Once upstairs, I hit my bed. The spinning was unbearable. I turned and it got worse. I closed my eyes and felt acid make it to the top of my throat but I kept it down. Like a geyser, eventually the pressure had nowhere to go but up. I painted the wall, bed, floor and everything within a seven foot radius.
Mom and Dad stood in the doorway.
“H-E-L-P …MEEEEEEE,” I pleaded, reaching out to them.
“Are you drunk?” Mom asked, flabbergasted.
“YOU’RE SLEEPING IN IT!” My dad slammed the door on me.
The next thing I remember was waking up to a putrid smell. When I bent over the edge of my bed to dry-heave, I noticed the swamp that used to be shag carpeting. I scanned my room and couldn’t wrap my mind around the amount of disgusting muck everywhere, on everything.
I wallowed in my own filth, wondering where the jack-hammer was, and prayed to God I would NEVER drink again.
CHiPs
Once upon a time in TV land, there was a show called, CHiPs. The lead characters, Ponch and John, were motorcycle cops for the California Highway Patrol.
Coming back from downtown Cleveland, my friends wanted me to bring the roof down. They knew that if I got my car to go fast enough, air would balloon the interior ceiling fabric.
I complied.
We were sailing down the highway, whooping and hollering as the bubble began to form.
“Faster-faster!”
A couple of newbies cried out in delight, “Holy ^$%#@ – it’s really working!”
Traffic was light so we kept speeding. The ceiling didn’t just bubble downward it smashed our heads lower and lower. Laughing hysterically, I was forced so low I was peering between the dashboard and the top of the steering wheel just to see the road ahead. That is until I caught a glimpse of something in my peripheral vision – a motorcycle cop!
Now imagine his perspective. I have no idea what we looked like from the rear of the vehicle upon his approach. But I can imagine how bizarre the sight was when he pulled side-by-side and saw me. That’s because as I looked at him, I had about six inches of visibility out that side window. And I probably looked insane from the expression on my face. Of course, that was a split second before my jaw dropped from seeing a motorcycle cop next to me.
Once I pulled over, I wasn’t sure of the protocol. I figured it would be courteous to get out and meet the officer so he didn’t have to walk so far. It was the first I can remember seeing a motorcycle cop on the highway, or anywhere, other than TV.
I blurted out, “Hey Ponch, where’s John?”
He smiled, looked down, shook his head and wrote me a ticket.
The Polish Police Car
As soon as I cleared the intersection, flashing lights appeared in my rear-view mirror. I pulled over knowing I didn’t beat the yellow traffic signal.
I was more afraid of answering to my parents than the police. My window was down when the officer appeared out of the darkness. He was laughing so hard, he couldn’t form words.
Maybe I’d catch a lucky break, a warning rather than a ticket.
My car was no hot rod, far from it. My parents wouldn’t let me drive their vehicles and they wouldn’t buy a car for me. I had to earn and save money to come up with the $500 to buy a rusted out clunker. It was powder blue so the rust really stood out. That was until my friends and I taped it up and painted it with 10 cans of spray paint thanks to a loan my little sister floated me from her babysitting money. We bought seven cans of red and three cans of white – just enough to put a racing stripe across the top and hood.
What really set my bucket of bolts apart from any other hell on wheels was its door handles, or lack thereof. Soon after buying my clunker, all four door handles ripped right off the sides of the car due to the rust. I used to shift the remaining innards to open the doors – until my dad gave me sheet metal and a rivet gun. So there you have it, a car with no door handles. We had to get in through the windows.
The officer finally forced out a sentence although gasping for breath, he was laughing so hard.
Bracing himself with one hand clutching my roof, he asked, “Whatta we have here, a polish police car?”
His eyes were watering when he doubled over, holding his gut, laughing heartily.
And I still got a ticket.
Gas Crisis
My tank was on empty, as usual.
Dad gave me 20 bucks to fill ‘er up and have a good time. Half of the money was for raking leaves and cutting grass and the other half was just because. It was enough to fill my tank and get into a teenage club open Monday nights.
I pulled into Sohio instead of Gas Town because they advertised a penny less per gallon. The pump was stuck. It read $15. No matter what I did, it would not reset to zero so I couldn’t pump my gas. Frustrated, I asked one of my buddies to tell the gas attendant inside to reset the pump so I could gas up.
My buddy came out to relay, “Not until you pay $15.”
This made no sense at all. Why would I fill up my car and ask for the meter to be reset so I could fill it up again? But the gas attendant insisted.
So we left.
The next day after school let out, I walked to my car with friends and the juvenile police officer was waiting for me. All the teens in town knew him by name. I had never seen him before. He said I stole gas and now I had to answer for it. I tried to explain but he said I’d have to come to the station later, with a parent, to make my statement. If I didn’t, he would come and get me.
When my dad got home from work, I told him the whole story. We were sitting at our dining room table.
He looked me square in the eyes and asked, “Did you steal the gas?”
I insisted that I did not.
“Rocky, I did a lot of things when I was your age so right now I just want the truth. I need to know if you did it or not. You have to level with me.”
I looked him square in the eyes and said, “I did not do it.”
Dad paused, never taking his eyes off mine, and then said, “I believe you. Now let’s go.”
Just like that, with nothing but my word, he had my back. I felt like a million bucks.
We were buzzed into the police station. The juvenile cop wasn’t there so the person at the reception desk said they’d get another officer. When we were left alone for a moment to wait, my dad smiled at me and said don’t worry, I think he’s Italian. We both laughed out loud at his joke. Maybe it was a half-joke.
Inside a room, we sat across from Officer “X.” From the get-go, “X” was hostile and interrogated me like I was a, a, a thief. I got defensive because I was totally innocent. A hand lightly but firmly squeezed my shoulder. I sat back to look at my dad. He calmly gave me a very slight left-right shake of his head as if to say, that’s enough son. I’ve got it from here.
Then, he let that police officer know what time it was. The whole while he was cool – assertive but cool – and laid it all out plain as day.
Officer “X” shouted at Dad.
Dad got up, pulled my arm to rise with him, and calmly said, “We’re done here.”
As we started for the door, Officer “X” was taken aback. He stuttered and then spit out for us to stop so we did and turned to face him.
“The owner of the station is going to go through the records at the end of the week and if they are off by $15, we’ll be seeing each other again,” Officer “X” said.
We never got a call. And to be honest, I never sweated it because Dad had my back.
Cleaning the Place Out
I had a summer job sweeping a shop floor on weeknights in a neighboring town. It was an old building next to the new one where they made enormous bearings. My mom worked days in the office of the new building.
On this night I had my friend Tommy with me because we had a party to go to afterward. He opted to chill in the car while I worked inside. I had been instructed to always pull off the road to the old back entrance to the shop to get inside.
Usually there was one ma
n who worked nights in the old shop, welding or something, but he wasn’t there. I flipped the lights on, found a push broom and swept up a sweat.
A while later, broom in motion, a voice from behind made me jump clean out of my skin.
“FREEZE!”
Well, my skin froze.
Gun drawn, the small town cop circled to where I could see him.
“What the hell you doing, kid?”
“Sweeping, sir.”
“Bullshit!”
“I work here, sir.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said. “Get your boss on the phone.”
It was nighttime. I didn’t know anyone’s phone number so I called my mom. Mom talked to the policeman but he was still suspicious and said if someone didn’t clear me, I’d be in jail until someone could.
Although I was uneasy about this policeman eager for action, I had to remind myself not to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. What burglar stops to sweep a floor?
The folly continued much longer than I thought possible but a messenger finally came from the new building next door and relayed from my mom to this messenger’s boss that I was cleared. Then, the messenger left to go back to work next door and I stood alone in the empty shop with the policeman again.
“Next time, don’t be so suspicious and …” He went on to lecture me. Lecture! Me!
Finally, he left.
I finished sweeping the shop and went out to my car where Tommy was still handcuffed to the steering wheel.
Springsteen Tickets
It was late at night when we opened our house after a long family vacation.
My best friend, Mike, and I had plans to meet in the morning to go downtown and buy tickets to a Springsteen concert. It would be the first day for tickets to go on sale. This was back when Bruce Springsteen was selling out stadiums in just hours.
A local television news station reported a line already forming around Cleveland Municipal Stadium with people ready to buy tickets the next morning.
It was the middle of the night and I was wide awake. I couldn’t wait. So I grabbed my car keys and before I knew it, I was on my way to get Mike – but he didn’t know it.
I didn’t want to wake up his parents so I climbed on top of their motor home to get on the roof of their house. Mike slept on the second floor. His window overlooked the garage roof so I navigated my way there.
He didn’t share his room with anyone but he slept on the top bunk of a bunk bed. His head was right by the open window. The only thing between us was a screen. His dog, Bandit, started to growl – low and then louder. I tried to calm the dog letting him know that he knew this cat burglar. I was afraid he’d wake the whole house if his growling turned into full-fledged barking.
It was dark inside so I didn’t see Mike rolling to see what his dog was snarling at. When his eyes met mine only inches away, well, talk about a wake-up call. Imagine opening your eyes from a dead sleep to see a face peering in your window inches from yours. Mike sprang from the mattress, slammed his head on the ceiling and fell off the upper bunk onto the floor.
I almost rolled off the roof in terror myself. Then, I just tried to contain my laughter, which came in snorts as I tried to hold it in. Mike gathered his senses, climbed back to the window and gave me an obscenity-laced greeting, albeit in a whisper-yell.
It was a small miracle that nobody else in the house woke up.
Down at the stadium, we circled the parking lot and found the end of the line where others were camping out. We parked nearby and joined the growing throng of people. Some were better prepared than we were. Leaning up against the concrete wall, sitting on asphalt, soon we realized it would be a long night.
“Ya know, your kind of car, the backseat ‘ell pop right out,” Mike surmised.
Within minutes we were sitting in hillbilly comfort. Then a guy returned to his group behind us with so many doughnuts, they shared with us. They were the best doughnuts I ever had in my life.
Hours later – most people around us sleeping – I opened my eyes and noticed it was dawn. I got up and stretched. When I did, I drifted out from the building and peered around the corner – nobody was in front of us. I casually walked up to Mike, kicked his foot several times and motioned for him to quietly check it out.
Without words being spoken, we both walked. Our pace quickened. We thought we were sly but our movement didn’t go unnoticed. There was a chain reaction. We peeked over our shoulders. A mob was thickening and gaining. We flat out sprinted from there. It probably looked like we were rock stars trying to outrun hundreds of rabid fans, when in reality they just wanted tickets as badly as we did. We turned another corner of the stadium and plunged into a sea of people. Police were holding everyone back.
“If you’re on this side of the barricade, I’m sorry, you’re not getting tickets,” said one cop after another into megaphones. “Please turn around and go home.”
People were disgruntled but reluctantly complying, for the most part. Some tested the officers and were met with more forceful directives. We quickly assessed the scene and bolted over a concrete barricade into some sort of cement trench. We were able to run, hunched over, avoiding being seen. I don’t know how we found this and why nobody else did but once we were past the police barrier, we sprang from our trench and joined the mob on the other side.
There was only one gate, one turnstile, one ticket window, and thousands of people fighting to get to it.
The head of the production company pleaded over loud speakers, “We don’t want another Cincinnati.”
He was referring to a concert years ago where people stampeded each other to death.
“If this doesn’t get orderly RIGHT NOW, we’ll close her down and NOBODY will get tickets,” the man was shrieking at the top of his lungs.
The unruly crowd somehow demonstrated just enough civility for the mayhem to continue.
More than an hour later, Mike and I were in the final stretch. We were jammed in like sardines, between two metal railings leading up to the ticket window.
“Give me your money so we can make sure we get tickets together,” Mike said.
I didn’t want to abandon him but I had an idea. The other side of the railing was relatively calm, believe it or not. I slipped through and then turned to help Mike. The space between the railings was wide enough for one and half bodies. However, there were three and a half in that space, at times with nothing but Mike’s ass on the inside. He was getting crushed. Whenever that happened, he fought with flailing elbows and fists, cursing, to regain space so he could breathe. I helped by pushing and shoving people so they’d give him room. It didn’t matter that most were just as innocent as he was – just victims of circumstance. But this was survival of the fittest. Mike’s reprieve would last about 90 seconds before the shoving from others forced a repeat scenario. It was grueling for Mike on the inside. I felt guilty. I had the easy task – hit without getting hit, mostly. Others saw the brilliance of our teamwork and before I knew it, I had company on my side of the rail.
Eventually, Mike scored tickets. Battle scarred, Mike more than I, we walked away from the mayhem to the other side of the stadium which was mostly vacant now. We popped my backseat into the car and drove home, elated.
Uh-oh!
I learned a new trick when I was in high school. Put a damp towel across the lower crack of a closed door and Mom and Dad wouldn’t know. I had picked up the nasty addiction of smoking.
Anyway, it was late at night. I had to pee before turning in. I knew I’d be quick so instead of snuffing out a perfectly good cigarette, I hung it off the edge of my desk. There was no need to reset the towel, that’s how quickly I’d be back.
Returning to my room, I did a face plant into my door. It had locked when it closed. Visions of the burning cigarette falling into the carpeting sent a shiver up my spine. All it would take would be a slight breeze from the open window and I’d be toast – along with the house.
Frantically,
I tried to jimmy the door open.
“What are you doing up there,” came a loud whisper-voice from my mom. “You’re going to wake your father up.”
My dad was a light sleeper. He had to wake up at 4:30 a.m. to get ready for work. If I disturbed his sleep, he’d be upset. If he caught me smoking, I would be another statistic chalked up to smoking related deaths. If I caught the house on fire, he would revive me just to kill me again.
I had no choice but to spill the gravity of the situation to my mom.
Here I Thought I Was Normal: Micro Memoirs of Mischief Page 8
