At my parents’ house for Mother’s Day…

“Hey Mom, do you have an extra towel I can bring back to my apartment?”

“A bath towel?”

“Yeah, mine has this weird smell.”

“Please tell me you have more than just one bath towel.”

“I live alone, why would I need more than one towel?”

(sigh) “Because you’re an adult and you…”

“I wash it sometimes.”

“That’s not the point. How long have you only had one bath towel?”

“Labor Day.”

“September?”

“2010.”

(hugs Sean and whispers in his ear)

“When are you going to meet a nice girl and get married?”

“Do they come with towels?”

“Yes, they come with towels. I worry about you.”

“And toilet paper? I’ve been using napkins.”

* * * 

At a bar, discussing my train ride…

“So I’m on the train this morning and there’s this little kid crawling all over the seat in front of me like a hairless spider monkey.”

“Ugh, I hate that.”

“I know, right? But after a while I got to thinking, if I killed this kid…”

“Like really kill him?”

“Yeah, like actually murder him. Would I be smart enough to dispose of the body?”

“On the train?”

“No, I’d wait until we got off. But I feel like I’m intellectually capable enough to do something like that and not get caught. He was really tiny and I’ve been thinking recently about why more serial killers don’t use the toilet.”

“What would they use the toilet for? Oh, and why are you thinking about murdering children?”

“To flush him. And I’m not saying I’d actually do it. Don’t you ever wonder about that stuff though?”

“Murdering a child? No. And a body is too big to flush. Even a tiny one.”

“Well obviously I’d chop it up, I’m not an idiot.”

“The child?”

“Yes.”

“Chop it up?”

“Correct.”

“Just clarifying.”

“The thing is, it’d just take time, right? But I like to think that I’d be patient. My biggest problem would be if a piece got stuck or something and I’d have to call a plumber. That’d be awkward. And do you tip a plumber? I never know who to tip. That’d be more of a bribe though.”

“A piece? You mean a piece of the human being? And you foresee the plumber as your biggest problem?”

“Well I…”

A stranger seated at a nearby table walks over…

“Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“You’re disgusting.”

* * * 

On the street, interjecting into someone else’s conversation…

“…so he tells me all this and I’m all like, ‘Irregardless of your feelings I…’”

“Not a word.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. ‘Irregardless.’ It’s not a word. Doesn’t make any sense. If you think about it, the word itself is…”

“Go fuck yourself. How about that?”

“Sorry.”

* * *

At the office, asking my co-worker friend about her wildest fantasies…

“Okay, wildest fantasy…one guy…he comes up to you and…”

“Zac Efron.”

“I didn’t even finish.”

“I know. But it’s Zac Efron.”

“So you’d leave your long-term boyfriend for Zac Efron? He’d come up to you, ask you to run away with him, and that’d be it?”

“I mean, for how long?”

“I don’t know, awhile.”

“Like a weekend?”

“No, longer. Like a relationship.”

“Only if my boyfriend was out of town or something.”

“No, that’s not how this works. It’s the one celebrity that all bets are off with. They approach you, whisk you away, and you’d allow it.”

“Where would we go?”

“Anywhere. That’s not the issue.”

“I’d want him to teach me surfing.”

“What? No, you’re missing it. It’s sex. You’d leave your boyfriend and run away with Zac Efron forever and be fine with it.”

“Forever? Would he sign a contract saying he would never leave me?”

“So in your wildest fantasy, Zac Efron teaches you to surf, and there are lawyers present who draw up legal documents?”

Other co-worker walks by…

“What’s going on?”

“Okay…so, wildest fantasy…a guy comes up to you and…”

“Ohh, Channing Tatum! But I’d just want to look at him.”

“This game is over.”

* * *

The condom is from the 2008 Obama Campaign, and the packaging reads, “Put on your ‘O’ face.” The ‘O’ is adorned in campaign branding colors and there’s a smiling picture of then Senator Obama on the back, to set the mood.

I’m pretty sure it’s not official campaign merchandize.

I haven’t opened it (and never will for fear of ruining its value), but I’ve always wondered if Obama’s image is carried over to the actual prophylactic. Maybe his slogan of “Yes We Can” has made an impact in the bedroom as well, an environment where switching positions on something is encouraged.

The soy sauce was the result of getting sushi for lunch one day at work. I had an extra packet and rather than throw it away I considered it might be useful to take back to my apartment. I discovered it in my pocket when I was changing for bed and by that point the kitchen was much too far away, so in the bedside table drawer it went. I’ve been searching for a kinky Asian girl ever since.

The scissors, batteries and crucifix are self-explanatory.

And the pad of paper? I live in the Old City section of Philadelphia, a raucous area of town with over 80 bars and nightclubs packed into less than one-half square mile. In the center of it all sits my apartment building, where in the past 7 months I’ve observed some pretty bizarre scenarios outside my rear window. And I use the pad of paper to document these scenarios.

Here are those notes.

* * *

Wednesday. 10:35 PM. Was in my living room reading and heard a can being kicked down the alleyway. Hollow tin pop-rattling blacktop. Annoying. It’s quiet now. Can’t see anything.

Back at the window. As soon as I made it into the living room I heard someone scream.

“No! God! Oh, God! Nooooo!”

Now? Nothing. That was it. It’s quieter than before.

I can’t see anyone below. Either the man just lost a tin can he really loved, or Godzilla has crawled out of the Delaware River.

Those are the only two options.

I’m locking the window. Wish I lived on a higher floor. Or a lower one, considering height of Godzilla. Call realtor.

* * *

Two guys sound like they’re fighting downstairs. I can’t get a good view of them but there is a lot of cursing and screaming. Posturing. I wonder if I could win a fight. Maybe with a woman. A small woman.

Sick wet thud of flesh on flesh. A man with his hands over his face just stumbled out. He’s covered in blood. Wobbling into the street. He just fell over. Cars are lining up behind him honking. Headlights illuminating blood puddles. Doesn’t look like he’s moving.

He’s moving now, but not far. He’s rolling around on the ground moaning. Drivers are laying on their horns. He’s taking forever to get out of the way.

I yelled for him to shut up.

“Shut up already!” I yelled.

One guy just got out of his car. He seems concerned. He’ll call an ambulance.

Nope. He dragged the bloody man to the curb, got back into his car, and took off down the street. Someone is clapping from an open window.

Guy looks pretty dead.

I’m hungry. Remember to buy snacks.

* * *

Two hookers were just screaming at a homeless man. I couldn’t hear what they were saying so I went to the window. From what I can make out, it sounds like he touched one of their legs, and then asked for a sandwich.

I remember one time on my way to work in New York when someone offered a homeless man a ham sandwich and he threw it back at them screaming, “I can’t eat this! I’m Kosher!”

The man just called one of the hookers ugly and I laughed. How embarrassing for her.

One of them heard me and threw a bottle towards the window.

She missed.

I laughed again.

* * *

Two drunk girls were screaming and laughing outside for the past five minutes. It’s Sunday night. I went to the window to see them both crouching behind a car. One pulled down her skirt, then the other.

Squinted, but couldn’t tell the pubic hair situation. Too dark. The lighting, not the hair.

They both started peeing.

A guy friend was on lookout at the entrance to the parking lot. One of the girls groaned and said, “Ew, I got it on my foot!”

I yelled, “I see you!”

I’ve been hiding on the floor for twenty minutes.

* * *

There are other stories – like the time a marching band set up to practice in the parking lot across the street on a Tuesday night. One of my neighbors came out in her pajamas and chased a fat tuba player down the block. He fell on his face and everyone laughed at him, even his band friends.

I guess I just live in a weird neighborhood, a place where it’s normal to scream into darkness, pee behind cars, scuffle with hookers and lie bloodied in the street. I’ll just sit watching from my rear window, taking notes on the pad of paper I keep next to the scissors, three dead AA batteries, crucifix, Obama condom, and packet of soy sauce, observing the weirdos as they pass through the night.

View of my rear window from hooker level

I turn on the TV at night…

I am a man. I am lost. For what I lack in wit, I make up for in abundance with body hair, body odor and body fat. I am stupid, forgetful, balding, dishonest, hopeless, impotent, insensitive, crude, horny, aggressive, lazy, and stubborn. I am not a good dresser, dancer, or listener. If I am, then I am gay.

I like trucks, not theater. I like steak, not salad. I like facts, not fiction.

I like basements. I call them caves.

I’m weaker than you think I am. I’m stronger than you think I’m not. I can be improved.

* * *

I turn on the TV at night…

I am a woman. I am emotional. For what I lack in physical strength, I make up for in abundance with body shaving, body lotions and body issues. I am ditsy, hormonal, hungry, fat, vain, helpless, weak, promiscuous, judgmental, crazy, wrinkled, and afraid. I am not a good fighter, athlete, or leader. If I am, then I am gay.

I like shopping, not sports. I like to gossip, not govern. I like fashion, not finance.

I like the Kardashians. I can’t keep up with them.

I’m stronger than you think I am. I’m weaker than you think I’m not. I can be improved.

* * *

I wake up in the morning…

I am a man. I have brown shoes, and black. I have one pair of jeans, and one pair of underwear. I know they have holes in them, and I don’t mind. I have one suit, and one tie. I have one set of bed sheets, and one set of bed pillows. I have one towel. I have one roll of toilet paper.

I get depressed sometimes.

I secretly watch romantic comedies, listen to pop music, read celebrity blogs, and count calories. I secretly watch Bravo. I secretly wonder if I’m good enough, smart enough, strong enough. I want to be better, smarter, stronger. I am tired of being competitive.

I wish I had more hair on my head, more money in the bank, and more friends on the weekend. I don’t have friends. I have drinking buddies. I wish I had less inches on my waist, and more inches below it. I wish I didn’t disappoint so much.

I cry sometimes.

I pretend to know more than I actually do. I pretend to know less than I actually do. I suck in my gut when you pass, and flex my arm when you touch. I’m not this confident. I’m not this outdoorsy or handy. I’m not this brave.

I’m in awe of you sometimes.

* * *

I wake up in the morning…

I am a woman. I have exactly as many shoes as I need, never enough as I want, and I hate all of my clothes. I have a lot of pants I can’t fit into, and I have a lot of underwear I can’t be seen in. I like to be comfortable. I like to be sexy. I don’t like when I’m not either.

I smell bad sometimes.

I think I need chocolate and cheese, and I do. I love the way the beach makes me feel. I hate the way bathing suits make me feel. I am just like any other woman, but I am nothing like every other woman. I want higher cheekbones, a lower weight, larger breasts, smaller hips. I have big feet and big ankles, big thighs and a big ass, a big nose and a big forehead. I hate the word moist.

I cover up more than I show. I’m tired of being frustrated. I want a first kiss feeling. I want to chase, be chased, caught, tied up, tied down, released, and freed. I don’t want to explain when. I want to be wanted.

I secretly root for my best friends to fail sometimes.

I pretend to care more than I actually do. I pretend to care less than I actually do. I pretend not to notice you sucking in your gut when I pass, and flexing your arm when I touch. I’m not this confident. I’m not this domestic or gentle. I’m not this brave.

I’m in awe of you sometimes.

* * *

]]> http://thewittygritty.com/2012/05/09/night-and-day/feed/ 0 thewittygritty masks http://thewittygritty.com/2012/05/02/the-guat-part-four-home/ http://thewittygritty.com/2012/05/02/the-guat-part-four-home/#comments Wed, 02 May 2012 13:29:37 +0000 Sean Carney http://thewittygritty.com/?p=891 Continue reading →]]> When we last left Sean, he had two days left in Guatemala, and had just emerged from a swim in the lake to find a topless woman sunbathing.

* * *

After tossing my backpack into the darkness of the hotel room, I held the down button on the air conditioning keypad until it read 55 degrees. Then I took off all my clothes.

I stood there awhile underneath the vent, naked and caked in filth while the fake frosted air washed over me. Turning to the bathroom, I flipped the light on and saw fresh, white towels, soaps, shampoos, bath salts, and lotions. A tear formed in one eye and slid down the dirt dried sweat on my cheek. It was all so beautiful.

The shower lasted forty minutes, and I alternated sitting and standing, crouching and arching, front and back, bent and straight. I moaned, whimpered, laughed, cried and clawed at the tile, savoring its coolness under the heavy torrent of scalding water on my shoulders.

When I finally emerged, the mirror had fogged over, and I took one of the large towels to mop it away, scared to look at myself until I was sure I had burned off the grime of the Guatemalan countryside. My reflection slowly came into focus.

* * *

It was a luxury hotel, five-stars, one of the best in Guatemala City. I had sprung for the room on my final night, knowing that I’d be exhausted from roughing it the previous week. It did not disappoint, and the dramatic marble lobby, lavish spa, and high-end restaurants seemed otherworldly. Their bathrooms also had excellent lighting, much better than the ones in the jungle.

Which is probably why I didn’t realize that the sun block I’d purchased for the trip was actually Jergens Natural Glow, a self-tanning lotion… which I had been applying twice a day, all week long.

I was orange.

My face was orange. My shaved head was orange. My hands were orange. And, almost more embarrassing, only one of my ears was orange.

* * *

I thought back to the woman lying on the blanket. The one with the short brown hair and the long toned legs. The one with the dolphin tattoo on her right shoulder.

The one who was topless.

* * *

“Woah! I’m sorry. I was breast taking a nip…a dip! I was just taking a dip… in the lake and didn’t realize anyone was…”

And then I slipped on a rock and fell into the water.

She didn’t seem to mind, and when I managed to crawl back onto the sundeck she had replaced her bikini top and contorted herself into a yoga pose.

“Yoga. Cool. I’ve never tried it before. I heard a story once about a guy who got so tangled up he shit himself in front of the entire class. Can you imagine that? So, ya know.”

Quick, ask her to marry you. What are you thinking?! A guy who shit himself? ‘Imagine that?’ ‘Ya know?’ Are you asking her if she knows about shitting herself, and if not, to imagine it? Jesus. Say something else.

“I’m Sean, what room are you in?”

…so I can murder you later in your sleep. Fix your words.

“I mean, are you staying at the hotel? I’m Sean. I already said that. Haha. It’s hot out here, huh? Sweet dolphin tattoo. So, what room are you in?”

Stop talking.

The woman smiled and untwisted herself, rising up from the deck on one leg. She was so attractive my eyelids sweat. But she said nothing. Instead, she grabbed her towel and started walking away towards the path leading back to the hotel. I yelled after her.

“Nice meeting you! Sorry about…me!”

She rounded the corner and was gone.

I looked for her at dinner that night, but she never showed. At the time I guessed that I had scared her off with my conversation, however in retrospect it was probably a combination of that, and the fact that I was orange.

* * *

The next morning I was due to meet Danny and Moses where they had dropped me off in the beginning of the week. I’d called them the night before from the hotel phone to confirm the time, but wasn’t confident my message had been understood.

“It’s Sean, from the other day.”

“John Frumdi? We remember you? The other day?”

“Danny. Listen. It’s Sean. The American. You drove me from Antigua, remember?”

“Hello, John. It’s Moses. Like the Bible. We remember you, John. 11 o’clock. Tee tee why el, John.”

(click)

“Wait, hello? Moses?”

* * *

I was standing about a hundred feet away from the dock and leaning on what I thought was a wall. Danny and Moses were 2 hours late. Suddenly, a metal slot opened inches from my head and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered out. I squinted back at them and the slot slammed closed. A door opened and out walked a man with a machine gun.

“Oh, good. You’re police, right? Is there a payphone around here? I need to call my ride.”

“No policia.”

“No? So…just a guy with a machine gun then?”

“Mosquitoes.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw that both of my legs were covered in mosquitoes. I began shaking and slapping at them, dancing into the street and asking the man to open fire. The bites weren’t painful, but when I pulled my hand away, it was smeared in blood. Days later my legs looked like a teenager’s face.

I decided to abandon that spot and walk into town to see if there were any payphones, or at least people less heavily armed. Each booth I passed showed evidence of a phone long since ripped out. One was being used as a chicken coop, and one contained a sleeping drunk. I hadn’t gone far when another man materialized from the shadows, and just began screaming.

“Ahh! Ahhyee!!”

“WHY?!”

Sometimes, when surprised, I blurt out the word “why.” It’s a reflex, but I also hope that questioning the attacker’s motives might make him reconsider.

“American! Haha! Where you going?”

“Guatemala City.”

“Si, si! Guate! Guate!”

He pushed me onto a bus, closed the door and disappeared again. It had taken about five seconds. I was beginning to realize I was someone easily kidnapped.

I flopped in a seat by the window and cracked it open. I’d heard of these buses. They were called “chicken buses,” and derived their name from the crates of live poultry crammed next to passengers. They were actually just old yellow school buses, and had been shipped down through Mexico from the US like unwanted orphans, eventually ending up in Guatemala and painted bright colors to distract from the fact they didn’t have doors and you were about to die.

This bus seemed in relatively good condition and except for a few local women, it was mainly empty. After paying the driver 10Q (approx. $1.30), I settled in for what I thought was a five-hour ride to Guatemala City. After an hour, I was told to get off.

* * *

I stood on the side of a highway with hundreds of native Guatemalan men, women and children, pushing and pulling ourselves away from the road. Buses screamed by inches from our heads and every five minutes one of them would roar to a stop, dropping dozens off while twice as many crammed their way on. It was chaos.

I had been shoved to the front of the crowd and had no choice but to elbow my way through a mass of people onto the bus. Usually, school buses have two people to a seat. This bus had six. I didn’t walk as much as I fell into those in front of me, a giant orange man squirming around until I moved to a half-squat in the aisle, only one cheek on the seat.

Then we were off.

We whipped up, down, and around the mountainside at breakneck speeds, forcing the passengers to grip anything they could and lean into each turn. The driver made no more stops, and would simply honk twice and slow the bus enough to allow people to jump off, and more to jump on. If there was no room, the man at the front door would throw them back into the jungle like a bouncer.

We rode like this…for four hours.

* * *

I ended up at a remote bus depot in what looked to be a very bad section of town…in what I hoped was Guatemala City. My legs were cramped from the journey, I couldn’t find a taxi stand, and the sun was setting. So, in the last stupid act of my journey, I hitchhiked for the third time, promising a local man that if he took me to my hotel, I’d give him everything I had left in my wallet.

The hotel was two blocks away.

I gave him $60.

* * *

The next morning at 5 AM, still orange but refreshed from my shower and naked night of air conditioning, I climbed into the airport shuttle and started my journey home. I called a car service during my layover in Houston and by the time I arrived in Philadelphia a town car was waiting for me.

I immediately told him to take me to Campos, a popular cheesesteak spot on the corner of my street. When I got there, a long line of families blocked the entrance, confused and unsure how to order.

Fucking tourists.

I turned away and pushed through the doors.

A familiar scene, gutter streams, mountains of concrete, sneakered feet cresting shores of pavement lakes, underground iron snakes, telephone line jungle vines with wooden spines, cries of car horns and newborns, spires of barbed wire thorns, a smoky sooty city sauna – my Philly flora and fauna.

I was home.

The only picture I could take from the chicken bus window as we careened around a cliff

* * *

His name was Bill, and he was from Chicago.

And Bill was insane.

“People say I’m a genius,” Bill said. “I am. I’m also a photographer. I take pictures of all the queens from the villages. They’re in love with me, ya know. The queens. They text me all the time.”

“I have a friend who’s a queen from the village,” I shouted back. “The West Village.”

I waited for recognition, and it came slowly.

“You mean New York City?”

“I do.”

“I never liked New York City. Too much violence and traffic…and Jews. But I guess you get used to it.”

“The Jews?”

“No, the traffic.”

I could barely hear him over the wind and chop of the water as we bounced across the ink-black lake. Danny and Moses hadn’t killed me, and instead had gotten me to a remote dock just in time to catch the last boat to my hotel. These small, powder-blue vessels were like taxis on Lake Atitlan, except they were filled with a dozen Guatemalans and you can’t drown in a taxi.

Bill was overweight, and the boat sank lower on his side. He had thin white hair and a thick white mustache. He wore a large floral shirt tucked into impossibly short shorts and was picking his toes, flicking bits of nail which were blown into the crowd seated behind us.

“I had a professor once,” Bill said, screaming into the wind at no one in particular. “And he told me that I wasn’t very smart, but that most geniuses weren’t. So I told him that Hitler was a vegetarian. And that was the end of that.”

Hitler?

“But then some girl chimed in,” he continued. “Shelly was her name. From the South Side. That slut. And I had to remind her that even Martha Stewart had a gynecologist. Ya know?”

I’m in a tiny boat, in a lake, in Guatemala, sitting next to an escaped lunatic lamenting over Shelly, the South Side slut.

“What’s your name?”

It’s too loud. Sean is too close to Shelly. Make something up.

“Doug. My name is Doug.”

“I had an uncle named Doug. I liked him.”

Phew.

“Shame what had to happen.”

What?

The boat suddenly lost power and we began drifting towards a dock, the sounds of clinking drinks and laughter guiding us through the darkness.

“Ahoy there! Welcome to paradise!”

* * *

Bill wouldn’t let me leave the boat until I promised to meet him later that week for some beers. I agreed, though he never named a specific location for our reunion. I assumed he’d just be tracking me until he got thirsty.

(I’ve decided that I’m not going to name the hotel I stayed at while in Guatemala. If anyone is interested, I’m happy to tell them, but I have too much love and respect for the owners of the hotel to have their livelihood compromised by my idiotic ramblings.)

The hotel was cut into the side of a mountain, and was accessible only by boat, or by hiking through the jungle. Gray stone paths zigzagged upwards from the water’s edge through lush, flower-filled foliage, eventually leading to a Mediterranean-style villa that housed the restaurant, office and a few suites. The rest of the rooms were private residences dotting the steep hillside, and almost all of them afforded 180-degree views of the lake and volcanoes surrounding it.

It was incredible.

But it was dark when I arrived, and I didn’t see any of that until the morning. What I did see when I arrived was an Australian man with a huge welt on his forehead.

“Jesus, what happened to you?”

“Scorpion. Little bugger stung me in my face when I slept. Nothing a few pints won’t cure though, mate.”

* * *

I have contact lenses, and I remove them each night when I go to sleep. Therefore, when I wake up in the morning, I’m essentially blind. I had been traveling for sixteen hours, and when I opened my eyes that next day in Guatemala, I was disoriented. When I blinked a few times, I still felt out of it. I didn’t remember there being wallpaper the night before.

I hopped out of bed and stretched, making my way to the bathroom where I put in my contacts. And if the other residents hadn’t woken up yet, they were certainly roused by my scream.

The wall was covered with spiders.

Large spiders. Dozens of them. And on the floor? Three scorpions.

I had woken up in ‘Fear Factor.’

Screaming turned to squealing, which turned to praying, which turned to cursing, which turned to wailing, which turned to moaning, which finally turned into something between a menstruating cat, and Fred Flintstone passing a kidney stone.

All I had at my disposal in terms of weaponry was a flimsy flyswatter, a towel, and a crucifix that hung on the wall. I grabbed the crucifix and flung it towards the spiders.

“The power of Christ compels you! Leave this place!”

One of the spiders fell off the wall and into my backpack.

Well, I’ll just have to burn that.

I grabbed my passport and hopped barefoot out of the villa, conceding the room (and the country) to the insects. When I got to the front desk they reminded me that I was in a jungle and handed me another flyswatter. By the time I got back to my room though, the spiders and scorpions had disappeared.

To where, I had no idea.

* * *

After the previous 24 hours, I decided that rather than explore the surrounding villages I would just spend the rest of my vacation hanging out on the various sundecks reading. If it got hot, I hopped in the lake. If it got cold, I hopped out. Life was simple, easy – a sunny office of mixed-drink meetings and sweet-dream deadlines. I eventually forgot about the indigenous wildlife, and the snakes, spiders and scorpions all blended into a blissful benign background.

But paradise wasn’t enough for me. After a few days into my stay I decided to spice things up and hop a boat into San Pedro, one of the neighboring villages frequented by hippie backpackers who assured me it was “mellow.”

I had only been in town for about five minutes before someone pulled a machete on me.

In fairness, he was trying to sell it to me, but all I had heard was random Spanish, and all I had seen was a large blade. The man, a lean, tattooed fellow, soon found my wallet and backpack at his feet, and a puddle of yellow forming under mine. The mistake was quickly explained by a passing bilingual teacher, and I gathered my belongings and ran away.

After wandering around the village for awhile, darting away from anyone who approached, I came upon a bar and decided to pop in for a beer or six to calm the nerves. I had just launched into a conversation with the two British owners when I heard a voice booming from the far end of the room.

“And that’s all well and good, but I once got attacked by a whole pack of dogs.”

I’d managed to keep my date with Bill.

* * *

“There were five, no, ten of them,” Bill said, still not necessarily speaking to us. “Like sharks. But, ya know, dogs. So I find the main one, the alpha, and I just punch him in the neck. And that was that.”

Bill then raised a toast of whatever he was drinking, downed the glass and left. I never saw him again.

* * *

The next morning I got up early and went for a swim, the water cold and deep. The lake had risen 5 meters over the past year alone, and flooded much of the low-lying real estate. A woman in town had told me that priests and other spiritual elders were praying for an earthquake, to shake free the debris that had clogged the lake’s outlet so that the water level could lower.

Only in Guatemala do people pray for a natural disaster.

Submerged stone homes and moss-covered docks loomed beneath me, and I floated flat on the surface for awhile staring down at them, imagining mermaids enjoying tea in the kitchen or vacuuming shells from the living room. After awhile, the water got rough and I swam around to the other side of the hotel, where the lake jutted into the mountain and formed a private lagoon. I climbed out on some rocks and there, about ten feet from me, was a woman lying on a blanket.

She had short brown hair and long toned legs, and I could just barely make out the tattoo of a dolphin on her right shoulder.

It wasn’t until she turned towards me that I noticed she was topless.

To be concluded next Wednesday in Part Four, when Sean is stranded in the jungle and forced to find his way back to Guatemala City.

* * *

The car ahead of us was on fire. And no one seemed to mind.

Pedestrians sidestepped between the gridlock and casually tossed wrappers and soda cans into the flames as they passed. The only person who stopped had done so in a failed attempt to light a cigarette.

The cousins briefly conferred in the front seat and decided the most efficient course of action was to honk twice and accelerate, ramming us into the back of the car.

They hadn’t shared this plan with their passengers though, and we all jolted forward on impact. The move was evidently meant to push the flaming heap off to the side of the road where the driver could burn to death without impeding traffic, but instead we were surprised to see him hop out and climb aboard an idling bus.

Problem solved.

The two honks by the cousins were not done randomly, and honking in Guatemala has a special cadence understood by all motorists.

One honk = “Hello.”

Two honks = “Heads up.”

Three honks = “FYI, we’re all about to die.”

Cars were everywhere – on sidewalks, driving the wrong way, driving backwards, driving sideways, parked in the middle of the street, or just abandoned completely. Passengers clung to roofs, sides, fronts, and backs. There were buses, bikes, wagons, horses, chickens, goats, scooters, jeeps, trucks, and things called “tuk-tuks,” bastardized machines that looked the result of a golf-cart mating with a motorcycle.

A few minutes after we’d passed the car fire, our driver honked three times and steered us directly into the path of an oncoming truck. I felt like a goose committing suicide. I squeezed the foot of the Brazilian woman on my lap, hoping she was the equivalent of a South American rabbit, and she screamed. When I eventually opened my eyes I discovered it wasn’t the pain that caused her alarm…

It was a penis.

We had managed to avoid slamming into opposing traffic, but were now stuck behind a bus. And as we sat there, a man holding a sandwich stumbled over to my window and pulled out his penis.

Interesting development. I hope this isn’t the Guatemalan version of a toll booth. What would a bridge crossing cost? The name would make a good sexual position though. “The Guatemalan Toll Booth.” Is he eating the same sandwich we were served on the plane? I should’ve eaten. I’m starving. Why is he just standing there? Am I being rude? Is this how they say hello?

I felt a lot better when he started urinating against my door. The Brazilian woman didn’t share my relief, or the relief of the man urinating, and continued screaming until our driver leaned out of his window and threw a tennis ball at the man’s head. The shock of the tennis ball caused him to urinate on himself, and I hoped he wasn’t on his way to any meeting that would notice.

“Pablo. You’re late. Again. And wait, is that…is that urine?”

“I swear it’s not my fault this time, sir. I was minding my own business, pissing in the street like everyone else, and this guy comes out of nowhere and throws a freakin tennis ball at my head! So I…”

“I don’t want to hear it, Pablo. Jenkins is getting the promotion.”

* * *

About an hour later we found ourselves winding through hilly countryside as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. Freed from the gritty depression of the inner city, the mood of our group began to lift, helped tremendously by the fact that enough time had passed to prove our drivers didn’t harbor any murderous intent.

Soon we had arrived in Antigua, a city I was looking forward to visiting as I had heard of its colonial charm and colorful painted adobe homes. Before we could make it into town though, we nearly ran over a tourist who had stopped in the middle of the street in an attempt to take a picture of a dead parrot.

The man was sickly thin, and his newly purchased, starched jungle khakis hung loose from his gaunt frame. His head seemed an almost perfect circle though, and atop it was perched a floppy fedora, curved up on one side and festooned with a tail feather that may or may not have belonged to the creature he was photographing. When he turned towards the two honks of our car, my worst fears were confirmed.

He was American.

Why do American tourists feel the need to wear clothing labeled with the states they’re from? Do we think the locals will confuse us as neighbors? If anything, the locals must think our government requires us to wear this clothing, as a sort of dog collar identifying where to ship us if we’re found – white vans dropping off dazed families in front of Hard Rock Cafés all over the United States.

As the man in the Wisconsin t-shirt finally moved to let us pass, I avoided the glares from the others in the car by looking out the opposite window, where I noticed a Guatemalan man wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey.

The cousins dropped us off outside a comic book store and casually tossed our backpacks in the gutter before speeding off down the street. The Brazilian woman, who had been on my lap for the past two hours, immediately turned and smacked her husband across the face. Then she hugged him and started to cry. I moved to join them, but for some reason was turned away.

No matter. It was five o’clock and I was determined to move on to Panajachel, which was still over three hours away. After bidding farewell to the Brazilians, I figured the best way to find a new ride was to avoid the numerous travel agencies lining the street and instead find a bar. It was there, over a round of cloudy Tequila shots, that I met Danny and Moses.

* * *

Danny was 35 years old, and Moses was 18, though Moses was taller than Danny by about a foot. They were out drinking to celebrate the fact they were now brothers-in-law, as Danny had married the sister of Moses the day before. Danny took an immediate interest in me, and he wasn’t the only one. I was a novelty in this dark, dusty bar and the other patrons gathered around me as if my pale skin emitted moonlight.

Danny seemed sympathetic when he heard I needed a ride to Panajachel, but I couldn’t be sure if the concern was genuine, because his heavy accent made each sentence seem like a question.

“We can drive you? I have a car? A good car? You will get there? Ehhhhh….”

“Are you asking me? I’ve never seen your car. Why don’t you have shoes on?”

“You trust us to drive? You can trust us? Ehhh…”

“So you don’t know if you have a car, and you’re not sure if I should trust you?”

“Like the Bible?”

He had introduced himself earlier by saying their names were Danny and Moses, “like the Bible.” Meaning, I should trust them. When I turned to Moses for his input, I saw that he was bleeding from a cut on his hand. I asked how he’d injured himself and he just smiled and pointed to his head, which cleared things up.

Thirty minutes and five shots later, I followed them out through the back door of the bar and into an alley where their car was waiting. It was in much better condition than the first car I’d ridden in, and I took that as a positive sign. Also they had bought the first round inside, so I trusted them implicitly.

Handing over my backpack, I hopped in the backseat and was passed a fresh bottle of rum for us to share on the journey. When we pulled out of town we passed the American tourist in the Wisconsin t-shirt not far from where I had first seen him. Moses threw a CD at him.

After clearing the city limits, we struggled up a steep incline until we came to a fork in the road. To the right was a well-paved highway, and off to the left looked to be a more residential dirt road. Danny grabbed the rum from me and took a long swig before handing it back.

“Dónde? You want long way? Or you want fun way?”

Moses sensed my apprehension and chimed in with his opinion, which were the first words I’d heard him speak.

“This will be like Playstation on life, man.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic, and took a pull of rum.

“The fun way. Let’s take the fun way.”

* * *

I woke up to ringing in my head and whispering from the front seat, the bottle of rum now empty and serving as my pillow. It was dark and we were driving fast down a narrow cobblestoned street.

Before I could say anything the car skidded to a stop and sent me rolling onto the floor. One of the doors opened and I heard the faint noise of waves lapping against the shoreline. Moses yelled out in Spanish. Rising to one knee, I peeked out the window and saw three red cigarette tips approaching.

I crouched back down, waiting as the sound of footsteps grew closer.

To be continued next Wednesday in Part Three, when Sean explores the native villages surrounding the lake, and is chased by a local with a machete.

The last picture I took from the back of the car before falling asleep

]]> http://thewittygritty.com/2012/04/18/the-guat-part-two-the-fun-way/feed/ 0 thewittygritty Guatemala http://thewittygritty.com/2012/04/11/the-guat-part-one-one-pair-of-underwear/ http://thewittygritty.com/2012/04/11/the-guat-part-one-one-pair-of-underwear/#comments Wed, 11 Apr 2012 13:57:27 +0000 Sean Carney http://thewittygritty.com/?p=862 Continue reading →]]> According to various travel websites, among the things to “avoid” during a trip to Guatemala are: active volcanoes, spiders, scorpions, rapists, murderers, drug cartels, pickpockets, child sex traffickers, kidnappers, extortionists, roving packs of rabid dogs, and the occasional mob, military uprising or government coup d’état.

Other things to avoid? Drinking the water, eating the food, breathing the air, closing your eyes, opening your eyes, going out at night, going out during the day, public transportation, private transportation, people, places, things, and finally, stepping foot in the country at all.

Among the things to “seek out” are: protection, weaponry, a higher power, and shelter – due to the ubiquitous earthquakes, hurricanes, forest fires, mudslides and floods that only occur all of the time, in every location.

I had packed one pair of underwear.

* * *

“That’s tremendous,” I said, louder than intended.

“What is?” asked the woman seated across the aisle.

My plane was delayed on the runway at Houston International Airport and I was five hours into the ten-hour journey from Philadelphia to Guatemala.

“That guy up there,” I said. “He’s wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Jesus Saves.’”

“So?”

“So? So he’s enormous and he just got stuck in the aisle. Look at him! Squirming around. You’d think the sweat would be a lubricant. Hey, ya know what else saves, buddy? Dieting. Am I right?”

When the man who turned out to be her husband freed himself and arrived back at their seat, I decided to turn my attention to my left. There sat a shriveled raisin of a person, gnawed like the stub of the cigar he was licking, and he was not only donning a bedazzled cowboy hat, but he was pulling the look off.

Reaching into the small backpack wedged between my legs, I checked on my passport and pulled out the itinerary I’d created for my trip. This plane would take me as far as Guatemala City, and from there I’d have to make my way four hours cross-country into the Western Highlands. I was headed to a town called Panajachel that sat on the banks of Lake Atitlan, lauded as one of the most gorgeous lakes in the world.

It wasn’t until we began our descent into Guatemala City that I smelled the smoke. I considered that the plane was so old it had windows that rolled down, but knew something was wrong when I saw a flight attendant running towards me.

The man seated next to me had lit his cigar.

Tiny legs crossed and cowboy hat dipped, he was the picture of serenity before the flight attendant pulled the stogie from his mouth. He licked his dry, white-cracked lips and cocked his head towards me.

“Bienvenido a Guatemala.”

* * *

Guatemala City Airport could be any Midwestern hub, and I was disappointed to see the Starbucks didn’t exist in a thatched hut with bare-breasted baristas serving scones. Clearing customs was a complicated affair, and tourists were required to abide by strict protocol.

Step One: Smile at the woman behind the counter.

Step Two: Walk past her.

I had no means of travel, no working cell phone, no internet access, no grasp of the Spanish language, no understanding of indigenous culture, no local currency, and no information on my hotel other than a name scrawled on a scrap of paper. I wasn’t even entirely confident in my ability to point out where the country of Guatemala (if it was indeed a country) existed on a map. But this was all by design. I wasn’t just on vacation, I was on an adventure, and where was the fun in guaranteed survival?

In front of me was a sign that read “salida,” which I guessed meant either “exit,” “entrance,” or “salad.” Regardless, there was a door and I hadn’t eaten, so I pushed through it… and walked into Hell’s waiting room.

Screaming, sign-laden lunatics clamored to get the attention of anyone white and in need of a ride. They were being held back by Uzi-toting security guards and flanked by trucks hocking out black exhaust that would momentarily engulf everyone in plumes of darkness.

Had I landed in Trenton?

Each move forward made the crowd surge with anticipation, and for a moment I was stutter-stepping in confusion, which caused a rocking motion that looked like they were doing the wave. Before I could choose a direction, I was shoved aside by the obese man in the “Jesus Saves” t-shirt from the plane. He and his wife climbed aboard an idling bus, evidently anxious to do God’s work in air-conditioned seclusion.

Moving over to some available shade, I was soon approached by another man dressed like a cowboy. This one was not of the Western persuasion, but more of the Toy Story variety, and of similar size.

“What you want? Hotel? T-shirts? Sex? You want girls?”

“What? We’re at an airport. Why would I want a t-shirt?”

“American! Deadliest Catching! Walled Street! Dancing with Kardashians! Gaga Obama!”

Had he just summed up the past five years in American history? In order?

“Where you from? New York? Florida? Dayton, Ohio?”

“Yes, I’m from Dayton, Ohio. Do you know where I can find a cab? I need to get to Panajachel.”

“Ahh, Pana! Si. No one will take you there. It’s almost dark.”

“What happens after dark?”

“Ha ha! See him?”

The cowboy pointed to a spray-painted wall where the body of a man was slumped in a pile of trash. His eyes were closed and there looked to be dried blood on his face.

And…that’s a corpse.

“Jesus Christ…is he dead?”

“Dead? No.”

“But…”

“I made sex to his sister yesterday. Ha ha!”

Today counts as a vacation day. I now have one less vacation day.

“So, why can’t I travel after dark?

“They will kill you.”

“Who?”

The cowboy smiled and waved his arm in the air as if to signal he was speaking about the entire population. I looked back at the crowd.

Did that baby have a knife?

“I can get you to Antigua for a tip. How much you want to pay?”

“I don’t know, 20Q?”

The Guatemalan currency is the Quetzal, and the exchange rate is approximately 1 US Dollar = 8 Quetzals, or “Q.” I’d just offered him about $2.50 US, but ended up paying $20 US. He was a very convincing cowboy, and he threw in a t-shirt and a half-eaten sandwich. He also offered naked pictures of his friend’s sister, which I declined.

The cowboy ushered me over to a waiting couple, who I assumed he’d also swindled, and we waited as he jabbered into a cell phone. Twenty minutes later, a beat-up, two-door brown hatchback sputtered to a stop in front of us. The side of the car had a decal that said “Hunda” and all of the windows were tinted except for the passenger side, which had been smashed in.

The back door opened and two men jumped out, one of whom simply ran away. The other smiled to showcase his remaining three teeth and grabbed my backpack, tossing it into the open trunk, which for some reason I allowed. The couple, who turned out to be Brazilian and on their honeymoon, exchanged worried glances before allowing him to take their bag as well.

The cowboy pulled me aside.

“Okay, these are my cousins. They are very good. Very sexy. They will take care of you.”

“They will take us to Antigua?”

Wait, did he say sexy?

“Si, Antigua. One hour, maybe four. But the Brazilians, they paid double so don’t tell them what you paid, okay? Okay. You my friend, you get a special price. Call me when you need a ride back. We can go get girls.”

With that, the cowboy slapped me on my ass and went over to inform his “cousins” where the best place to dump our bodies would be. I tried smiling at the couple to reassure them, but they were praying and not interested in bonding. That changed when all three of us were required to sit in back, and with the limited room I soon found myself with a Brazilian woman sprawled across my lap.

“Antigua, right?”

My question was barely heard over the radio, which sounded like a chicken being raped by an asthmatic donkey.

Would I meet a similar fate?

“How long to Antigua?”

The driver turned to the man next to him and both started laughing. Then they shifted the car into gear and off we went, thumping over a dead dog in the road as we whipped around the corner and into Guatemala City.

 One hour to Antigua…maybe four.

I gripped the sweaty ankle of the Brazilian woman in my lap, and wished I had packed more than one pair of underwear.

To be continued next Wednesday, when Sean meets two men inside of a bar and agrees to let them drive the additional three hours to Panajachel…at night.

Unless you’re prone to sleeping in bus stations, this is an unlikely scenario. The man smiled, teeth crooked and yellowed, and he made an effort to stand upright as if presenting himself for inspection.

Had I ordered a South American man and not remembered? What would I feed him? Were the sneakers some sort of ceremonial gift? I had gotten him nothing. What would I name him? Would management allow me to keep a miniature human in the apartment?

Before I could confirm any of these questions, the man moved past me, opened the door to the stairwell, and disappeared.

Where was he going? He had no leash, no tags.

It was then that I noticed a ladder leaning against the wall and assumed the man was simply the super I hadn’t met yet, and not a mail order South American. I was relieved, and a little disappointed, but hit the button for the elevator and waited. Then I saw his head poke back out from the stairwell, look over at me, and retreat again.

The elevator opened and I backed in, keeping an eye on the far end of the hallway. As the doors slid closed I saw him re-emerge from the stairwell, skin glistening with sweat, and turn towards my apartment.

Most people would assume he was going to fix a busted hallway light, or tinker with some cosmetic problem. I knew the real reason. He was going to hang out on my couch and watch TV.

Maybe he’d order some on-demand movies, or forego the couch entirely in favor of slipping into a warm bath, reading one of my novels and sighing as the tepid water lapped against his chin. He most certainly would change into my underwear when his bath was finished, but probably not before air-drying by candlelight. Or maybe he’d just stay naked, rolling around making snow angels in my cereal before replacing it in the box, and using my computer to cyber sex with his girlfriend in Ecuador, who he was planning on breaking up with anyway, since he was now fond of using my bed to nap with diseased prostitutes.

Paranoid? Illogical? I had my reasons. This is that story.

* * *

I moved to Manhattan in the summer of 2005. Unable to afford my own place, or a place with one roommate…or two roommates, I’d just signed my portion of a year-lease on 73^rd & York with three others, none of whom I had ever met before. I had replied to an ad on Craigslist, and the three other roommates were women, so in my mind an orgy was inevitable.

I was just happy to have found a spot, and had been commuting from Philadelphia for the previous three weeks. The “apartment” we’d just rented was a 500-sq-foot, fourth-floor walk-up, and the layout did not include a common living space. You walked into a galley kitchen, and to your right was a long hallway with four bedroom doors. The “bedrooms” themselves had wooden ladders that led to tiny sleeping lofts which, when a mattress was added, meant you couldn’t sit upright in bed without hitting the ceiling. Coffins had more head room.

Most windows in front, including my bedroom, opened onto moldy brick walls, and we hung posters of beaches and forests on them to give the appearance of a view. The back of the apartment building was next to a garbage dump, and over time we found it convenient to be able to open one of the back windows and toss bags into a waiting pile. The mice found our apartment convenient though also, and had gotten quite territorial.

But I was twenty-three and those things didn’t bother me much. We adjusted to the lack of sunlight and hot water, and instead bided our time playing golf, taking full swings with sand wedges and slamming golf balls down the hallway because who cares and it scared the mice.

Warning signs of what was to come were evident from the beginning, when we found a squatter had been living in our bathroom. My parents had given me a ride up to the city and wanted to see the place. I had only been there once before, briefly on a group tour a few weeks beforehand, and when I opened the door this time, a bearded man stepped towards us.

“Oh, hello,” my mom said, in typical Catholic fashion. “You must be the realtor.”

The man, wearing cut off jean shorts and covered in filth, grunted in agreement.

“Yes,” I chimed in. “This is the realtor. Thanks for leaving the place open, Mr. Feldman. You can go now.”

The squatter grunted again, grabbed a roll of toilet paper and a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and stumbled down the hall. I later confessed to my mom that he wasn’t the realtor, but I think she got the hint when she saw him passed out in the gutter when we left that day.

Besides the dead mice and squatter residue, the main issue was that our super was crazy. One of the first weeks in the apartment, during a thunderstorm no less, he climbed in the back window from our fire escape at midnight. The girls all screamed (along with me), and we cowered in my room with a Whiffle Ball bat, which I still have to this day.

“It started raining when I was out there,” the super said as he stomped past my room. “What did you expect me to do?”

We always locked our windows after that.

While he remained insane for the year we all lived together, he didn’t let all of his crazy out until we gave notice that we were leaving. In that building, they needed three months notice, but based on our experiences there, we gave them seven. The problem was, our super took this as a white flag of surrender.

One morning, as I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a towel, I heard some noises coming from outside the bathroom door. I opened it, and there were four Asian girls standing there giggling. The super was beside them.

“Put some fucking clothes on,” he yelled at me.

Then he made a dramatic wave of his arm.

“Here’s the rest of the place, we’ll see the bathroom later.”

It continued like that…for six weeks.

Almost every night we’d come home to find different people in our apartment, looking through our rooms, using the toilet. Of course we complained to the landlord, Eli Samuels, but he was an absentee slumlord, and rarely in the city.

And so we lived in constant anxiety, not knowing who would be guest starring in our sitcom each evening. Oh, and locking ourselves in our bedrooms didn’t work either, because the rudeness of this act would enrage our super so much that he would bang on the doors hard enough that they’d almost come off their hinges. I’d then open the door sheepishly, and apologize for the delay in the tour.

“Hello,” I’d say to the Eastern European man and his girlfriend. “This is my room, sorry it’s so messy.”

And flashbulbs would go off.

We heard later that the super died of a heart attack and they found him in the basement boiler room, but this was never confirmed. Most in the building assumed he had already died in the early 1900s, and was a demon cursed to roam the hallways of the building for eternity. That would have explained his constant agitation, but ghosts never smelled that bad.

Despite his maniacal tendencies, the super did have some redeeming qualities that impacted my life – such as his tendency to sit in the lobby quietly reading other tenants’ mail. That habit inspired a good part of my novel, and in his defense, the mail had usually been marked, “Return to Sender.”

Usually.

But whenever I caught my super reading that mail, I noticed that he never looked happier. Propped on his ancient, wooden chair next to the stairs, I swear that once I even saw him smiling. It was like dipping into the world of someone else, if only for just a few moments, gave the man more joy than anything else his own life could offer. And who was I to take that away from him?

* * *

The morning after I bumped into my new super, 7 years later and over 100 miles away from my 23-year-old former self, I went to my bookcase and pulled out a novel I’d recently read, placing it on the coffee table before leaving for work. When I got home that night, I could have sworn it had been moved just a few inches.

“Can I help you, sir?”

I was unaware that Verizon Wireless stores had hosts, and thought for a moment that I might have been required to make a reservation in advance. On second glance however the man standing before me was clad in what looked like a uniform, a black suit and tie with a nametag that identified him as Anthony, Security.

“Yeah, thanks. I got an email saying I was eligible for a free upgrade and wanted to get a new phone.”

“I doubt it’s a free upgrade.”

“Right, sorry. I mean that my two-year contract is up.”

“Yeah, well you have to sign in on that computer over there first.”

“Can’t I just wait over there at the counter? Look, that woman is leaving. I’ll just go over…”

“Sir, you have to sign in first.”

His hand moved to his belt. Did they carry guns?

I decided not to test the authoritative reach of a Verizon security guard and instead moved over to the touch screen computer in front of me and typed in my first name. When I pushed the Enter key though, nothing happened.

“It’s broken,” I said, and started to move towards the counter. Anthony blocked my way.

“You have to enter in your last name, too,” he said, this time with a little more contempt in his voice. His hand was still on his belt and I thought I saw the butt of a revolver.

“That’s stupid. I’m not entering my last name.”

“You have to.”

“Why? This is ridiculous. Why does it matter what my name is? I’m just going over to the counter.”

I moved past him and approached a woman at the desk.

“Hi, I got an email saying that I was eligible for a…”

“Sir, did you sign into the computer?”

“Jesus Christ. I’m not doing that. I just went over this with Anthony… who by the way, might be armed, and I was explaining that…”

“Sir, we need your full name to look up your account information.”

“Oh. Um. Okay, that actually does make sense.”

I avoided Anthony’s smug look of satisfaction as I typed in my full name and telephone number. He moved back to his post by the door and a few seconds later my name was called.

A new woman emerged from a back room and was wearing a khaki pantsuit so tight that a very noticeable fat bulge had crested just below her waistline. She seemed immediately annoyed at my existence, and smacked her gum to signal that I should begin speaking.

“Hi, I was looking to get a new Blackberry.”

“Hah! A what?”

“Um, a Blackberry. It’s a type of phone.”

“Yes, honey, I know it’s a type of phone. I work in a phone store.”

“Bah hah!”

I turned at the laugh and saw that Anthony was standing a few feet away listening in.

“What I mean is,” the saleswoman continued after rolling her eyes at Anthony as if to apologize for my behavior. “Ain’t nobody want a Blackberry no more. Let me show you the new Droid Razr. They right over here.”

“But I don’t…”

She had already walked over to the opposite display and randomly selected the most expensive model to show me. After going through all of the bits and gigs and megapixels and g’s the phone possessed, she asked what type of case I’d like for it.

“It sounds great,” I said. “And I’m sure it’s definitely worth the $500, but I really don’t want it. I can’t ever seem to use the touch screen key pad correctly. And I don’t use apps or anything. I really just need it for email and talking. Can you show me the Blackberrys? Please?”

“You don’t want a Blackberry.”

“No, see, that’s the thing. I do.”

“Nah, here, just get an iPhone.”

She picked one up and handed it to me as if I were a sick patient at her pharmacy.

“These still have the touch screen. I can’t use them. I’m a scrollie ball guy.”

“A scrollie what? Just try it. Here. See? Look at me.”

“I’m aware of how to touch the screen, and understand that touching the letters makes them appear, but I don’t like it and always make mistakes.”

“My two-year-old niece can use it,” said a customer who was now standing beside us. “It’s the cutest thing. She sends me emails all the time.”

The customer laughed along with the saleswoman and I began to get angry.

“Here,” the saleswoman said. “Just try to do it.”

“Yeah, it’s easy,” chimed in the customer.

I took the phone from them and typed the words, “This is stupid and embarrassing.” I made 7 mistakes and they all laughed again, only this time we were joined by the customer’s wife, who was quickly brought up to speed on the group mocking.

“Okay, okay,” said the saleswoman. “I’ll show you the…Blackberrys.”

She paused before saying Blackberry as if waiting for the booing and hissing to come from the studio audience. While walking over to the display, she again tried to persuade me on the iPhone, saying that I’d eventually have to get used to “modern technology,” as if I still commuted to work each morning on a horse.

She stopped at the Blackberry display case and pretended to sweep dust off of the phones, evoking another laugh from Anthony, who had walked over. I picked up the cheapest model phone and ran my thumb over the keypad, comforted by the familiarity. But when I tried to type in a website for practice, the browser was taking a long time to load. Suddenly, an iPhone was shoved in front of my face.

“See?” Anthony said. “I’m already there. Look how fast it is. That’s 4G, man. Look, yours is still trying to load. That phone is a piece of shit. I think it still uses dial-up to connect.”

The chuckles resumed, and I noticed that out of the ten or twelve people in the store, seven were laughing at me. Another customer came over to offer insight.

“I used to have a Blackberry,” he began, as if at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. “Took forever to load and the video quality sucked. Couldn’t even watch TV on it.”

“I have a television for television,” I said, my pulse thumping in my ears.

“You have kids?” the man continued. “Get an iPhone. They are great for taking videos of your kids. How old are yours? Mine are six and eight. They’re a handful, I’ll tell ya!  Jenny, our six-year-old, she’s so smart though. Just the other day…”

“What? What are you talking about? I don’t have kids.”

“Oh…sorry.”

He patted me on the shoulder and walked away, convinced my lack of iPhone was the reason for my lack of children.

“What’s going on here?” I said, raising my voice and pulling out my current phone. “I just want this. Can someone please just get me this exact phone.”

“Not unless you got a time machine,” Anthony quipped, ignoring my plea. “Shit, I had that model like ten years ago. Just get the iPhone, dog. For real.”

“He’s right,” the saleswoman said. “It’s a much better phone.”

“It’s also about $300 more than this one right here,” I said. “But that’s not why you’re recommending it, right? Do you own Apple stock or something? Can you just see if you have any of these left? I’m begging you. Help me give you $100 for this phone. Seriously. Help me give you money for a product you’re selling. I know it’s a bizarre concept, but let’s try it out.”

The saleswoman sneered at me and went to the back to look for the phones.

“Dude, you gotta calm down,” Anthony said, his hand back on his belt. “Don’t make the same mistake I did. Get the iPhone. You’ll love it.”

“You’re a security guard, okay Anthony?”

I don’t know why I felt the need to point that out at this juncture, and it took Anthony by surprise as well.

“So, what? So, I’m a security guard I can’t have an opinion?”

“Yes, that’s right. You are a security guard so you can’t have an opinion. You’re a security guard and I’m a customer. And I don’t appreciate being openly MOCKED for trying to buy a phone in a store that sells phones. Why do you even have a Blackberry display if it’s so awful? Huh? What kind of sense does that make?”

“Dog, I didn’t design the store. Calm down.”

“Yeah, but if you did, I’m sure it would be filled to the ceiling with shiny new Apple products, right? ‘Oh, look at me! I’m Anthony! I LOVE my iPhone! Weee! I’m so HIP! I’m the hippest fucking security guard who ever lived! I’m a slave to whatever Apple designs! I just buy anything with a freakin ‘i’ in front of it! I’m SOOO fucking COOL!”

“Did you just call me a slave?”

I stopped yelling at noticed the entire store was staring at me, the tall white man who had just finished called the black security guard a slave.

“Um, yeah,” I stuttered. “To Apple products. You’re a slave to Apple products. Not a slaaaaave slave… a slave to their merchandize.”

I glanced around to see if that was understood, but people still glared. Their assumptions were confirmed – if you didn’t own an iPhone, you were a racist.

“Okay,” I said, moving briskly to the door. “I have to go. You just lost a sale, my friend.”

“I’m a security guard.”

“Whatever.”

I burst through the doors and walked down the street. A few blocks later, still furious at what had happened, I considered that some music might calm me down. And I reached into my pocket to get my iPod.

Priests are thugs in God’s gang – the enforcers, the money collectors, the drug pushers. They get their orders from the top, and make sure everyone in the neighborhood falls in line. Do this, don’t do that, say this, repeat after me, eat this, drink that, sit, stand, kneel, pray…beg for forgiveness and mercy. You don’t wanna see what happens if you don’t.

But mainly I don’t like priests because a lot of them just phone it in. If I have a presentation at work, I make damn sure to prepare ahead of time, practicing my speech until it’s just right. However most priests ramble like bus station drunks, armed with the advantage of having one-sided presentations where there is no possibility of questions being lobbed out from the crowd.

“Wait, wait, wait…how did Mary get knocked up?”

“Hold up there, Twilight…what do you mean eat his flesh and drink his blood?”

Others in church appear not to notice the priest’s shortcomings, and instead are busy pretending to absorb grace, when in truth they are doing the same thing I’m doing – judging others. Sideways stares, guilty half-glances and hushed hearsay about illegitimate children, lost jobs, divorces, foreclosures – all families who become known as “sad situations” who we will all “pray for.”

But mainly we pray it doesn’t happen to us.

This was the scene I found myself in during Christmas, and I sat in a pew with my family listening to our priest babble on nonsensically while I traded angry glares with an old man in front of me who seemed irked I wasn’t joining in the singing. As much as I tried to tune the priest out, I was drawn back into his sermon when he said,

“…and it is this time of year when we’re reminded about the importance of love. And not just having love, but making love. You need to make love as much as possible. When you get out of bed in the morning and it’s still dark, stop for a minute, and think about Jesus. And then think about making love.”

I looked around to see if anyone else had heard this, and at any moment I expected the organist to play “bow-chicka-wow-wow” and the lights to dim. But I had to block out the porno priest, because there was a reason I was in church. And I had a reason to pray.

* * *

Earlier that morning I stood on a crowded platform at Market East train station, jockeying for position among other present-laden commuters traveling home for the holidays. I was carrying a box with a Cuisinart juicer for my parents in one hand, and balancing an empty rolling red suitcase in the other, which I hoped to fill with food after I used the juicer as a distraction.

I had been in a pessimistic mood all week, dreading the shopping, good tiding and forced merriment that accompanies the holiday season. But as it was Christmas Eve (and the end was in sight), I decided to get into the festive spirit more and ignore…

…the goateed gentleman with a neck tattoo of a skull slowly approaching from my right…

…the mother smacking her child while simultaneously gnawing on her Subway sandwich…

…and the Asian man wearing a Chicago Bulls sweatshirt who was gesturing for me to remove my iPod.

While the recently released felon and the mother-of-the-year were easier to ignore, the Asian man seemed intent on speaking with me. I had a choice. I could either sneer at the man (as I’d been trained to do in Manhattan), or in the spirit of the holidays, see if he needed help.

Against my better judgment, I removed my headphones and jutted out my chin to signal my willingness to hear his story.

“No English. No English.”

“That’s okay. What do you need?”

“R5. Here. Here.”

He was pointing a stubby finger at a crumpled train schedule that had the 1:10 PM R5 train to Landsdale/Doylestown highlighted. I was waiting for the same train, and smiled at the man to reassure him.

“It’s okay. I…me…getting on same train. Here…wait here. Wait…me…you…choo choo.”

I don’t know why, but when speaking to foreign people I sound like Tarzan the babysitter.

It seemed to work though, and the man flashed a broad grin. He then pointed back to the bench and I saw he was traveling with another elderly woman and two small children. I waved, and gestured for them to join me. They soon shuffled over, bowing and thanking me for my help.

And why shouldn’t they? After all, not everyone was this kind. My charity, my compassion, my gregarious, yet humble, sense of social responsibility was second to none. I dipped my head regally and gazed upon the others waiting for the train. My admirers. I accepted their nods and smiles of approval with a dignified poise, and raised a hand as if to say, “Please, it’s not about me. It’s about the holiday season.”

The train arrived a few moments later, and I ushered my adopted family on board ahead of me. The man seemed hesitant for some reason, but I calmed him with a kind smile and a shove in the back. Sometimes charity needs a firm hand.

The train was crowded and my additional luggage meant that we all couldn’t sit together. I bade them farewell, and took my seat near the window. The woman behind me was on the phone, and I couldn’t help but overhear her conversation.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, fuck Sesame Street. I want to help out my friends and all, but this time he’s staying in jail.”

Who was this woman? And why did she have the power to release her friend from prison? And moreover, was Elmo in jail? I debated saying something. Did she not see my display of kindness back on the train platform?

Two stops later and the engineer came sauntering back to collect everyone’s tickets. I could see the Asian family in front of me, crammed into one seat together, and when the engineer asked for their ticket, the man began flapping his arms. He seemed anxious and was pointing at me, and then his train schedule, and then back at his family.

The engineer turned and walked over to my seat.

“Apparently they don’t have a ticket, and that guy keeps pointing back here. Are they traveling with you, sir?”

I looked at the engineer, then at the Asian family, and then at the other passengers. My admirers. Some of them were donning Santa hats, and presents were everywhere – on laps, in the aisle, on luggage racks above the seats. It was Christmas time, and I had a wallet full of cash.

* * *

Kneeling in the church pew, I heard the priest explaining that there were Gluten-free communion hosts available for those with a wheat allergy.

“…I encourage people to form a line here, where I’ll be waiting to satisfy all of your needs and desires…”

Bow-chicka-wow-wow.

But I didn’t snicker. Instead I was bowing my head, thinking about that poor Asian family who was kicked off the train into the cold. Such a sad situation. Then I began to pray that the lottery tickets I’d purchased were winners. I mean, just think about how much good I could do if they were.