You're Making Me Hate You

by Corey Taylor

  I’ve been coming to NYC for years now, and in all that time I would watch the men and women ripping around on the rickshaws with a subtle sort of fascination. They always had people onboard, they were always moving as fast as their legs would scramble, and they were always engaged in what appeared to be daredevil stunt work, crossing against traffic and flying through intersections like hybrid demons hell-bent on getting to their destination. In all my time going to the city I’d never taken the opportunity to get in one, to taste that speed and insanity for myself. At that moment, standing there trying to get my family from point A to point B, I decided the time for waiting was over, and I was dragging the people I love with me. I flagged down two of these hellions, loaded up my brood, and, with a smile, we headed deep into New York rush hour. I should have known it was too good to be frugal.

  The ride itself was a blast. We were shooting gaps and running reds all the way across town. My kids were losing their minds. Steph was laughing her ass off. Even though I was sweating through my clothes, I was really enjoying it. Griff’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. Our bike-riding freelancer was peddling his ass off, dodging fenders and bumpers with no real thought to our safety. But it didn’t matter—it was exhilarating, invigorating, and fascinating. You can’t see the depths of the ocean in anything but a submarine; there’s no way to get out and experience that world without a bunch of protective gear on. But being in that rickshaw, doing some serious human-powered speeds, it was the closest you could ever get to experiencing traffic without a car, like you were flying through the streets with none of the protection that the backseats or front seats afford you. It was like a ride at Disneyland. “You’ve flown over California—now DRIVE THROUGH NEW YORK WITHOUT BEING ENCLOSED IN A CAR!” It was an astonishing ride.

  The bottom fell out of our boat when we reached the restaurant.

  I’d hired two of these rickshaws, three of us in each rig. I didn’t know there was a pricing list on the side of the basket with a ridiculous breakdown of each charge. There was a charge for each person … fair enough—cabs are like that too. But it was a full charge for each person, not just a percentage like it is in the taxis. Then it just got fucking stupid. Every mile was a different charge. Riding on a street was a different charge. Riding on an avenue was different charge. Riding on a boulevard was a different charge. It may be the anger with which I’m remembering this shit, but I’m almost certain that a left turn was more expensive than a right turn. So, all in, a two-and-a-half-mile trip for six people in two rickshaws, something that might have cost a miniscule amount in a regular cab … cost me $300. As rad as that ride was, I find it extremely difficult to find a way to justify that price. I’ve had cheaper plane tickets. But because I didn’t ask how much it would cost, because I didn’t know to look on the damn thing for a price list, because the guy was arguing with me that it was my own fault for not knowing what I was getting into, I swallowed my pride and paid the price. I’ve said before that the hardest lessons are usually the best because the pain gives you memory and you can’t erase that kind of knowledge. All I can say is my family loved the ride, my wife didn’t kill me for how expensive it was, and that rickshaw driver is fucking lucky I wasn’t carrying my Louisville Slugger with me.

  I didn’t tell Mr. Shore about the incident. I won’t send him a copy of this book.

  Please don’t send him one, because he scares me.

  I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to figure out why my brain works the way it does. I’m no scrub, man: I can do my own laundry (sorta) and change the oil in my own car (not very well, but you get the idea). I can handle bigger pictures a little better than the smaller snapshots. It’s fucking frustrating, not just to me but also to my family. Occasionally my wife will ask me to perform some menial task, and I’ll feel a look cross my face like a shadow on a stone in the Mojave Desert. I know it’s a visible change too because my wife sees it happen, looks at me, and says, “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” In the past I used to sputter and puff up like it was a strategic blow to my manhood. Now I just shrug and say, “nope.” As you get older a funny thing happens: you stop giving a shit. It’s awesome, really. I don’t give a fuck anymore about what I wear, where I’m going, or whether anyone cares about it. It’s wonderful reinforcement for an ego that has spent a few too many times in the gladiator’s circle, picking bits of sand and blood out of his eyes.

  I think it’s because of the way I grew up. I’m not going to harp on the suck-fest or regurgitate the abuse; I’ve documented that in other tomes. This is more about the effect than the cause. Because of the way I grew up, I had to learn how to do everything on my own. I had no father present to point me in any direction, and because the whole parental unit in general was spread pretty thin, I had to do things my way—that is, the hard way. I learned to cook, clean, drive, work, love, live, spend, hate, fight, run, smoke, think, fail, win, fuck, and regulate on my own. I was basically surrounded by a horde of adults who had no fucking clue how to keep their shit together. So it was a matter of survival: I either had to figure it out or crumble under the weight of my own psychoses and shortcomings. Neither of those choices was very appealing, but I’d be damned if I was going to fail. So I did shit the hard way or came up with shortcuts that did more disaster than good. In the winters I would go out and clear all the snow off of my Gram’s car. Because I’m a little short, I used a broom to reach the stuff on the roof and whatnot. It got to the point at which I was using it on the whole car because it was faster, fairly efficient, and I could get in out of the cold quicker. It wasn’t until the summer that I realized by using a broom I was scratching the holy hell out of the paint on my Gram’s car. What’s more, it was very noticeable. She was, suffice it to say, very displeased with me. That’s just a tiny taste of the consequences involved in developing your own thought process.

  It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I have a habit of thinking outside the box and the norm, which is probably why I write and act the way I do or come up with the different stories I like to imagine. It’s taken me around the planet several times, allowed me to publish a few books and grow a moustache for a movie role, and, essentially, let me get away with proverbial murder with my friends. But they never let me forget that quite a few of my wires are crossed and mislabeled. Hey, what are you gonna do? When I wasn’t in a trailer, I grew up on the road. Normal isn’t exactly in my fucking wheelhouse when it comes to practicality or reality. Besides, I can smoke through my belly button. What can all of you do, fuckers and truckers?

  Then there’s the scary shit. Have you ever been sitting somewhere by yourself … and you suddenly realize you’ve been staring into space for like an hour? Oh, and the spot you were peering into? Someone is now sitting or standing there—you didn’t even notice they’d taken up residence, but now they’re staring right back at you, convinced you are the village rapist, waiting to toss them in your raper van and make off to the rape cave. By the time you come to from this incredible stupor, that person has made the rounds and told everyone in the area that you plan to probe them all. Before you can move, they’re inching toward you ominously, pulling mace and perfume bottles out of massive purses, determined to recreate a scene from the classic movie M—and guess who they’ve picked to be Peter Lorre? Lesson being? A person can be obstinate, but a crowd can be made up of cock-sucking bastards.

  They ruined my best Cramps T-shirt too …

  Where was I going? …

  See? It’s that shit, right there. My tangents run further than if Usain Bolt was on a fat line of crank cut liberally with rocket fuel. What in the actual Fuck?! I know sometimes it’s fun to follow a thought to the end of a trail, but Judas Priest on stage at Wembley, where does it end? Should I have cause for alarm? Should I consult a physician or at least David Copperfield? Before you say, “Why not Criss Angel?” … DON’T. Let it be known that I’ll touch you with a dead man’s pinky toe if you mention that guy’s name
. Criss Angel looks like Don Knotts auditioning for the role of The Crow. GODDAMNIT, I FuckING DID IT AGAIN! I’m going to go smoke—it helps me focus (and take a shit—DAMNIT! AGAIN!). I’ll be right back.

  Fifteen minutes and two Marlboro Golds later …

  I still got nothin’. But now I’m light-headed and my knuckles smell like Dean Martin’s nut sack. Yay team. Go me …

  It’s got to be the coffee. I was never this bad on cocaine. Besides the aforementioned cigarettes, coffee is my last real vice. I’ve cut out junk/fast food, I don’t eat like a sixteen-year-old anymore, and I work out enough to keep the energy up and the love handles at bay. But the coffee makes me into a sweaty maniac standing around, assessing any situation with my hands on my hips, breathing like I just did a marathon at a sprint and not really sure how I ended up standing there in the first place. Caffeine is one thing; coffee is still another. I don’t act like this when I have the rare soda or aberrant box of cookies. That just leaves the java as the culprit. Coffee is the rabid satanic blood that pushes my brain into the pillow and gets me to squeal. Knock it off, you suggest? Go fuck yourself, I reply. I’d rather be manic than mediocre. So why am I complaining? I’m not really sure. Sometimes I just wish I could concentrate while I’m hyper-crushing.

  That’s the name of the game: concentration. I have it on good authority that I have very little to no concentration whatsoever. The sad thing is that I know I passed this curse onto my son, Griffin. For you people who can do it, how the fuck do you people do it? I’ve missed entire scenes in movies before because a bug flew in my face. I get cruising down a rabbit hole, and by the time I reach the surface again, I’m in China. I know you can’t dig a hole to China, but metaphorically speaking, that’s what I mean. Don’t argue with me in the middle of my book. It’s my book! If I want to use an allegory that has been completely disproven in the modern day and age, I can! It’s artistic license, and I didn’t have to go to the local DMV to get it! I was born with it! Maybe she was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline. The flash flood warnings are going off like crazy because I just rode the wave of confusion straight to the river again, and I’m screaming like a banshee on steroids. You want to try your hand at something fucking insane and agitated? Take a shot at living in my head for an hour or two. If you can make it fifteen minutes, I’ll buy you a fucking Slurpee.

  There are a few things I’m proud of, intelligently speaking. I’ve never used the term “YOLO” seriously. Whenever I hear someone say that and mean it, my skin crawls and I get very stabby. Also, I have never seen the movie Titanic. Ever. This drives my family and friends crazy because it’s not that I’m against the saccharine take on an epic catastrophe (which doesn’t make sense because Titanic is studied as a classic, but Pearl Harbor is vilified for basically the same reason). It’s not because I have anything against anyone in the movie—I happen to think Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet are both fine, fine actors. It’s not even about that fucking song by that fucking woman Celine Dion. No, I have a very credible (read by my family: asinine) reason for never seeing one of the biggest motion pictures of all time. It all came down to a radio interview back in 1997.

  Back in ’97 I was running the counter at the smut hut known as the Adult Emporium, slinging porn like Buffalo Bill Cody in a smock. Working by myself from midnight to 8 a.m., I tended to listen to a lot of radio at night, whistling along to oldies while I dusted racks and organized videos. I remember one night, as I was spraying Windex on some glass shelves to wipe away grime that might be distracting from the liquid latex and oil-based lubes, the DJ started talking about a recent interview in which James Cameron said, “By 1998, everyone in the world will have seen Titanic!”

  Well, color me a stubborn asshole, but that sounded like a challenge.

  I can remember thinking, “Where in the fuck do you get the gall to assume that? Why would you make a sweeping statement and decide that this movie—a tepid love story with a sinking toward the end—would be the movie that everyone would eventually see? How dare you assume that you know the tastes and fashions of an entire planet full of different people, all so you can make a mint on it!” I made up my mind that night that I would never see that movie, and I have held steadfast ever since. If it comes on TV, I change the channel. If my family wants to watch it, I leave the room. I know enough about the film’s story through word of mouth and parodies that I’m not missing a fucking thing. Jack freezes and Rose blows a whistle, gets old, and dies in her sleep. The End: Yeah Bertha. I’ve read deeper brochures. The fact that this movie represents a high watermark for Billy Zane makes me angry at people for not putting him in more movies—he’s better than that shit! Fuck!

  My family kind of hates me for never seeing Titanic.

  I’ve learned to live with it.

  Let’s wrap this pity party up real quick. Over the years I’ve done some dumb shit. I’ve disappeared into the heart of Amsterdam only to wake up in my hotel room, unsure of how I got there. To my count, I’ve asked seventeen different women how far along in their pregnancy they were … only to find out they were just fat. I’ve snorted pepper. I’ve smoked PCP. I waited in line for four hours to see The Phantom Menace. I’ve let myself get locked out of my own house completely naked (Thank God it was 2 a.m. and dark out). I’ve jumped through a glass coffee table wearing a helmet and a tutu in front of a living room full of people. However, I think the worst thing I’ve ever done is distrust my instincts. Now that I’m older, I tend to trust them more, but when I was younger, that wasn’t the case. Here’s an example.

  I had a friend we’ll call Bruce who was a bit of a freak. He was funnier than hell, and I really enjoyed hanging out with him. Other people had issues with him, but I would defend him and say, “He’s just weird man—he’s not a dick!” Nobody bought it, so it was usually just us, doing our thing and not giving a shit. One night long ago I was hanging at his house for the night when he jumped on the phone with some chick he wanted to hook up with. Before I knew it, he was telling me, “Grab your shoes—her parents aren’t home, and she wants us to come over!” It was while I was wondering just how old this girl was that it occurred to me that this might not be such a great idea. But being a loyal friend, we left his pad and walked the couple of miles to her house. She let us in, and I felt very third-wheel-ish as they sat in her room smooching and chatting. So I went down to her living room to find something on TV.

  I was right in the middle of The Godfather when her fucking parents came home.

  I scrambled back up the stairs and yelled about their arrival, upon which the girl shoved us both into her closet to hide. I’ll be honest: I was not stoked about the turn the evening had taken. Eventually her mother came in to say good night. There was a long pause. Finally her mother said, “Have you been smoking?”

  The girl stammered, “N-No! Of course not!”

  “Well, it smells like smoke in here!”

  “Oh! I had my window open earlier—it probably came in then!”

  I’ll give her this—she was good. Her mother left.

  We stood in that closet for another fifteen minutes before I said, “Fuck this. We’re leaving.” We left the closet, he said a quick good-bye to Jail Bait or whatever her name was, and we crept toward the stairs. The only way out was the front door, and her father was sitting exactly where I had been not twenty minutes ago, watching The Godfather. I looked at Bruce and said, “Follow my lead.”

  We went down the stairs.

  I started gesturing at the ceiling and walls, speaking loudly. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the walls here, maybe we’ll have to check outside—you see the grading is the problem …” Bruce picked it up and started spewing bullshit as well: “Yeah, that groundwater is definitely an issue, especially with how wet this summer has been …” We were nearly to the door—her father was sitting up, staring at us, mouth hanging open just enough to let us know he was stunned. I shouted back up the stairs, “HAROLD! Grab that socket wrench and meet us o
utside!” I grabbed the door handle, threw it open, hit the screen door, and shoved it wide, and just as her father was up and off the couch, we were out, sprinting down the street like madmen, laughing our balls off and praying to God that he wasn’t dialing 911 at that very instant. Thank fuck this was over twenty years ago: he would have had his cell phone in hand calling for the authorities before we would have reached the bottom of the staircase. It was a funny end to an extremely stressful night.

  But as the years wore on, Bruce became more and more erratic, and I began to see what everyone was on about. Then one day we just stopped hanging out. The last time I heard anything about him he had been in some trouble with some bad people. As much as I wanted to help him, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. You see, by then I’d gotten a better read on my instincts. I’d learned the hard way that sometimes that feeling in your stomach is there for a reason. If you get that feeling and you ignore it, guess what? It’s your fault when you get fucked over. If you come to learn from it, you can do wonders with it.

  You see before you the ramblings of a man who knows just how ludicrous his musings are. It took a lot of trial and error to realize I am not the most brilliant bulb on the shelf. Yeah sure—I know it’s been a long ride. But you don’t make it to forty-one years old without (a) learning a few things that’ll get you there and (b) figuring out you didn’t know as much as you thought you did along the way. This is the beauty of being a part of your own life. Some people are quite happy just going with the flow and never ruffling any of the feathers on the bird of paradise. That’s the right way to miss out on what life has to offer. You’ve got to make some mistakes. You’ve got to admit early on that there’s a good chance you know fuck all. It’s okay to be a jackass; the problem comes when you never rise above that particular station.

  I’m proud of my idiocy. It may have held me back from doing a few things. It may still be keeping me from winning any awards for exceptional intelligence. But I’ll be okay. I may be stubborn, but at least I’m honest. Mensa isn’t blowing my phone up; however, I can cook milk without burning it, and I don’t leave bleach marks on my clothes when I do laundry. My wife still allows me to drive unattended and stay home with the kids, trusting that when she gets back they will not be singed, hungry, or dead. That’s life as a man. That’s life as a dad. That’s life as the owner of an unusual mind. That works for me.