True White Supremacy

I was standing in line at the bank the other day. Well, I say “bank,” but what I really mean is “grocery store.” Several years ago, my bank decided to close 90% of their regular branches and re-open them in grocery stores. At the time they billed this as somehow more “convenient” for their customers – what they really meant was that it was more “cost-effective” for them. But I digress (and use to many words in quotes). For the majority of my transactions I use the ATM, the lines tend to be shorter and the machine doesn’t try to engage you in small talk. However, on this occasion I needed to do more than make a simple deposit or withdrawal, so I had to wait in line.

There were at least 20 people ahead of me, and the line stretched out the front door because the bank is also “conveniently” located at the front of the store. We all stood around in the hot sun, sweating and making small talk, when I noticed three people in front of me there was a white supremist. I usually don’t make those kinds of snap judgments about people, but in this guy’s case it was impossible not to. The first clue to his less-than-tolerant nature was the fact that his head was shaved and he was sporting a long, blond goatee with no mustache. This alone, however, was not enough to make up my mind about him. What clinched it was the myriad tattoos of swastikas and stylized lettering that said things like “White Power” that were on every exposed part of his body. I looked up to find that he had noticed me staring. I smiled sheepishly as if to say, “Don’t kill me… I’m caucasian.” He didn’t return the smile, and I quickly broke eye contact.

I glanced around and found that several others had seen “Mr. Tolerant” too. At least I assumed that they had seen him since they were all conspicuously looking everywhere but at him. After about an hour we made it inside the building. This was only a marginally better place to be because, as I said, the bank is at the front of the store. With a line that goes out of the building, the front door is permanently open and all the cold air escapes. By the time I got to the front of the line I was sweating profusely. Mr. Tolerant had gotten to the teller closest to me, and suddenly I heard an F-bomb go off. It didn’t sound like it was said in anger, but I generally don’t hang around with people that use that kind of language in casual conversation, so it was a little surprising. I looked in Mr. Tolerant’s direction and figured it was probably him that had said it, but was prevented from speculating further because the teller next to him had just opened up and was motioning me forward.

Sitting down in front of the teller, we began to conduct business when suddenly there was a loud outburst to my left.

“This is the stupidest effing bank I’ve ever effing been to!” Only he didn’t say “effing” and there was no mistaking it this time, he was definitely pissed off. “I demand to effing speak to a effing manager!”

“Sir, our manager is at lunch right now.” I was amazed at the teller’s calm. I would have been reaching for the panic button if it were me. “If you want, there’s a chair over there and you can wait for her. It should only be a few minutes.”

“No, I don’t want to effing wait in that effing chair!” He continued. “I’m effing sitting right effing here until you get me a effing manager!”

“Sir. We have other customers we need to assist. The manager will help you just as soon as she gets back, can you please take a seat over there?”

“No effing way! I’m sitting effing right here! This is the stupidest effing bank I’ve ever been to.”

“Sir. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to insist that you sit over there and wait or come back later.”

“Fine! I’m effing leaving, but I’ll be back! And I’m bringing my mom!”

I quickly concluded my business and got the eff out of there before “Mom” showed up, because that sounded scary!

Wal-Trash

I had a brilliant idea on Saturday night. We had just finished a late meal at one of our favorite Mexican places (I had camarones wrapped in bacon, if you must know), and were getting into the car. I was thinking about a project I was going to work on the next day, and realized that there were a couple of items I needed to pick up for it. We were already out and about, so I thought it might be a good idea to just go and get the stuff then. Unfortunately it was relatively late – almost 10 p.m. – and I didn’t think there would be any place open. Then it hit me.

“Hon, is Wal-Mart still open 24 hours?”

“I think so. Why?”

“I’ve got a couple of things to pick up. Let’s stop on the way home.”

Now I don’t go to Wal-Mart very often. Truth to tell, I avoid the place like the plague. Half of the rudest people in the world shop at Wal-Mart. The other half work there (and before any of you Wal-Mart employees email me to tell me what an ass I am for mentioning that, please note that you’ll only be proving my point). Every time I go there, my blood pressure goes up. I normally don’t suffer from high blood pressure.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah. It’s late. Shouldn’t be crowded. Right?”

Wrong.

I’m coining a new term – Wal-Trash – feel free to use it. It’s the only way I know how to accurately describe the type of people that go to Wal-Mart at 10 o’clock on a Saturday night. The place was packed, and I mean packed with people. With hardly an exception, they were all grossly overweight. At least fifty percent of them were wearing some sort of bedtime gear (bathrobe, bedroom slippers, pajamas, etc.). The other half were dressed in clothing that didn’t fit well – the women had shirts that were cut too low on top, the men had shirts that were cut too low on the bottom. They all shuffled along with vacant looks in their eyes. We felt like we had just stepped onto the set of Shaun of the Dead. I walked by one couple that was deep in conversation and listened as I passed by.

“Buluubrruuub nugluh dugug?” Asked the woman.

“Ahulubru numbnumb sudubabub.” Answered her husband.

I barely resisted the urge to run to the sporting goods department and grab a rifle – or a baseball bat – and headed off to electronics to get my things. Grabbing them as quickly as I could, we headed to the registers. We got in line at the “self check-out” behind a woman who was trying to scan baby diapers (while her baby was wearing them) and laughing hysterically.

“Um. No.” I said, and we switched to the Express Lane.

“Owareootoo?” Asked the checker as we put our items on the counter.

“Huh?” We said in unison.

“Owww… arrrrre… ootoo?” She repeated slowly, as if we were the idiots.

“Er. Fine. Fine.” I said, looking about nervously.

She drooled a little bit as she scanned our purchases. We paid quickly and ran out the front door – not giving the door guard a chance to ask to see our receipt. We hustled to the car and peeled out of the parking lot as quickly as we could.

“That was creepy.”

“Yeah. Remind me not to have any more brilliant ideas.”

Old People: Only Marginally Scary

I threw my back out on Friday. I was changing a flat tire on my car and must have twisted the wrong way. There wasn’t any kind of cracking noise, I just went to put the tire into the trunk, felt a twinge and suddenly I couldn’t move. I lay prone on the ground for a few minutes until I was able to force myself back to my feet. As I hobbled to the house I thought, “I’m too young for this kind of thing to happen.”

There’s a small country-style restaurant near my house that has really excellent food. They’re not on a main road, so it’s one of those “best kept secret” types of places. It’s located next to a retirement home, so its main clientele are senior citizens. This never stops me from going there though – old people are only marginally scary and not at all unpleasant to associate with, besides the food is excellent, as I said – so Sunday morning I stopped in to have breakfast. I got out of my car and limped to the front door. An elderly woman – who couldn’t have been less than 350 years old – was entering at the same time. She saw me coming, raced to the door and held it open for me. I passed through, thanking her as I went. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw her smirking at me, but it could have just been my paranoid imagination.

One time I was spending the night at a friend’s house, I think I was about 13 years old at the time. I remember waking up very early in the morning and hearing his dad moving around getting ready for the day. His dad was making all kinds of weird noises, “UUuuuuurckkk!”, “Oooooooofff!”, “PPffffffffffffttt!”, and things like that. I remember thinking at the time that I would never make those kinds noises when I got old. This morning, as I stood to get out of bed – bracing myself on the headboard – I heard myself let out a loud “UUuuuuurckkk!” I’m fairly positive that my kids, sleeping down the hall, woke up and thought, “When I get old, I’m never going to make those kinds of noises.” I stumbled to the bathroom with an, “Oooooooofff!” which was a bit quieter than my previous noise, and recalled a license plate frame I saw when I left the restaurant parking lot on Sunday morning. It read, “Damn! I got old fast!”

How true. Damn.

Overheard in my Car Pt. II

Me: I would have made a good kindergarten teacher.
TR: You’re kidding, right?
Me: No. I’m totally serious… You don’t think I’m right?
TR: No.
Me: Why not?
TR: Well, first of all, how would you control 20 five-year-olds?
Me: Benadryl.
TR: What?!
Me: Benadryl. I’d just serve them Kool-Aid laced with Benadryl in the morning.
TR: That’s horrible!
Me: It’d keep `em quiet.
TR: You’d get arrested.
Me: Nah. No one would ever know. Heck, parents might even thank me. “Little Johnny sure has been well-behaved since entering your kindergarten class. I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep doing it.”
TR: Uh huh. Sure.
Me: Give me another one.
TR: I’m not playing this game with you.
Me: C’mon.
TR: (sigh) Okay. What would you do if a little kid were crying because he missed his mom?
Me: That’s an easy one. I’d take the little tyke aside and talk to him until he calmed down.
TR: Just talk?
Me: Yeah. Just talk.
TR: I’m afraid to ask, but… what would you say?
Me: I’d look him in the eye and say in my most soothing tone of voice, “Now, little Johnny, I know you’re upset because you miss your mom, but you have to stop crying. Do you know why?”
TR: Oh no…
Me: “I’ll tell you why. When little boys cry at school… their parents die. You wouldn’t want your mom to die horribly in a car accident because you were crying at school, would you? I didn’t think so. Now shut up and drink your Kool-Aid.”
TR: That’s sick! You’re demented, you know that?
Me: It’d stop little Johnny from crying, I guarantee it. The ends justify the means, baby!
TR: Have you ever thought about going in for therapy?
Me: If I was at all serious…
TR: If you were at all serious, I’d have you committed… and for the record, you would make a terrible kindergarten teacher.
Me: Hm. You’re probably right… I’d make a great pastor though.

I, Dirt

I live in dirt. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true. If you’ve ever been to the Mojave Desert, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Most of the Mojave is made up of dirt. And it’s not fun dirt, either. It’s dry and hard and nothing grows in it except for weeds and Joshua trees. I wash my car, and two days later it looks like it’s never been cleaned. I had to dump a ton of soil in our yard just to grow some grass. You get the picture.

I also live in wind. The winds in the High Desert of California are legendary. You’d think that having a nice breeze blowing through would be a good thing, cool things down and such, but it’s not. The wind is hard and unsteady, stopping intermittently only to start again and blow all that much harder. You can almost hear the wind god turn his head, inhale and then turn back to exhale with a loud “SSshhhhhhshhhhhheeeeeeeeeewwwwww.” Then he turns his head and starts the whole process all over again. I tried flying a kite in this wind once. The kite sailed up into the air. Then the wind died and it started to plummet. Then the wind started up again, and instead of sending the kite back up into the air, it grabbed it and threw it to the ground. I could almost see the face of the wind god laughing maniacally. I know I heard him as I picked up the broken pieces of $3.99 Kmart Special. The gods only think they have a sense of humor.

When wind and dirt get together, it’s not pretty. I was sitting in my living room one Saturday afternoon and heard a loud BOOM and sort of a whooshing noise. I looked out the front window to see that a dust devil the size of the Chrysler Building had just attacked our house and was moving onto my neighbor’s. I went outside and found that the swing set had been upended and my entire house was covered in a thick layer of dirt, along with miscellaneous bits of trash. That was fun to clean up.

I mention all of this simply because I wanted to give some context for this story. This week my wife landed a job teaching kindergarten at a local elementary school. She’s very excited, but also a bit stressed because the school year starts on Monday and she needs to get her classroom ready quickly. Yesterday she brought two metal bookshelves home from her classroom that she intended to spray paint in bright red and blue colors. Because her time is limited, she wanted to get it done right away. However, it was very windy outside, and I told her that it probably wasn’t a good idea to spray paint outside. I was worried that the paint would blow all over her, all over the yard, all over the house, etc. I was also worried that dirt might get blown all over the wet paint. I suggested that she put down some newspaper and paint them in the garage. She didn’t think it was such a great idea, but was willing to defer to my obviously expert opinion on the matter.

Half an hour later I was in the bedroom reading when I felt that strange burning sensation I get when I’m being glared at angrily. I looked up from my book to find my wife boring a hole in my forehead using nothing but her eyes.

“What’s wrong, Snookums?” I don’t know why I resort to pet names when I know I’m in trouble. It’s never had the intended effect.

“You… told… me… to… paint… in… the… garage…” Her voice was cold, but obviously restrained. I could tell I was on shaky ground.

“Um. What happened?” I asked with as much innocence in my voice as I could possibly muster.

“Follow me!”

Obediently I got up and followed her into the garage. A red haze hung in the air. Not only that, but everything in the garage now had a red tint to it – the areas of floor not covered by newspaper, the kids’ bikes, some laundry piled up by the washing machine, a few boxes, everything.

“Um. Sorry?” I ventured.

I won’t elaborate on what followed, I’m trying to put it behind me. Suffice to say that I now not only live in dirt, I also feel like dirt… At least I’m in my native element.