Freshman Follies...

This story has been “in progress” for the better part of probably 8 years. I’ll dedicate the finished product to Mr. Galen Rockett, longtime Director of Judicial Affairs. He has since passed away, but I cannot express enough my respect and thankfulness to this man who was able to recognize the difference between a bad kid and simply a stupid one. RIP and thank you, sir.

I stood transfixed at the sight of her, leaning against the wall looking bored and quite appealing, complete with gun, billy-club and brown hair. You guessed it, hot cop. My sexy aura was working too, because she almost immediately looked my way. But not for very long, however. To my dismay after a somewhat languid up and down, her eyes traveled elsewhere. "Dude, would you hurry the hell up?" The voice of the person behind me brought me to several realizations. Not only was I a gawky freshman holding a lunch tray, I was also holding up the line, which naturally consisted of hungry football players that were all scowling at me.

As I walked in a purposely casual manner across the cafeteria, I studied her out of the corner of my eye. To my disappointment, she didn't look my way again. As I stared into the rising steam that separated me from the surly lunch ladies piling my tray with gelatinous goop, I resolved that I would get not only her attention, but her affections as well.

My RA at the time went out of his way to chat with the incoming freshmen, to make them feel welcome. So, on his next visit, I immediately announced my plans to him. I half expected to see the weary, why-the-hell-is-this-happening-on-my-floor look that so often accompanied our conversations, but to my surprise, he perked up. Not only did he know her name, but he knew a substantial amount about her. After a lengthy interrogation by yours truly, he took his leave, but stuck his head back in to inform me she was working the desk on the night shift this week.

Two minutes later I was parked in front of the campus police station, rifling through the campus parking tickets that blanketed my car floor. After gathering a couple handfuls, I thumbed through them looking for anything questionable. I finally settled on one of the more exotic parking zone/fire zone/handicap zone tickets that I had to triple park to get, and hurried inside.

"Can I help you?" she asked without looking up. I pushed the ticket through the Plexiglas that separated us, "I hope so", I replied, trying to sound suave and sultry. "How is this even possible?" I asked. I couldn't tell you her reply to this query, because shortly after posing the question, I became lost in her eyes. It was one of those moments you see in a film, where the female walks into the room and shakes out her hair and walks in slow motion towards the camera. After her very kissable lips stopped moving, and I became acutely aware of the silence I snapped out of it and made a poor job of trying to elicit casual conversation. Luckily she was bored and that made the ordeal less of an embarrassment. To my credit, I managed to fit in a comment of how slow it was and how bored she must be. After she acquiesced to this fact, I promised to stop in and relieve her boredom in any way possible. Bidding the vixen farewell, I bounced off to bed and spent a good portion of the night replaying our conversation in my head.

Over the next few days I stopped in frequently to chat. I did my best to be entertaining and flirty, generally just being an ass until I started feeling I was giving off the stalker vibe, since being my usual reticent self had gone out the window days before. Being acutely aware that she was more world-wise than I was, I would often attempt to fabricate stories that made me seem less of the dork I was. It was on one of these moments when I was walking out, after lying about going drink with some friends, she said something to the effect of "No fair I want to come". Seeing the opportunity to show a little dignity and self control by walking away, I bypassed it and walked back in for another chance to gaze into her eyes. Long story short, I suggested that after me and my "drinking friends" **editor's note: I did not drink at this time** finished our night on the town, we would do a pseudo-striptease in front of one of the many security cameras' she was monitoring. She immediately brightened at the suggestion, and said she would even tape it. "Call me when ya'll get back" she said and pushed a piece of paper through the Plexiglass that separated us. I assured her I would, then left.

She had given me her number. Cloud nine wasn't quite high enough to describe my elation. Being that excited, I was absolutely unfit to drive. But of course I did, and after half-dancing half-swerving back to my dorm, I set out to find some striptease helpers. They were not as forthcoming as I would have liked. As a matter of fact, no one seemed to think it was a good idea at all. As a last resort I entreated my RA for assistance, but to no avail. He gave me a half-incredulous half-pitying look before closing the door to his room. Well I wasn't quite up to the task of doing it alone, so I finally admitted defeat. Because she had been so excited about it, I felt it would be only appropriate to inform her in person; the fact I was addicted to looking at her had nothing to do with it. As expected she was disappointed and I went to bed feeling like I let her down.

Back at the dorm I was emptying my pockets for bed when the paper with her number caught my eye. After smelling the paper a couple of times I glanced at the dorm phone lying next to my bed. After a brief contemplation period, I did what seemed like a good idea at the time; I prank called the number. I don't remember exactly what I said, but at the end she was laughing and I, for the moment, was comforted. So much so that I decided to go on a bubble gum binge. For you uneducated, that consists of cramming as many pieces of gum in your mouth as you can. Great flavor and sugar rush, but it leaves you at a decided disadvantage for conversation. I didn't immediately miss this advantage when my RA stepped through my open door several moments later. I gave him a friendly wave and motioned at a chair. After the two police officers stepped in after him I used my highly advanced perceptive abilities to discern this wasn't a social oh-my-God-you-have-so-much-gum-in-your-mouth-thats-kinda-funny type visit. With my same abilities I also noted that both officers were out of breath and hella-pissed.

It seems that the elevators in my building had broken again, and the officers had just made the very long trek up the stairs. It also seems that the number I had received and subsequently called that night was the number of the Tech police station. Now having a ridiculously large mouthful of gum is an advantage when explanations are demanded of you, because it gives you time to think before you start talking. However, the looking like a sheepish blowfish probably hurts the inevitable answers credibility in a way that the added thinking time just can't justify. In any case, the cold fury in their eyes made the trip to the sink a tad awkward. There is no dignified way to spit a baseball-sized wad of gum out of your mouth, but I made the best of it and turned to face them.

As I recall thinking, I was in some deep shit for this, so there was no point in namedropping and associating her with this failboat heading for the icebergs. I do not remember what I ended up telling them, but she had no role whatsoever in it. That being the case, the resulting explanation of my actions was weak as hell. What I do remember about the explanation process was the look of "kill me now" on my sleepy RA's face as he stood behind the fuming cops and slowly beat his head into the frame of my door.

There are a few times in my life when I believe I have done something so noble, that I swim in my own magnanimousity for a good ten minutes, almost oblivious to my surroundings. This was fortunate, because one of the officers proceeded to give me the your-actions-have-consequences-now-that-you-are-away-from-home-you-little-shit speech which, if done right, is slated to last about that long. As he spoke, his clinched fists only opened to occasionally jab a trembling finger at me, presumably to accentuate his current point. His perfectly trimmed mustache, which was a deep brown, twitched like a caterpillar that accidentally wandered into an antpile. His ever silent partner was an older man with white hair and keen eyes that regarded me briefly from behind his small, round glasses. As I stared at the floor I could feel his eyes moving slowly over everything in my room.

Although aware of all of this, I was miles away with the woman whom I had so recently and gallantly refrained from implicating. "I can't believe you didn't tell them" she was exclaiming over and over while I modestly shrugged off her gratitude. Our subsequent slow dance in a windy field of grass didn't end until the melody of lecture and the rhythm of thumping head had stopped playing.

A week later as I sat nervously in a bitter cold office awaiting my judicial review, that same feeling of bravado could not have been farther away. My eyes were riveted to the top of the secretary’s head, which was the only part of her I could see over the partition that separated us. It was a strange pendulum of doom, swinging from side to side, the sounds of typing and rustling paper marking each apex. My mind raced as my name was called, and I was ushered into a room with a smiling older gentleman. "Mr. Wahl, how are you? Have a seat." he said warmly as he leaned across his desk to shake my hand.

I sat opposite from him and wiped my clammy hands down the sides of my pants in what I hoped was an unobtrusive manner. Time seemed to slow as he reached for my folder, and flipped it open. His warm smile from earlier gradually faded as his eyes traveled across the pages. He finally dropped the folder onto the desk and looked up. "Son, you want to enlighten me on just what you were thinking here?" His voice was stern as he leaned forward and gave me a quizzical look. I swallowed hard, looked up at him, and made a decision.

"Sir, have you ever been in love?" Somewhere Celine Dion was undoubtedly doing a /facepalm, but I had to pull out all the stops. If this man didn't have sympathy for my pathetic plight, I was a screwed. "Uhhh...what?!" He looked lost for a moment. "I mean have you ever done something stupid to get a woman's attention?" His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to say something, but I rushed to continue. I explained everything. Where I first saw her, my previous attempts to try and impress her, my last ill fated attempt. His face remained in the same slightly open-mouthed, incredulous stare throughout my entire soliloquy.

When I was done we sat in silence for a long period of time while he surveyed me thoughtfully. At long last he cleared his throat, leaned back, and looked out of his window. "Son, there are..." His voice trailed off. After a moments pause he turned to face me. "I'm aware of the officer you're speaking of. And there are many good-looking women on our police force. In the future I suggest you limit your advances to their off-duty time."

"So how long will you be cleaning the parking lots?" My RA was sprawled out on the couch of our dorms cramped office flipping through channels on the small television in the corner. I heard chuckles from the other two as they scribbled work orders and filed mail into the personnel boxes that lined the wall behind the counter. "He let me go." They stopped mid-flip, mid-form, and mid-file respectively and stared at me open mouthed. "He what?!?!" The warm, odoriferous air of the dorm was gradually absorbing the chill of the frozen judicial dungeon, and as I began to thaw, my confidence and ego were slowly returning. "Yeah, I was all like, 'Do you know who I am?' and he was all like 'No' and I was all like 'I'm Dan Wahl' and he was all like 'Oh sorry Mr. Wahl, you can go now'".

After winking and extending a Fonzie-style finger at them, I sauntered from the room and hopped into the nearby elevator. The sounds of their dissatisfied inquisitiveness became muffled as the doors slowly dinged shut. As the elevator painfully pulled itself up to my floor, I began planning our inevitably blissful reunion. Being anywhere near the police station had really not been an option for the last week, and I was looking forward to tonight when she was patrolling the campus via police cruiser. Once back inside my room, I set the alarm clock for later that night and, after burrowing into the pile of unfolded, clean clothes that blanketed my bed, I slipped into the Downy-scented sleep of the freshly acquitted. I awoke before the alarm and quickly showered, shaved and donned my best white shirt. After blowing several kisses to myself in the full-length mirror I had duck-taped to the back of our dorm room door, I grabbed my keys and headed out.

After I had matched the soundtrack in my car with the one that was playing in my head, I pulled out of the dorm parking lot and onto the mostly empty streets. It was a warm night and the humid Ruston air wafting in through my open windows smelled faintly of burning leaves and paper mill. It took a bit of driving and several false alarms to finally spot the correct police cruiser, parked just off of a darkened Tech parking lot overlooking the road. After pulling up alongside her car, I stretched in the overly casual manner of the insecure, settled back into my seat and nodded at her silhouette. A puff of smoke came through her open window and regarded me dolefully before being dragged away by the slight breeze. "Haven't seen you around lately..." she said as she leaned slightly into the light. “Well, I have been trying to avoid your lovely co-workers after you sent them to my room..." She raised an eyebrow at me. After explaining my selfless acts of silence in the face of my angry interrogators, I leaned back expectantly with a modest smile.

"I wouldn't have gotten in trouble...” she said, laughing, "You’re the one who is in for it now." Not exactly the gratitude infused response I was looking for. But although slightly miffed I forced a smug wink. "Ahh, it’s not a big deal. The Judicial Affairs guy actually let me go". I was feigning bravado, but being laughed at had definitely thrown a fat kid into my candy factory. The birds, bees and butterflies that had formed the fluttering musical backdrop to my anticipated Disney-like thank you session had ceased flying about and hovered uncertainly. She squinted at me as the tip of her cigarette turned a bright red. "Must have been a hell of a story..." I nodded in agreement as I watched the smoke swirl between the cars. As it wafted into the night, my chances of wooing this woman with any action seemed to be following it. Her voice once again brought me back. "Because it’s not like him to just let people go...” Seeing an opportunity to change the subject I quickly did so. "You know him pretty well, then?" I asked. "I should" she said dismissively, “He’s my future father-in-law."

The Boat runs "fine"

I'm posting this second hand from Dan the man because he'll probably never get around to doing it and I am looking for any excuse to not be doing school work.

Around 10:00 pm on a wonderful Friday evening I get a call from the Dan which consisted of him asking if my boat (actually my dad's) is running and can he borrow it. Sure I say, call the house, my dad won't have a problem with it. Seems his boat was having issues as usual.

This adventure started when the Dan suggested to a group of friends that they go down the river and per the norm everyone thought it was a great idea. The unusual part is that everyone actually showed up, usually Dan will plan for 10 people and 2 will show up.

So the Dan asks his grandfather "How is the boat running?"

"The boat is running fine" came the reply.

And now the Dan did something else unusual, he tested the boat by running it in the yard and it indeed ran fine (usually there is no planning or forethought given to what could go wrong). Next came the truck with which the Dan was going to pull the boat, after an inspection it was decided that the truck needed a new battery. This made the Dan surprisingly happy because every time the Dan does something, there is 'something' that goes wrong.

Secure in the fact that the truck battery was the 'something' for the night he set off for the boat launch. The boat was loaded and launched in short order; the Dan idled away from the dock.

Passing out of the no wake zone, the boat full of people, the Dan pushes the throttle forward, the engine begins to rev as the boat attempts to come on plane and then nothing. The Dan, I'm guessing, grinned sheepishly as the boat load of people stared at with a look of WTF?

You see the engine had a blown head gasket, a fact which the Dan's grandfather failed to disclose because despite having a blown head gasket the boat ran "fine". Upon learning this the Dan was not happy. And unfortunately the rest the night went about as well an engine with a blown head gasket runs...

Shame #1

There are memories that stop you in the middle of a laugh and give you cold twinges. I was showering the other day feeling pretty good about myself, when I noticed myself feeling good about myself. Can’t have that. So I decided to implement my patented do-it-yourself humbleness kit.

Two memories that I use for this purpose both happened in college away from significant witnesses, so the burden of their retelling is upon me. Just the recollection brought up a shame that burned away any semblance of accumulated pride and confidence leaving me huddled and inexplicably cold under the steaming jets of water.

“Class, let me have you attention…” Our normally animated physics teacher looked ready to burst with excitement. “We are having a guest speaker from LSU today. She will be discussing recent advances in nano-technology!” I leaned my seat against the wall and scanned the class. Apparently his excitement wasn’t infectious enough; the class returned his exuberant smile with their normal expressionless indifference. I was happy enough, I love nan-technology and was thoroughly enjoying the lecture when we convened in a nearby lecture room a little later. I won’t bore you with details but the older woman who was lecturing obviously had a passion for the material she was presenting, I was fascinated.

The mood was broken when one of the many cornbread-fed idiot rednecks decided to ask a question. “Why are out taxdollerrs goin toward this stuff, it don’t DO anythin…” Repressing a strong urge to strangle the fellow, I sat back and watched with disgust as the teachers went out of their way to embrace the question and make him feel like his concern was valid and not the insipid waste of time it was. As Henry says, it’s the American belief that everyone can be brought up to college level that has lowered college to everyone’s level… but I digress.

So once the moron had been catered to sufficiently, the lecture continued. I was again enjoying myself until a few of our professors decided to tell her what she was saying was not possible. That’s right, the guest speaker from a cutting edge research lab, defending herself from attacks from her audience. She verbalized her position admirably and remained composed in spite of obvious irritation. After the aggressive Q & A, the bored students and huffing professors abruptly left, leaving her looking flustered and (I thought) alone. Feeling immediately sorry for her, I started towards the front of the room to see if she wanted to join me for coffee.

I didn’t immediately dick it up, as a matter of fact my first proposition was both relaxed and well worded. But apparently she didn’t hear it. Shying back away from me she frowned and said, “Um…what!?!” That response caught me totally off guard and I was immediately reduced to a stumbling, very non-verbose Neanderthal. I’m sure the words “coffee” and “was about to get” came out, but not at all in the right order, following by a jerky look at the wristwatch which I wasn’t wearing. Frustrated by the paralyzing grade-school nervousness that had invaded my system, I tried again and made an even worse job of it.

She watched with ever-widening eyes as I made steady progress down the path to get-the-hell-away-from-me-Frankenstein weirdness, all the while slowly picking up paper from the desk that separated us, in the manner you might sneak food away from an eating dog. Once she had gathered her paraphernalia, she said something about a luncheon she had to attend and made a rather hasty retreat.

The lecture hall door closed with a booming echo, leaving me and my shattered ego under the blue glow of the projector screen. Trudging back across campus, I espied her and a group of other people, presumably from her group, standing just off my path. She said something and they all looked my way. I thought better of my initial reaction to wave and hurried on my way.

The incident was on my mind when I joined my frat brothers for lunch, and the details spilled out before the food had a chance to drown them. They were about as supportive as a pair of wet boxers, and after declining their offers to date their respective grandmothers, I went home and curled in a ball until sleep transported me to a fresh day.

Shame #2

So there’s this crosswalk at school where middle-aged black women in old cars hit students, like, daily. It’s to the point where you just kind of get periodic updates of the newly hospitalized with your breakfast bran muffin. So, not surprisingly, this particular bright sunny morning, this chick gets laid the hell out. But enough about her.

Being that I have a colossal cop fetish, I was actually at the police station flirting with a university cop when the call came through. It elicited from me a mild interest at first, but then back to business. That is until I heard the name come over the radio. Amanda Knight.

Now Ms. Knight had been in my Freshman Orientation class. This class had one goal, and one goal only: to put you in enough annoying, interaction-demanding situations that that you would form relationships with your fellow students/sufferers. Well it worked. I knew her enough that condolences were appropriate at the very least.

After a brief trip to deodorant alley, I was of to the gift card aisle at Wal-Mart. They don’t exactly make a sorry-you-got-made-roadkill type commiseration card. So I grimly stared at my options. I finally selected a pseudo-playful card with a horse telling prostrate cowboy, “Hope you get up soon partner.” Congratulating myself on remaining compassionate and semi-inappropriately witty I began my trek to the hospital.

Upon arrival I began broadcasting my pilgrimage details to all who would listen. I received the desired “oh, how sweet of you” response from everyone except the old janitor, who regarded me with distaste and ambled on. Intoxicated with my own kindness, I swaggered towards Amanda’s door. A nurse was on her way out, and upon hearing my intentions, was more than happy to show me in.

“Amanda? You’ve got a visitor…” I stepped out smiling from behind the nurse and stopped cold. Sitting around the bed were about a half a dozen people all looking at me curiously. Amanda leaned forward in bed and we regarded each other for a moment. I had no f*cking idea who the girl in the bed was, and her eyes conveyed the same message to me. But the ball was firmly in my court and after a moment’s hesitation, I stammered something about having a class with her a couple quarters past and wanting see if she was alright. Her mother immediately started exclaiming loudly how sweet the gesture was. Her mothers voice seemed to pull her out of the quizzical open mouth stare she was giving me. “Uh...yeah, that’s nice of… thanks.”

As I frantically moved on to the lighter joking topics of scholarships for crosswalk victims, I scanned the rest of the occupants of the room out of the corner of my eye. Her mom was the age-exception, as the others were obviously friends of this Amanda that shared the same name as my friend. I made a few more polite, get-well type comments and made my escape. As I was leaving, the who-the-hell-are-you looks from her friends that I made contact with were enough to make my overly casual exit as uncomfortable as a spiked suppository.

Outside the room I leaned against the wall and exhaled. As I entered the nearest elevator, I pulled out the card and realized things could be worse, she could have a written reminder of the hospital stalker. The elevator dinged and the door slid open to reveal the nurse who let me in with one of the other nurses I had talked to. “Oh… suga, you didn’t giver the card?” I blinked. “Uhh… noo… I forgot… and I have to run, soo…” They were apparently saddened by this news, until an idea hit one of them, “ I’m going to her room right now, I’ll give it to her” They immediately brightened at this solution to the problem and both smiled joyfully at me. I stared unhappily at her outstretched hand and slowly handed her the card.

I never saw Amanda again, but for a solid year, I couldn’t go anywhere on campus without seeing her friends. They were everywhere, staring, smiling, whispering… Adding to my complex was the fact that every time I saw them, they would lean to other girls and begin talking, at which point everyone in the group would turn my way.

Just recently I was walking past the crosswalk again when yet another student decided to become a statistic. As I continued walking away, I glanced back over my shoulder at the gathering crowd. The poor schmuck totally had my sympathy and well wishes, but unless he ever reads this, he’ll never know.

Breakfast recollections...

This morning as I was doing my ritual slaughtering of cheerios by repetitive mastication, I was also staring thoughtfully at a small section of the kitchen wall. It used to have a hole in it before grandpa fixed it. About fourteen years ago I had watched my mom pull her heel out of said hole. Which is a great way to follow up putting it in the wall. Which is what she did after I told her I didn’t write my name on the piece of paper she was holding.

The parents had decided after seven years of nurturing, home schooling, and religious training totally away from society, it was time to enroll me in public school. I wasn’t technically in second grade, so when my dad tried sticking me in third grade, he got a little flack from the prestigious Paulina Elementary. After a couple of placement test which I slapped around like a hoe, I was in and off running.

“We don’t print in the third grade” the teacher said sternly, staring down disapprovingly at my paper. “We use cursf” I followed her gesture to the wall where the cursive alphabet adorned the wall. The heads of all my classmates turned to regard me curiously. As I struggled to learn the entire cursive alphabet that first damn hour, I quickly realized I had a little catching up to do, but not just academically.

I watched with envy at the relative ease with which some of my classmates captivated the attention of the classroom with stories of fighting and dirty words. None did this as well as Vernon Rousell. He was a taller kid with a natural confidence and swagger. Over the next couple of months, as I tried to peck my way up in the ranks of the third-graders, we came into conflict many times. His stories were always a little better than mine, his jokes were always funnier. I finally found a way to get the better of him. We were both talking third-grade smack to each other across the aisle during one of our teacher’s frequent absences, he was on one leg demonstrating a karate kick he assured me would kill me if he decided to use it against me, when an idea hit me. Running up to him I kicked him while he was on one leg. A bitch move? I agree. But it had its desired effect. Kind of. He flew back across his desk, bringing it down on top of him just about the time the teacher walked in. From that moment on, we were enemies. Plus I was in serious trouble with the teacher.

Giddy with my new found respect I barely heard my parent’s lectures about their concern over my recent behavioral problems. I began planning my next step to delinquent supremacy. I was going to draw a butt. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, a butt. It took me all of three minutes to draw. When the door closed behind our hall-wandering teacher, I leaned back smugly and handed it to the girl next to me. “What is that?” she asked. Taking it back I painstakingly inscribed B U T on the top of the page. I handed it back and it got the appropriate amount of snicker. Folding it in half I began slowly circulating my artwork to a steady tune of grins and muted giggles.

Enter Travis f*cking Detillier. In addition to the uproarious, teacher attracting laughter he gave off upon receiving my work, he also shakes his head and gives his desk a few enthusiastic thumps with his fist. The class quickly becomes busy again with their work and I desperately motion for Travis to return it. “No, give it here” Vernon says and reaches out for it. Of course Travis obeys without hesitation and Vernon gives me an evil smirk as the teacher enters.

“You can’t prove I drew that” I informed him when the teacher leaves again. “My names not on it.” In response, he reaches on the teacher desk and grabs a stack of our daily writings. Thumbing through them quickly, he finds mine and takes it back to his desk. I watch nervously as he carefully forges my signature on the paper with the help and critique of those around him. When the teacher returns, he gives her my artwork complete with a very incriminating, very well done addition to the bottom. It read, “by Daniel Wahl”.

“I’m disappointed.” The principle looked at me sadly as she Xeroxed a copy of the offending document. But my mind was elsewhere. I was in some serious shit. I was going home early. They had called my parents. Such a thing had never happened in my family and I knew I would be putting on every pair of underwear I owned as soon as I could get near my closet.

“Yes I drew it, but I didn’t sign my name” My mom obviously wasn’t buying that. “Your lying!!” She yelled. “I swear” I insisted, “I swear to God.” Boom! There went the poor sheetrock. Luckily the shock of my apparent blasphemy and the gaping hole in the wall sent her storming out of the house. I made good use of the time and was well prepared when my impending whipping from dad took place. “By the way” dad said as he put his belt back on and headed to the door, “you misspelled butt.”

ill fated fishing trip

Although I have been riding my bike in excess of two months, I have yet to get my license endorsement. So I was sitting there Wednesday at the Lutcher DMV, where I was greeted at the door by the ladies who apparently knew me, I swear every woman over 45 in this town knows who I am, thanks grandma. So my phone goes off and it’s Joel.
Normally a buddy calling to go fishing isn't a huge deal, but this is Joel. Little history there. You can read about it here. In any case an hour later were heading south in his little Isuzu truck and I was trying to be optimistic about the entire thing. We had sufficient sunscreen and enough beer to drown in, so after buying bait I was looking forward to pulling in a few.

The tide was at a record low, which apparently makes it hard to drive across the beach. I noticed this when the 4x4 that was attempting to pull us out became stuck also. Before jogging back to watch the wheels throw sand everywhere, Joel informed me the guy had agreed to pull us out for money. As I contemplatively sipped my beer, I studied our would-be rescuers fuming face protruding from his wallowing truck. I wondered what it would look like when I informed him we had no money. Fortunately we were spared the spectacle when another truck managed to pull us both out. His service fee was a beer, which we were more than happy to produce. How we were going to get out did not come up in conversation until later.

Apparently, the inability to catch fish makes you extremely attractive to horseflies. Even more surprisingly, beer seems to impair your ability to walk on slippery jagged rocks. Who would have thunk. Bruised and bitten we decided to call it a day.

The stretch of beach everyone drives off of to the road was doing its best rendition of the whole “death-of-dinosaurs-by-tar-pits” scene. It was fairly safe to say the little Isuzu wouldn’t fare any better than the already stuck sampling of off-road truckage. Although the thought of spending the night spooning in his diminutive truck cab was at first appealing, we both decided we wanted the hell off this beach. Luckily we had a little ingenuity on our side, as well as four five-gallon buckets. The next three and a half hours were spent hauling water from the gulf to a 200x4 foot swath of beach. It took quite a bit of water to make a patch of beach drivable, but at the rate we were going the road was taking shape pretty fast. We had a little motivation of course; aside from the desire to get home to a shower. It seems the locals, stuck and unstuck alike, decided to offer commentary on our progress but no help. Gotta love people. With buckets in both hands, I was no more capable of killing the horseflies than I was the locals. I first thought the horseflies were attracted to the masterminds of genius ideas, but they were eating Joel alive as well, so it must have been the sweat. Speaking of geniuses, Joel remembered he had Off in his truck when we were almost done. Thanks Joel.

The wet sand road worked of course, and as we drove off we gave the remaining locals the one finger salute. Our exhilaration was dampened somewhat when it started raining right after the beach was out of sight. And I do mean dampened. Fix your damn windows, Joel.

Our return home was delayed somewhat when another upstanding local decides to knock down a telephone pole onto the only road off the island. We made up this time, however, when Joel’s clutch stops working and we are forced to take all the remaining curves in fourth gear. I really need to stop doing stuff with this dude….

bus trip

“You’re sure I have time to eat?” I asked the lady behind the greyhound desk. “Plenty of time suga” She assured me, “I’ll page you if the bus comes early.” Thus assured I walked across the small lobby into the bus station café. Sitting down I ordered some food and stared across the restaurant into the adjoining gas station. I had just come from there about an hour ago. “We don’t sell ANY kind of alcohol here!” the clerk had snapped at me. Her eyes narrowed as she peered at me over her small glasses. I thanked her and walked out, glancing at the line of people behind me. They frowned at me. Shaking off the disapproval I walked across the street and got a small bottle of Jack and a large coke. I had never been on a bus before, but if Mr. Daniels could make me laugh at Adam Sandler, then the bus ride wouldn’t be too bad.

Since I was vehicleless, I had to get up north to pick up my motorcycle without borrowing something I had to return down south. The bus was the answer. Plain and simple. Preparation H isn’t glamorous until you consider the alternative. Nuff said. Yeah. So the food came, and went and I headed back to the lobby to await the bus. I wave at the lady and an awful look came across her face. “Your not on the bus?”

Fifteen minutes later I was walking up the interstate carrying my bag and motorcycle helmet. I had hitched with good success before, but I was just walking off some steam right now. Eventually I’d stick out my thumb, but for now it felt good just to walk. A white truck hit his brakes after passing me and pulled over. He backed up to within twenty feet of me and stopped. As I continued at the same pace towards him I glanced at the driver who was craning his neck to see me. When I was about ten feet away he hit the gas, spraying me with rocks and dirt from the wheel that was off the road. I’m not sure what the hell he was actually trying to accomplish, but it was such a random dick thing to do I started laughing.

I fared better with the next couple of trucks that pulled over. “Need a ride?” Was the usual question. I always was pretty open to the idea, being a hitchhiker and all, so it turns out I started making good time up the road. Not once did I stick my thumb out, the shiny motorcycle helmet drew a sympathetic crowd on its own, swinging from my hand as I walked down the baking asphalt. The general plan was to get to Jackson where I would catch the next bus to Ruston. I had tests the next day, so getting there was a priority. Seven rides later I was about an hour from Jackson pondering the excellent gas-economy/possible butt-rape pros and cons of hitchhiking when a yet another truck pulled over. No sooner had I hopped in and we drove off the truck starts vibrating on one side. I voiced my opinion that it felt like one of the tires might be about to blow, so he pulled off at the next exit. Sure enough the tire blew out about a mile from the interstate and we slid off the road into a ditch were we ended up on a pretty steep incline. He killed the engine and we sat for awhile in perpendicular silence. “Soo, I’m Dan Wahl, and I don’t have the best luck…” He looked down at me. “I see that”

Fortunately I’m a platinum AAA member and we were back on the road in thirty minutes. Being the grateful type, the guy brought me all the way to the bus station. Nice guy. I was tempted to continue to hitch to Ruston, but it looked like rain and since Lady Luck apparently had been flicking her sadistic little bean to my plight all day, I wasn’t going to chance it. Having some time to kill, I teamed up with a street sweeper named Detroit and he showed me around old Jackson and gave me a tour and history lesson. Interesting stuff. I bought him a hamburger and hopped in line for my bus.

Whew. It was like Mississippi had coughed up the most interesting array of people it could work up. There was plenty to stare at, but nothing I wanted to sit next to for the next seven hours. Again the helmet was working its magic; all the looks coming my way hit me briefly then lingered on the helmet. Finally the bus loaded up and so did I. That was the best trip I’ve taken in awhile. The juice dropped me off just about the same times as the bus did. It could have waited a little while longer, because even though the ticket said Ruston, it was actually the next town over.

It was a little late to be calling anybody so I started walking. On cue, the rain started coming down. When the hail started falling I found yet another use for the helmet. The ones hitting my shoulder hurt like hell, so I was quite glad the noggin was protected. After arriving at my apartment, I collapsed on my couch and closed my eyes. Then came a knock on the door. I opened it to find my neighbor staring out into the raging storm. “Dude!” he said breathless and wide-eyed, “It’s hailing!”

Typical River Outing

I was staring at a yard full of construction garbage one Saturday morning, my job, naturally, was to clean it up. I had just mustered the oomph to start when my phone rang. “Let’s go down the river dude!” “Screw that job, you can do it Sunday” the voice on the other line said. Compelling argument. Not that I needed much convincing, but then again Joel is a convincing dude. Or that’s what I was telling myself as I loaded up the boat a short while later. A bar-b-que pit, potato cannon, air compressor, skis, inner tube, ice chest, and our typical excessive load-out of weaponry later the boat was ready to set sail for my camp down Blind River. Joel and his then fiancée, Joye, met up with myself, Lance, and Nathan at the boat launch. Beautiful day. Gorgeous day, in fact. Breathing in the mixed aroma of summer swamp and sunscreen, I began congratulating myself on the decision to leave work.

After idling away from the launch, I throttled up the boat and observed with satisfaction the collective squint-eyed smiles that a summer boat ride always elicited from my passengers. We were almost to the camp when a parish sheriff's boat emerged from a side canal and began flashing the blue light bar that adorned its top. The whipping warm wind subsided with the engine noise as I decelerated and maneuvered the boat toward the police vessel. Aside from the enormous potato cannon protruding from the front of the boat and the gun holster on my hip, I felt no apprehension, heck I even knew the deputies. Then I noticed the other two occupants of the boat. Standing ramrod straight in pressed uniforms, they were both zeroed in on the gun holster on my belt. At this point in the story I’m going to meander for purely artistic effect. >.> THE COAST GUARD IN A RECREATIONAL BOATING ENVIRONMENT IS A STUPID IDEA! THESE MILITANT PRICKS CAN FORNICATE THEMSELVES WITH BREAKFAST FRUIT. Sorry, had to get that out. Basically, these guys are military trained and given a cop’s job with less authority. Moving on. I nodded to the deputies and we chatted a little before they asked for the guns to run the serial numbers. Standard procedure. After I handed them about five rifles I began to slowly reach for my pistol. Without warning the CG dudes went combat apeshit. After screaming at me to remain still, they jumped on my boat and took it themselves. Seeing as it was the first time they moved or said anything, I was a bit surprised; well we all were including the deputies. People are sometimes jumpy, I reasoned, and I have always complied with officers. At that point everything was still somewhat subdued, and I turned to my boat occupants to offer an encouraging smile.

After getting back onto their own boat the CG pair resumed their rigid stance and remained silently staring down at us. After a brief awkward pause my guests started breathing again and the officers resumed the inspection procedures. Next came the request for our respective drivers licenses to make sure none of us were felons and such. We all handed them over without incident. In the time spent waiting for a reply on the radio, I made the usual small talk with the deputies. Conscious of the pork chops in the ice chest, one of the questions I eventually asked was ‘How long do weapon checks usually take?’ Now I’m a conscientious conversationalist. I had prefaced the question with sufficient polite banter to mask my impatience, hell I had even thrown in some of my prize-winning nonchalance. Despite all of that, the question was apparently enough to trigger something within our nation’s elite swamp task force, which until now had been silently basking in the glory of their own awesomeness on the bow of the small police skiff. The apparent leader marched between the deputy and I and stared down upon me. “It will take” he said slowly and deliberately, “as long as it takes.”

I had been doing my best to ignore the two up until now, but now they got the full wattage of my perceptive ire. The one in front of me had to be four foot tall; both were skinny and bald, in carefully pressed uniforms. Now the Coast Guard honestly have no teethe to bite the average person with, and I have a high tolerance for dysfunctional people, but this dude was getting to me that day for some reason. Being vertically challenged AND trying to assert his authority over me was a humorous coupling that day, so I met his stare and gave him my best scornful up and down look. From then I could tell it was war. He threw the book at me, asked me for and riffled through my papers, inspected my engine compartment, checked my fire extinguisher, and finally found something for which to cite me. No throwable flotation devise. I threw a life-jacket past his head and asked why it didn’t qualify. He didn’t seem to be as amused as everyone else and informed me tersely it would have to be a life-ring with a rope. His tirade of questions and my smart-aleck remarks showed no signs of stopping until we were interrupted by the radio crackling to life.

You didn’t have to know police radio codes to ascertain the forthcoming message wasn’t good; But my people didn't seem to pick up on it. The cops and CG huddled up for a conference while staring at one of the licenses. With my back to my passengers I silently fumed while contemplating the situation. I knew the "active 29" meant one of them was going to jail, but what made me angry was the fact it also meant the CG goons had the satisfaction of having something on me, and more importantly, the legitimate authority to screw up my plans. Turning to face me, the diminutive dick informed me that he was “terminating my voyage” until I procured a life-ring.

As they escorted our boat back to the launch, I thoughtfully studied my four passengers. Nathan and Lance hadn't a snowball's chance in hell of acquiring a warrant, so my gaze shifted to Joel. But he had long since straightened up his act... My eyes shifted to his new fiancée sunbathing happily on the front of my boat. Joye had obviously willingly agreed to marry him… what was she running from? I began to suspect a darker, possibly violent history behind her white winning smile. My thoughts were broken by the sound of the police vessel roaring around us as we neared the launch. As I pulled up to the dock, I glanced up to see the officers all lined up across our landing point with crossed arms. “Joel Dicharry, would you step out the boat for us?” As I watched him being cuffed, the droning sound of Miranda rights blending with the unabashed grief and consternation emanating from his very distraught fiancée certainly added an interesting soundtrack to the scene.

We were to find out in the coming hours that a traffic ticket he had given to his buddy to fix had apparently never quite made it to the right place; hence the outstanding warrant. “How much is bail?” his fiancée had asked anxiously. “No bail" came the reply, "The judge is out of town for the weekend. Earliest he can be out is Monday.” As Joye was relaying this interesting news via cell phone to his mother, I was again contemplating the pork chops. As they drove off, I asked the cop if we could bring him some bar-b-que in jail. “Sure” was the reply. I knew the bastard was lying but I was getting hungry and Joye seemed to buy it.

Back at my grandparents, I unloaded the pit and ice chests and started cooking. I had just flipped the delicious smelling chops over when a very exuberant fiancée ran outside. Luckily for Joel, his mother had been calling all the powers-that-be and had arranged for him to be let out almost immediately. “He’s getting out!” Joye was practically jumping up and down. “Awesome,” I replied, “let’s eat.”

After picking up and feeding our prison slut, we again loaded up the boat. As we were pulling out of the driveway, my grandpa tossed a life-ring into the boat and waved. As we approached the boat launch, we couldn’t help but notice the place was swarming with cops and paramedics. It seems that in our absence a drunken boating enthusiast had taken a corner too fast and flipped his boat. Watching the paramedics trying to treat his belligerent drunken passengers was something I should have like to have seen close up, but I had to content myself with simply staring from the far end of the boat launch. We had been cautioned to keep Joel away from the police as his release did not exactly erase his warrant.

So we put into the water from the far side of the launch and slid unnoticed past the commotion with Joel lying on the bottom of the boat. Once well out of sight of the launch, I throttled up the boat and we once again headed towards my camp. It didn’t take me long to realize the boat was acting very sluggish. As I turned to frown thoughtfully at the motor, I couldn’t help but notice the nearly four feet of water sloshing around inside the boat. Apparently while bar-b-quing, my beloved grandpa decided to drain the boat out, but not replace the plug. %#&!ing lovely, I thought as I hurriedly wheeled the boat around and headed back towards the launch. To balance out the sinking vessel, I ordered everyone to the bow of the boat. After a few harrowing moments, we roared into the “no wake” zone with all of the subtlety a speeding, sinking boat could muster. Unfortunately, the situation that had allowed us our previous unnoticed entry was over, and we had the undivided attention of everyone at the launch. Having little choice I shot towards the nearest dock, which of course, was the dock of choice for the meandering law enforcement population of St. James Parish, as well as the Coast Guard, paramedics and game warden. As our sinking boat gurgled up to the dock, Joel placed the life-ring around his neck and gave a friendly wave to our old friends.

Luckily the site of a sinking boat dropped the officers firmly into the “assist” mode so we only received raised eyebrows and perplexed frowns at first. We ended up driving away unhassled. The general consensus was that we had seen enough trouble that day, and I couldn’t agree more…