I moved back in with my dad after my divorce, and the experience was good for both of us. He was less lonely, and I certainly was. One feature of my father's taste that will always stay in my memory was his fondness for pineapple-grapefruit juice. He always had some on hand. To lengthen its refrigerator life, he would pour it out of the can it came in and into a glass bottle with a screw-on cap. That way, it never tasted like the can, and was easier to pour.
Not long after I moved back home, I introduced him to Laura Haskell, and they were constant companions until she died. When she got sick with cancer, he moved to her house to care for her and left me to take care of our house. Me and the pineapple-grapefruit juice.
Trouble is, I didn't care for pineapple-grapefruit juice. It sat in the fridge for a long while, unmolested by me. I never drank it. I never opened it.
One day I came home from work, opened the fridge and found the result of the life threatening disaster that I had averted. The juice bottle had exploded. The juice had fermented, generating gas pressure inside the sealed bottle and on that particular day, the pressure exceeded the bottle's strength and an explosion occurred inside the refrigerator.
Tiny shards of glass were stuck to the inside of the fridge, glued on by dried juice. The shards covered much of the refrigerator walls, and all of the other items within. It was a horrible mess, and I took great care cleaning it up as the shards were tiny and very sharp.
I have thought many times in the years that have past what would have become of me if fate had dealt me a very bad hand and I had opened the fridge at the moment of critical mass. And I shudder. And I am thankful.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
The Lord of the Flies
An excerpt from about 1995:
Clint gets on Carl’s nerves with things that he does that I think are hilarious. Recently at a performance in Steelville, Illinois, we were at an outside fair and flies kept getting in our car. Carl wished for them to get out (there were many). He got in the car and began shooing them out the window.
Clint tried to help by calling the flies by name and speaking to them sternly about not obeying Carl.
“Lloyd! Hannibal! Get on out of there! What’d I tell you?”
He also attempted to explain their uncooperativeness by attributing to them personalities. He explained that Jackson preferred to sun himself on the steering wheel and that Oscar had found a piece of discarded french fry on the floor and did not wish to leave until after lunch. Thorndyke, he remarked, has had an attitude for as long as Clint has known him, and buzzing around his face annoyingly is just the kind of thing Clint would expect from Danté.
Carl got madder and madder at the flies and at Clint and I was holding my gut and laughing with tears streaming down my face.
Clint gets on Carl’s nerves with things that he does that I think are hilarious. Recently at a performance in Steelville, Illinois, we were at an outside fair and flies kept getting in our car. Carl wished for them to get out (there were many). He got in the car and began shooing them out the window.
Clint tried to help by calling the flies by name and speaking to them sternly about not obeying Carl.
“Lloyd! Hannibal! Get on out of there! What’d I tell you?”
He also attempted to explain their uncooperativeness by attributing to them personalities. He explained that Jackson preferred to sun himself on the steering wheel and that Oscar had found a piece of discarded french fry on the floor and did not wish to leave until after lunch. Thorndyke, he remarked, has had an attitude for as long as Clint has known him, and buzzing around his face annoyingly is just the kind of thing Clint would expect from Danté.
Carl got madder and madder at the flies and at Clint and I was holding my gut and laughing with tears streaming down my face.
My Life as a Guy Magnet
Related to my questionable memories of my high school career, let me explain about the first and last date I had with Frank Glendon. My friend, Judy, and Frank went to the same church and youth group when we were all in the same high school. I went to a different church and youth group, but often we cross-fellowshipped.
Frank had a crush on my friend, Debbie. Debbie couldn’t stand him. He followed her around, lurked at her locker, hovered around her when she tried to get to class, bothered her immensely. She complained bitterly to me, and I took pity on her. I told her to let me try something.
The next time I saw Frank lurking around Debbie, he was with her at her locker. I strode up to Debbie, and gushed, “Debbie, where did you get this gorgeous guy?” (Big fat fib.) “Why don’t you walk me to my locker sometimes?” I effused to Frank. Linking arms with the hapless dupe, I led him away so that Debbie could escape out the door.
Sure enough, he left her alone after that. Curiously, he left me alone, too. Problem solved.
A year or two passed and Frank turned up at a Bible study I attended. I was cautiously friendly to him. He was apparently with my friend, Lorrie. (Lorrie was later murdered by a drunk driver.) A day or two later, Frank called, having obviously gotten my number from Lorrie, who didn’t know any better. Before I could get my bearings, he asked me out, and I accepted.
He arrived late Friday night, having gotten lost. The program was to go to a Bible study, and then to a improvisational theater performance. Judy was at the Bible study, and I had a really good time. Afterwards, Judy and the rest of her youth group invited Frank and me to join them for a bite to eat. The bite to eat lasted so long that we missed the improv, which was okay.
I should point out that this date occurred on the coldest night in recorded history. It was very bitter. After the bite to eat, the walk back to Frank’s car was miserable as it was several blocks in the icy temperatures. His arm came around my waist. I didn’t object, but felt that if he has to do this, he should hold on tighter for the warmth.
We got to his car. He put the key in the door lock on the passenger side and unlocked it. I wanted to get in. I wanted to get in soon.
Instead, he turned to me, leaned against the door, crossed his arms in front of him and announced, “Well, I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” Several thoughts went through my mind at once. The first and foremost was Oh, sh*t!
The second thought was a hazy recognition that this whole evening had been set up for this climactic moment when he pulls this off. I am now expected to rush into his arms with an orchestra playing some impassioned crescendo, and mutter, “Kiss me, you fool,” as I climb on top of him like butterscotch topping on a scoop of ice cream.
The third thought that went through my mind was Oh, sh*t!
I did not rush to him, say “Kiss me, you fool,” or jump on top of him. I was cruel and unfeeling. I was brutally honest and vicious. I burst his tender male ego.
I asked to be taken home.
The ride home was a little chilly even though the heater was on. He was giving me the silent treatment as he licked his emotional wounds. I ruminated the whole way about how much he had counted on this big finish and how hurt he must be to realize that I would rather not kiss him.
In fact, I would rather kiss a rhinoceros. I began to feel really bad about the way I had let him down, and reasoned that one kiss wouldn’t cost me anything except a few moments of revulsion.
It wasn’t that he was really repulsive. He was just your average guy. But it was the “I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” approach that was smarmy and repugnant.
He was sullen and angry all the way home. My attempts at pleasant small talk were met with one-word responses spat between clenched teeth and dripping sarcasm. So I added “childish” to my list of indictments against him.
When we got to the house, he walked me to the door. Typical end of date scenario, right? I said, with regret and exasperation thinly veiled, “Why don’t you kiss me, Frank?”
His eyes lit up like I’d announced his winning lottery ticket. He grabbed me by the shoulders and the kiss was such that I was led to believe he was actually trying to eat my tonsils. After a few moments of enduring this, I broke the embrace and said good night.
An entire bottle of Listerine gave its life in an attempt to get his kiss out of my mouth. When he called the next day, I was prepared, and terminated the relationship.
Frank had a crush on my friend, Debbie. Debbie couldn’t stand him. He followed her around, lurked at her locker, hovered around her when she tried to get to class, bothered her immensely. She complained bitterly to me, and I took pity on her. I told her to let me try something.
The next time I saw Frank lurking around Debbie, he was with her at her locker. I strode up to Debbie, and gushed, “Debbie, where did you get this gorgeous guy?” (Big fat fib.) “Why don’t you walk me to my locker sometimes?” I effused to Frank. Linking arms with the hapless dupe, I led him away so that Debbie could escape out the door.
Sure enough, he left her alone after that. Curiously, he left me alone, too. Problem solved.
A year or two passed and Frank turned up at a Bible study I attended. I was cautiously friendly to him. He was apparently with my friend, Lorrie. (Lorrie was later murdered by a drunk driver.) A day or two later, Frank called, having obviously gotten my number from Lorrie, who didn’t know any better. Before I could get my bearings, he asked me out, and I accepted.
He arrived late Friday night, having gotten lost. The program was to go to a Bible study, and then to a improvisational theater performance. Judy was at the Bible study, and I had a really good time. Afterwards, Judy and the rest of her youth group invited Frank and me to join them for a bite to eat. The bite to eat lasted so long that we missed the improv, which was okay.
I should point out that this date occurred on the coldest night in recorded history. It was very bitter. After the bite to eat, the walk back to Frank’s car was miserable as it was several blocks in the icy temperatures. His arm came around my waist. I didn’t object, but felt that if he has to do this, he should hold on tighter for the warmth.
We got to his car. He put the key in the door lock on the passenger side and unlocked it. I wanted to get in. I wanted to get in soon.
Instead, he turned to me, leaned against the door, crossed his arms in front of him and announced, “Well, I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” Several thoughts went through my mind at once. The first and foremost was Oh, sh*t!
The second thought was a hazy recognition that this whole evening had been set up for this climactic moment when he pulls this off. I am now expected to rush into his arms with an orchestra playing some impassioned crescendo, and mutter, “Kiss me, you fool,” as I climb on top of him like butterscotch topping on a scoop of ice cream.
The third thought that went through my mind was Oh, sh*t!
I did not rush to him, say “Kiss me, you fool,” or jump on top of him. I was cruel and unfeeling. I was brutally honest and vicious. I burst his tender male ego.
I asked to be taken home.
The ride home was a little chilly even though the heater was on. He was giving me the silent treatment as he licked his emotional wounds. I ruminated the whole way about how much he had counted on this big finish and how hurt he must be to realize that I would rather not kiss him.
In fact, I would rather kiss a rhinoceros. I began to feel really bad about the way I had let him down, and reasoned that one kiss wouldn’t cost me anything except a few moments of revulsion.
It wasn’t that he was really repulsive. He was just your average guy. But it was the “I’m going to kiss you. What are you going to do about it?” approach that was smarmy and repugnant.
He was sullen and angry all the way home. My attempts at pleasant small talk were met with one-word responses spat between clenched teeth and dripping sarcasm. So I added “childish” to my list of indictments against him.
When we got to the house, he walked me to the door. Typical end of date scenario, right? I said, with regret and exasperation thinly veiled, “Why don’t you kiss me, Frank?”
His eyes lit up like I’d announced his winning lottery ticket. He grabbed me by the shoulders and the kiss was such that I was led to believe he was actually trying to eat my tonsils. After a few moments of enduring this, I broke the embrace and said good night.
An entire bottle of Listerine gave its life in an attempt to get his kiss out of my mouth. When he called the next day, I was prepared, and terminated the relationship.
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