LIFE OF MY STORY

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Imagine a kitchen with the aroma of baked goods and fresh coffee. Imagine a bathroom connected to that very kitchen. Now imagine a heavyset individual relieving himself after holding it in for a few days. Imagine that man getting some stuff on his pants and trying to wipe it on you as he leaves the door opened behind him. That’s kind-of-like my experience at Dunkin’ Donuts yesterday morning. I was walking in to get a coffee when I saw a utility van parked in front. I decided to walk close to the workers because I was curious as to what they were doing with a 20 foot cable inserted directly into a hole in the pavement. Within touching distance, I passed by the man holding the cable, only to jump back when the brown, thick liquid expelled upwards like a mini-gyser. He thought nothing of the situation as he shook his leg in an effort to remove the sludge. I thought enough of it to call awareness to the situation. If you own a food-based establishment, insert 20 foot vibrating cables into your septic tank outside of work hours.

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I was at a friend’s apartment with my laptop and I was minding my own business. She had two of her girlfriends over and they were curious as to what I was making and why I was being anti-social. Photoshop was open and the picture I was editing was for a Facebook Fan Page that dealt with combating other people’s body odor. If seen out of context, this picture would beg certain questions: Is he perverted? Aren’t there laws about shit like this? Enter Beth from behind. I had no idea she was there, but she had snuck up behind me a few seconds prior and obviously saw the picture. I turned to see her and she pretended like she hadn’t been standing there looking at my screen for the past 3 seconds. “I was just coming over to see… what you’ve been…” she said awkwardly. Then, in that fake voice people use to continue a farce, I said “Let me see. hmmmmm. What have I been doing…” as I furiously try to X out of the image. But I couldn’t X out of it. I had full-screen mode in Photoshop in full effect and in my panicked state, I forgot how to use my own computer. Like a desperate man caught with his pants down, I held down the power button, turned to Beth and said, “It’s not ready yet. Can I show you later?” Said picture included as a video with a bit of background music to set the mood.

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My friend Dave came to visit Saturday night. After we ate, we went for coffee in Asbury Park. The line for the coffee shop was fairly long until the owner appeared out of thin air. He was in his early 60’s, high on cocaine, all the while scooping samples of Gelato and shoving them into the hands of every customer. Then he got to me. He looked puzzled as he stared and then his face lit up as if everything in his life made sense at that very moment. “HEEEYYY, HOW ARE YOU?” he asked me. It’s obvious that in the mind of this crackpot, I was an acquaintance he hasn’t seen in at least 3 weeks. Should’ve said “I don’t think we’ve met” but I went with “No different than usual!” “TELL TELL, WHAT’S NEW?” he asked. “Um, well. I really don’t know,” was my awkward response, which led to our order: 2 coffees, a cupcake and a small gelato.

Dave and I ate as this man watched us from behind the counter. Dave said that every time he reached up to wipe the gelato from his face, the owner got excited as if something really fun was about to happen. It came time to pay and Dave sheepishly stayed behind. As I handed this nut-job the money, he starts spinning the wheels of his early-onset dementia again.

Crackpot - So, I’m putting together a few shows. And soon!

Me - Oh yeah?

Crackpot - A comedy show, a few murder mysteries, and ... a Mr. Wet Boxer Briefs contest!

Me - (shocked and silent, showing him my half-opened mouth that could be taken as “Really?” or “Fuck, what did I get myself into?”)

Crackpot - We’re going to use two hoses this year…

Me - (silent, shocked, temporarily brain dead)

Crackpot - And we’re going to have it during the gay pride parade.

Me - (reaching out for the handshake) Well then!

I was unsure how to finish the dialog, so I just walked away after the handshake. I was too deep to come out with the truth. That I was indeed not the man he thought I was. That I must have been a look-alike, fitting the description of a gay man in the Asbury Park area that he sort-of knew. Or maybe, just maybe, the owner saw me driving alongside the boardwalk one day blasting Whitney Houston with the windows down. And he figured: I’ll take a shot. I mean, how many straight men blast Whitney Houston in Asbury Park? Only one as far as I can tell.

I was at the library today when I saw him through a glass door. He was a small-statured, late 20-something-year-old dressed like a dirty college student. In that instant, I thought to myself, “What a douchebag.” When I stood up, so did he… for he was me. I was looking at my reflection. Ryan - 0, Life - 1.

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It’s 8 something in the morning and the bus is nearly empty. I’m tired and my eyelids close. “Is he a puppy or a full-grown dog?” The guy behind me is yelling into his cellphone. I want to strangle him. “KARATE?” Now the guy in front of me is on his cellphone and he’s more obnoxious: his speaker phone is turned way up and the person on the other end sounds like a muffled megaphone. Sure, I could have said something. But they’re middle-aged. Isn’t 30-40 years enough time to learn courtesy? So f*ck you both. I decided instead to record your outbursts and translate them as best as possible.

I made a new friend and tonight was our first get-together. Since we were meeting for the first time, I expected myself to malfunction. Normally when I meet a new female (even on friendly terms such as tonight), I feel snot dangling from my nostrils. It’s never there, so I’ve chalked it off as a nervous mind trick. Tonight was different. As we sat at the bar, I began to drool. For no good reason, my mouth produced excessive saliva. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I have to use the bathroom,” I said. In the bathroom, I put a paper towel in my mouth as if it were a sponge. After making my way back, I could barely focus on our conversation. I worried that the excessive drool could be a sign of infection and wondered if my breath was bad. Bad breath is usually a tell-tale sign of being sick, so I discreetly breath-checked. It smelt of dirty asshole and diapers. I couldn’t believe it. The smell was rotten like old food in a dumpster. Could I be that sick? I checked behind me. There he was: a heavyset, hygienically-impaired man eating steak and breathing heavily. I’m in the clear; it’s just a stinky person, not my breath. My new friend continued to talk through my eccentricities. Relieved, I reinstated eye contact, opened my mouth and slowly made my way down to the straw. I overshot the straw, which went directly up my nose, touching close to my sinuses. I reversed slowly like a school bus. Somehow she experienced none of this. Not my drool. Not the ass smell. Not even the disappearing straw. But now that she can read the truth, will she spend our next meet-up waiting for me to malfunction?

I stopped by my grandparents house after work to drop off a battery. Like usual, they were about to eat and offered me a plate. I couldn’t eat too much because I was headed to the gym. “Will you at least eat these damn mushrooms? I’m allergic,” My grandfather protested. “Ask him what happens if he eats mushrooms,” my grandmother insisted. So I played along, expecting a benign and dated joke. “Why not, Papou?” I asked. “It’ll make the head of my dick fall off,” he responded. Zing!

I work with mostly men. There is one female receptionist named Carol. She doesn’t speak much. The men are ruthless during the day. They speak about all kinds of sexual atrocities. No one seems to mind Carol sitting there. This is an obvious sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, right? “You must not know about Carol,” my coworker said to me. Carol wasn’t always Carol. Carol used to be Bob. And as a she-man, she has the tolerance to sit through the abuse and a weak argument in a court of law.