Oh, Chris, I’m so sorry, I know you’re super swamped, but, whenever you get a free second, could you move your chair off my purse?”

After a show stopping performance one afternoon, my boss asked me to come into her office. She pulled up a chair next to mine, put her hand on my shoulder and said “Are you doing okay? You seemed stressed out.”

I thought to myself, oh shit, maybe I’ve taken this too far. I responded “No, I’m really fine…”
My boss interrupted. “It’s okay Chris, you don’t have to pretend. I understand that we’ve given you too much work,”
“No, I mean, really...It’s…”
“I think we should get you some help in here. How about bringing on an intern?”
“No but….” and then it hit me. An intern? An intern would be AWESOME. It would be like having my own personal assistant, albeit an unpaid one. “…An intern would be a huge help, because I’m just so swamped.”

So, I began my search for an intern. I posted want ads on college websites and craigslist. My hopes were high, but the responses trickled in slowly. I waited, but after ten responses, it looked like no more were coming in. So with only ten resumes in my hand (one including the phrase “I read you…Now you READ ME!!!!!”), I started calling people in for interviews. And they were a motley crew for sure. In my head I had pictured a group of dewy eyed college students, with their little sweaters tied around their waist and their book bags hanging off one shoulder. What I got was a bunch of out-of-work fashionistas, who either misunderstood what I was looking for, or who frankly scared the shit out of me. Out of the ten resumes I received, only seven made appointments to come in for an interview. Of those seven, only five showed up, and of those five, three of them were older than me. Much older than me.

One of the interviewees was about thirty five. He was dressed in all black, and when he sat down, he handed me a revised resume which included “professional vampire” under experience. When I asked him about it, he responded “it’s really more lucrative than you would think.”

And that’s when I gave up.

It was obvious I wasn’t going to find an intern from this rubble of disaster. There were a few that were decent, but after they came in my co-workers said things like “Make sure you’re absolutely in love with the person before you hire them….” We would stare at each other for an awkward length of time, and then they would continue with “you know what I’m saying?”

I did know what they were saying…no girls in lavender jump suits.

So I let the intern thing fade away, hoping my boss would forget about it so that we could all move on with our lives. It worked for awhile too, until one day, while eating lunch, she stopped in mid sentence and said “WAIT, what happened with you getting an intern?”

“Oh…that” I shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t really like any of the people I interviewed.”
“So you’re just going to give up? That’s it? One vampire and you’re calling it quits?”

Suddenly, what was supposed to be helpful became just another task. I sat down at my computer and decided that I was going to knock this intern shit out. I revised my want ad, inserting explosive adjectives and strings of explanation points. “AWESOME intern wanted at BREATH-TAKING artist management agency!!!!!”

The second time, the applications came pouring in. I had so many I didn’t know what to do with myself. I immediately started calling people in for interviews, and let me tell you, this group was leaps and bounds better than the first. I had found my dewy college students once and for all. Out of the first round of ten people I brought in, I found the one I wanted. She was perfect. Cute, funny, intelligent, not crazy...she seemed to have it all.

I called her so i could tell her she was hired, but she didn’t answer. I left a message, but didn’t get a response. I sent an email, just in case her phone had been acting funny. Two weeks later, and still nothing. My boss started asking me “so where’s this intern of yours…” I was getting nervous that I would have to start all over again, when finally she contacted me. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been in Australia.”

This initial ordeal should have been some sort of warning, but I decided that travel was an acceptable excuse for not returning my phone calls.

The night before she was to start, I tossed in bed all night, dreaming of things I was going to have my intern do. Maybe I would take up drinking coffee, just to make her go and get it. Maybe she could organize the post-its on my desk in a more pleasing fashion. Maybe I could make her walk to Brooklyn to get me cheesecake from Junior’s. The possibilities were endless.

The day she started was a little awkward, but fine. I overlooked the fact that she was 20 minutes late, and hopefully she overlooked the fact that my zipper was down. It was a busy morning, so instead of giving her a lengthy introduction, I just kind of threw her into it. And she did pretty well, considering.

The second day, I found a voice message waiting for me at my desk. It was the intern. “I’m so sorry, but I actually have a really bad cold and can’t leave my bed this morning. Very sorry. See you tomorrow.” I decided to tell no one, knowing fully well what they would say. “Your intern is sick on the second day of work? I don’t know Chris…doesn’t sound like you picked a winner.”

The third day she arrived, again 20 minutes late (and again my zipper was down). She settled down quickly and got to work. Around noon, she stood up and gathered up her stuff. “Do you mind if I run out for lunch?”
“Of course not,” I responded. “Go get some food.”

An hour later, my boss asked me “what happened to your intern?”
I responded “Oh, she went out for lunch.”
“How long ago” she asked.
“Uh…about…twenty minutes ago”
“You’re lying to me, aren’t you” my boss asked.
“No...” I said. “…maybe”

After an hour and half passed, my boss returned to my desk. “Still gone?” she asked. “She’s not coming back.”
“Maybe there was a long line. Maybe she’s having really terrible service.”

Around 4pm, I was ready to admit that my intern was not coming back. It was about this time when my coworkers and I started blaming each other for her departure.

My boss blamed me. “She probably hated it here because you didn’t feed her lunch on the first day!”
“Well, maybe if Ruby hadn’t played Cat Stevens all damn morning…” I responded.
“Don’t blame me!” Ruby joined. “I’m sure Nicole talking to her about American Idol for 20 minutes didn’t help.”
“I like American Idol…” Nicole trailed off.

I decided that it was time to let the intern go. I announced to the office that no matter who caused her to leave, she was done. Completely afraid of confrontation, I selected email as the best method. The problem was I forgot to email her before I left work on Friday. The whole weekend past, and it was Sunday night before I realized my error. I quickly signed onto my work account from home and sent her an email, hoping that she would get it before Monday morning.

Monday morning came, and the first thing my boss said was “so you fired your intern?”
“Yeah, I sent her an email” I said.

And then, for the first time since she started, my intern arrived right on time. She walked in, all smiles and sat down right in front of me. Nicole and Ruby both turned towards me with looks of wild amusement, and feeling my face turn bright red, I stared down at my desk. I felt panic run through me like a train. I hate confrontation more than anything. I reviewed my options in my head. I could just ignore the fact that I had, apparently unannounced to her, fired her. We could just act like everything was normal. Sure, it might be awkward when she gets the email and realizes that she was fired weeks before. But what about my boss? It was doubtful that she would be down with the whole charade. I had face up to the fact that there was only one option. I had to fire her then and there.

I pulled her aside into my boss’s office and sat her down. “So…what happened last Friday?” I asked her.
“Oh…” the intern looked around awkwardly. “Was I not supposed to leave? I thought you knew that I was leaving for the day. I’m sorry, was that bad?”
“Um…well, when you left, I assumed that you weren’t really serious about this whole internship. So, I kind of already fired you. In an email. Which you apparently haven’t gotten yet.”
“Oh…” my intern responded. “Wow, so this is awkward, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. I could hear my coworkers fighting laughter in the background.

So my intern and I had a long heart to heart. She apologized profusely, and I offered her a second chance if she promised me she was serious about it. When I was finished, my boss pulled me aside and told me she was proud of me. “You handled that really well,” she told me. “I was impressed.” And frankly, I was proud of myself too. I felt like my intern had really bonded. Sure, the first week had been rough. She hadn’t been the best intern, but I hadn’t exactly been the best boss either. No, we were both to blame, and a lack of communication was chief component. But there we were, just two weeks ago, in my boss’s office, hashing it out. At the end of our frank discussion, we both left feeling a little better about ourselves. We were a team, she and I, and together we could conquer anything.

And then last week, she called in sick. Twice.

The End

Waffle Must Die, Part III…

The Battle for the Bathroom

In the last installment, our brave warrior friends valiantly challenged the evil and mighty rodent gang that dwelled within their abode. The cohesive mouse-unit, in which they dubbed “Waffle”, evaded their many traps, leaving our friends weary and heavy-hearted. But just when they were ready to accept defeat, they faced Waffle one more time in the epic Conflict for the Countertops. They emerged victorious, mightily slaughtering three of the Waffle unit. But just when they thought the war was over…

It had been months since we had seen any of our mousey friends. Rumor in the building was that the landlord had finally caved and called an exterminator. Katy and I believed it, ignoring all logical signs that pointed to the contraire. Then, in one night, our delusion was yet again shattered. As I was getting ready for bed, I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As soon as I opened the door, my eyes immediately fixed on a tiny black furball that ran across the floor. Needless to say, I screamed like a woman.

Katy shouted sassy from her room…something like “did you find another grey hair?” or “that’s Icyhot! The KY is in the 2nd drawer” –I don’t exactly remember what. I don’t really remember what I said either, but it was something along the lines of “MICE! THE MICE ARE BACK!” – not very clever, I know.

Katy and I were both beyond ourselves. The thought of more mouse traps littered across our apartment made me sick. I had had my fill of sweeping broken little mouse bodies into trash cans, and throwing mouse-halves out the window no longer amused me. My solution was to simply forget about it and continue on living in my delusional world.

The next afternoon, my friend Bryan and I were sitting in the living room while Katy showered down the hall. I thought I heard some funny noise come from the bathroom, much like two screams…followed by a third a few moments later. I asked Bryan, “Did you hear that? Was that Katy screaming?”

Bryan replied, “I’m pretty sure it was a car back firing.”

Seconds later I heard the pitter-patter of little wet feet coming rapidly towards me. Katy came running from the bathroom, sopping wet and partially wrapped in a towel that was much too small for her. With water pouring off her, she stopped next to the couch where we sat. I looked up at her and jumped back…on account of her resemblance to the little girl from the Ring, which was uncanny.

“You will never fucking believe what just happened.”

Now, I should say that Katy, unlike many women, usually can shower in ten minutes or less – except on Saturdays. On Saturday, Katy kicks back and takes her time, letting the time pass by as she dreams of Pete Wentz or any number of the Hansons. On this particular morning, she had just concluded one such Hanson shower. Feeling relaxed and rejuvenated, she threw back the shower curtain and grabbed her towel off the basket she had laid it upon. However, as she wrapped it around herself, she noticed a small dark object fall off it. Her first thought was “who the fuck shat on my towel?” but she quickly realized that no one shat on her towel. It was the mouse.

The thought of having a mouse burrowing into your towel must be upsetting enough. She quickly tossed her towel across the room, letting out two quick screams. Standing there, wet, frightened, and naked, she took a second to recollect herself. It was at this point when she realized that the mouse was standing there in the bathtub with her. Cue third scream.

Having not been there myself, I can only imagine it being like that shower scene from Psycho. I imagine that next, Katy made an ungraceful yet swift jump out of the tub. She most likely grabbed the first towel-like object she could find (in this case, an oversized hand towel), and ran straight to the couch where I was sitting.

She blurted out this story to us, and Bryan and I looked at each other in disbelief.

“Does that mean…” Bryan asked, “That the mouse is still in the tub?”

“Well yeah. He can’t get out.”

I, being a true hero, was the first to say “I call not killing him.”

Katy quickly put her finger to her nose. She and I looked at each other, and then our eyes turned to our guest. Bryan looked at me, and then at Katy, and then at the ground.

“Who are you people?” he asked.

I told Katy, "Thank God we have a real man in the house today."

With Bryan elected as our executioner, we then turned our attention to the weapon.

“Bleach?”
…next
“Frying pan?”
next
“Lighter fluid and matches?”
NEXT! Jesus!!

Then Bryan had a genius idea…the plunger. “I’ll put the plunger over him…push it down a couple times…sucking out all the air…causing him to suffocate.”

We all thought it was genius.

“…and if that doesn’t work I’ll just beat him with it.”

So Bryan marched bravely into the bathroom. With our plunger in hand, he set out to administer the sweet dose of murder. The mouse was right where Katy left him, chillen out in the bottom of our tub. Bryan looked away as he placed the plunger over him. He plunged and plunged and plunged, and when his arm was tired he stopped.

The mouse’s tail poked out from underneath our plunger, wiggled, and went back under again.

Leaving the mouse trapped underneath the plunger, the three of us reconvened in the kitchen.

“So the plunger didn’t work” Bryan told us. We thought long and hard, and finally the best solution came to us.

“Well he’s in the tub,” Bryan said. “Why don’t we just drown him?”

It was brilliantly simple. Our executioner returned to tub. He stopped it up and let the water run. When the tub was filled with about 3 inches of water, Bryan pushed the mouse under with the plunger. After a few moments, the mousey bastard joined those who went before him in Mousey Hell.

The idea of drowning a poor little mouse made me sad, until Bryan returned from discarding the body (yes…we made him throw it away too). I expressed to him how sad I thought it was, and he responded, “Do you know that when I filled the tub, that dirty fucker turned your water yellow. Yellow, Chris. Yellow.”

And suddenly it was okay. If something that small can turn 6 gallons of water yellow, frankly it deserves to die.

Since then, Katy and I have returned to our normal lives. We know that the war may very well not be over, but at least we won the battle. The battle for the bathroom.