The Melancholy Advetures of Oyster Boy and Cauliflower
Come… come to the fire. Look about you and what do you see? Yes… nature… trees… grass…complimented by the sounds that our great spiritual father placed about us to remind us that we are all a part of some grand plan. So, please, come to the fire, and I shall tell you stories… stories of when our great spiritual father looked upon the blankness of the universe and said, “Coyote… do stuff!” And, coyote did stuff…. No? No stories about coyotes doing things? ….They are good stories. Coyote did some really cool things…. Do you know the Milky Way up there? You don’t see the Milky Way? It’s that big old cluster of stars that forms a belt across the sky. You can’t see that? Really? It’s right there! It’s so obvious! No, silly, right there! RIGHT THERE!!!! Do I have to still point it out to you? Can’t see it! Well, it’s there and coyote had something to do with it. Do you wish me to tell you that story? Still no? Well, then, what is it you wish to do around this fire? Oh, you have a question for me? Well, perhaps around the fire I can answer such questions…. And the question is? Meaning of life? Ummmmm…. Well, back in the day, when I took Speech Communications 101, I did an impromptu speech that answered that very question. I said, “The meaning of life is …. Cheese!” And, I went about explaining how, on a whim… like that… and it worked. I got a big laugh. Sorry I can’t remember what I exactly said. In those days I was quicker to the punch and much more creative…. I could whip up bullshit better than anybody. Those were the good old days. It was perfect bullshit… better then the bullshit I can whip up these days. And, yes, I do have a fascination with cheese and cheese products. Why? Because, for some reason, I think cheese is very funny. I don’t know why. It’s funny, and it is damn tasty rotten milk.. unless it is sauce. Cheese goes wrong once sauced. I am sure coyote had something to do with the creation of crap cheese sauce. I haven’t heard that story. That little animal was somehow involved. He’s such a trickster, that coyote. Trickster coyote, that’s what we call him. Would you like me to tell you a story about a trick coyote once pulled? What do you have against coyote? It’s not a dumb dog! That fucking animal is in all but one state! That’s Hawaii! I got that one right when the tour guide asked that question while I toured the Arizona Desert Museum. I’m smart.…. You don’t care. Jesus. You are a hard audience. Oh, look, the fire is dying. A minute while I refuel and stoke it…. Did I ever tell you about the time coyote had a fire? Okay, I won’t bring up coyote again…..No more coyote. I promise. … Yes, cheese. I said the meaning of life was “cheese.” Now, I told you I don’t remember what it was I said and how I worked out the equation. That was long ago….when I was a different form of story teller. Another question? That unnatural noise you hear coming from the front of the cabin. Yes, you are correct. It’s no animal and not the sound of the wind. That, my friend, is called … well, I call it the “tweeter.” What does it do? It tweets, silly. I think that’s rather self-explanatory. Why does it tweet? Some electronic device inside makes a noise and it is amplified by a speaker…. You press a button and it “tweets.” Yes, there is a reason it tweets. It doesn’t tweet because it wants to… Everything has a purpose. Coyote has a purpose. Sorry, I forgot … no coyote. But, yes, the purpose of the tweeter is to keep away another animal I like to call, “Fucking bastard!” Who’s “fucking bastard?” Well, “fucking bastard” to you, is called “mouse.” And, let me tell you, he’s a fucking bastard…. Our story begins….
In high school I was voted most likely to become a late night talk show host. However, our tale does not even concern such nonsense. In fact, high school rather sucked. I am sure coyote had something to do with that too… And, this story does not even begin that long ago. Furthermore, high school had nothing to do with the “tweeter.” It wasn’t even around then. Our story actually begins when I was 20….
Oyster boy, or me…. “Oyster Boy” was not what I called myself, nor was ever called. That, in fact, is a non-squinter (SP?). I just made that up, and figured I better work it in somehow to make the subject of this blog make sense. The title has nothing to do with anything. It was in fact something I made up in those few minutes I had before entering dreamland when I decided to tell this tale last night and thought it would be rather amusing to come up with some nonsensical title. BUT, what a story that would actually be if I could somehow write a story that was really about some dude named Oyster Boy and his cauliflower. Cauliflower is almost as funny as cheese.
I was 20, and just completed my sophomore year of college. It was a most tremendously bad year, mainly because of a woman. I dated this girl named Jen… But we called her “Niffer.” (“Why,” my friend Joel asked, we called him “Schwinn” … all of us had nicknames, except me. As I was saying, Joel asked, “Why do people always take their first parts of their names to create nicknames? Like ‘Jennifer’ becomes ‘Jen!’” I replied, “’Seph’ sounds like ‘Steph’ or ‘Stephen’ and that would be nonsensical regarding my name. ‘Joe’ makes more sense.” “Fine,” he said, “but ‘Niffer’ works!” From then on, we called Jen “Niffer” behind her back). Jen, well, as it turned out, was a lesbian. Both of us didn’t know this at the time. I was an experiment, and she took me on one of many emotional rollercoasters that many of the woman I seem to date, take me on. This one, well, it was unique to say the least. And, through the mud I was dragged. When I found out, eventually, my one friend named Len… Hey, he didn’t have a nickname either, said, “Dude, couldn’t you tell… She was rather butch!” I, of course, said, “Fuck you!” There isn’t any other type of reply I could think of that would have handled this situation better. So, I dated a pre-lesbian (Get your, “Joe turned a girl gay” jokes out now…. I will wait. And, I am sure they aren’t ones I haven’t heard before… so get them out…. Waiting… waiting… Done? Good). After the year, I was emotionally beat… school, my job, and Niffer… I was toast… TOAST (interestingly enough, this was the year I found alcohol… Mainly, beer… interesting. A lesbian turned me on to beer… She didn’t drink, but caused me to drink. I guess I owe her something from this. I found beer). I decided to stay on campus that summer. Mainly, finding a summer job back in the burbs was a bitch when I returned after Freshman year for the summer. Every college kid that lived in the burbs had to contend with all the dumb ass high school kids for shit jobs to make a little wage for the summer. Freshman year I worked for Wal-mart. That… THAT SUCKED!!!! I wasn’t going to do that again. Besides, I was a student manager for Dining Services, and that was a guaranteed summer job… and I was good at that. I sub-let an apartment, and began the healing process. Unfortunately, Dining-Services could only give me 10 hours a week… if that much. This wasn’t going to do… not for money. That was the excuse I gave to my friends when I accepted a nighttime (over nights) position at Burger King. I worked Dining-Services during the day… and at night, I made Whoppers. I was a fantastic Whopper maker, mind you… I could make a fucking whopper like nobody’s business… I could whop a whopper together in seconds. I am very talented (Funny story. I got yelled at for cutting a whopper in half length-wise… up-down….I was told to cut it diagonally. I couldn’t understand at the time why I was pissed off about this tirade that my boss gave me. “Diagonally!” he screamed at me. “It makes it look bigger!” I was so tired, I couldn’t figure out why my subconscious mind was saying, “BULLSHIT!” It was 2 in the morning, and we were in the middle of BAR RUSH – the time after bars close on campus. I didn’t have the time, nor the energy to give it thought. I was one of two in the back serving a shitload of drunks. I did what I was screamed at to do. Until, I sat on it and thought, “Diagonally! A Whopper is fucking round! No matter how I cut it, it will always be two halves! So, later that night, I told him. He just stared at me, then went to the back where he office was located. He came back and said triumphantly, “Cut diagonally. That’s what the manual says.” “That manual is wrong!” I barked. He just stared at me, and then said, “That’s what the manual says.” He walked off. Behind his back I muttered, “Fuck you!” Funny how that expression is perfect for a slew of moments, including people telling you your ex-girlfriend looked like a lesbian and you couldn’t tell. After that little incident, I just cut the whopper however I felt like cutting it… Stupid-ass Burger King manager. His name was Russell. He looked like a Russell, that is, if people named “Russell” are supposed to look a certain way meaning if they are fat, short, and stupid, he was perfectly named… I hope I didn’t offend, especially anybody named “Russell”). Now, as scheduling goes, what eventually happened, was that, regarding sleep… I didn’t get any. I can’t remember logistics, but I can tell you that from Tuesday through early Monday morning, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. The only day that I was allowed any type of sleep was Monday. I slept through Monday. After that, I didn’t sleep. I continued this schedule for the two months of summer. Yes, I should’ve quit Burger King. That was ridiculous. I was telling myself, as an excuse for torturing myself, that I wanted to see if I could pull this type of crap off… that I can put my body and mind through the wringer in a pinch…. The real reason, I wanted to torture myself in order to forget Niffer…. Ever read a “Brave New World”? The character of John tortured himself in order to forget Lenina? I did the same thing, but instead of whipping myself on the back as part of a religious purification ritual, I made whoppers well into the night. Then I cleaned up grease.
The summer finally came to an end. I was shot. I was beat. I was busted. I wasn’t me anymore. I was an empty shell. And, whenever I feel this way, I high tail it up here… to my Fortress of Solitude… To get away from it all. I replenish. I heal. I am left alone to spiritually heal myself under the pines, oaks, and birch. I wanted to be alone. I desperately wanted to be alone. The night I arrived, I met my parents who were here with some friends. They were leaving in the morning. I was happy about that. And, in other words, we traded keys. I would take over for a few days of peace and quiet, while they left.
They were at dinner when I pulled in. I decided to join them. At dinner they told me to do some chores they would like completed like mowing, and to finish cleaning out the Boata (Czech for boat house, but is more like our storage shed… CZECHS RULE!!! Fuck you, Turkey!!! Come hockey season, you bastards!!! We’ll see! We’ll see!). I don’t know why we call it the “boata”… It never stored any boats, and we aren’t on a lake… Anyway, my step-mother told me, “We started cleaning out the boata and came across a “fucking bastards” nest...(She didn’t call them that… she said “mouse nest”… I didn’t start calling them “fucking bastards” yet), and sadly there were babies in it.” “What did you do?” I asked. “What I had to,” said my father. There are some mantles passed to me in caring for this place that I am not proud of admitting too. I winched. I felt bad hoping I would never have to deal with that situation. I forgot. I ate my dinner.
They left the following morning, but before they left my step-mother came up to me. “Joe,” said my step-mother. “I am going to leave you with the dogs. They can keep you company.” “Oh boy,” I said to myself. “The dogs! How wonderful!” I wasn’t thrilled. I didn’t mind Hattie and Mickey, not on some levels. They were dogs. They were innocents. BUT, THEY were the apples of my step-mothers eye. She never had kids herself, and she treated them as such… better than me, let me tell you. Therefore, I had to treat them like royalty… Nothing could happen to them under my care. Hattie was a bitch…in personality and gender. She was only loyal to the immediate family. We always knew she had it her to bite somebody, and eventually did. That’s another story for another time, and not mine to really tell. We bought her as a pup at the Hatfield Flea Market (the actual location of the cabin. We are two miles out of Hatfield). We named her Lady Hatfield in tribute, and shortened it to “Hattie.” Mickey was bought two years later from a pet store. He was actually named “Lord McCoy”... My idea…as a joke… the Hatfields and McCoys… ha ha… and was shortened to Mickey. He was a lovable, but stupid dog. So, I had the dogs, yippee…. but most importantly, I had the place to myself. I smiled for the first time that summer. FREEDOM!!!! I mowed. I cleaned. I sat on my ass and enjoyed the solitude. I read a book. I treated the dogs like royalty. I said to myself, “I am going to Hardees in the morning for breakfast. They have fucking awesome breakfasts!” Then, I slept.
The morning dawned, and I took my ass out of bed. I took the dogs out and about. I dressed. I grabbed my car keys. I said, “Hattie and Mickey, I go get breakfast… FROM HARDEES!” I start the car. I was happy…she started. It was a 1987 Dodge Omni… She sometimes worked… There are stories, but for some other time. In short, the car and I had a love hate relationship. We loved to hate each other. It was my first car! We have that bond!!! This morning, she started. It was a good start to a good day… or so I thought. I put the car in gear. I backed up. I hit the breaks to start turning the car around. The car did not stop. She kept on rolling. It was then the brake light went on in the dash, and eventually the car stopped rolling. “What?” I asked myself. “What the fuck?” I put the car in drive. I pushed the gas a little. I pushed the brakes. The car, again, did not stop, and eventually rolled to a stop inches from the cabin door. Just to be sure, I backed up… hit the brakes.. car rolled… rolled… rolled… finally stopped. “Holy shit! I have no brakes!” AND, there was cause to panic. I had a car that didn’t stop. I was in the middle of nowhere. I had my parent’s cell phone, but useless because no signal (we had to go to Black River Falls to use the damn thing… this was in the days when the cabin had no LAN line… like it does now, but is wasn’t installed because of emergencies. It was installed because my parents, before the cabin title was transferred to my sisters and I, after they bought and sold some property on the lake, wanted to be here during the summer and not in Arizona…. They wanted the line to pay bills. We’ve had the phone… four years now, I think). AND, I had the dogs… the apples of my Step-mother’s eye! I was fucked. I was really fucked. Black River Falls is 15 miles away! How in the world would I get there? What the fuck was I going to do? AND, what about the dogs… THE DOGS!?!?!? They could die! I actually thought that. I was worried about the dogs. Step-mother trained me well…. I actually tried to use the cell phone to call for help. No signal. I had to be in Black River Falls to use the fucking thing!!!!!! What a useless piece of technology. It was bought for these type of emergencies.. How ironic! Of course, I wasn’t thinking about irony, at that moment. I was thinking, “FUCK!”
Oh, the fire is almost out again. Here, let me put in more wood…. That’s better. Now, coyote was frolicking about the mist until he came on to rabbit. “Hello, rabbit,” said coyote… oh, sorry, I forgot, I was telling the story about the “tweeter.” My bad.
“This can’t be happening!” I said to myself. “This can’t be fucking happening!” The dogs stared at me as I sat, hunched over, on a chair in the cabin with my hands on my face. “No way!!!! What the fuck? What the hell do I do?” I was close to nervous breakdown… The Niffer affair… the fucked up summer… Everything! I was so tired. So tired… soooo soooo tired…. I don’t know how long I sat there… getting my wits together … formulating some sort of plan. “I need a plan!... I could go up “K”…” Wisconsin names their county roads after letters of the alphabet. It’s a wonderful alphabetical experience driving about around here. We live off Clay School road which is off “K”… Hatfield is on county “E” and “J” …. And, my favorite is County “PP”… I snicker every time I think about it… It’s over yonder, not near here… hell, it’s not even in the county. It’s called County “PP”… snicker… snicker… Oh, yeah, my plan… “I could go on “K” … that road might work… It’s.. no, then I have to take Highway 54… Highway 54 is rather busy in terms of Black River Falls, Wisconsin… I have no brakes! That would be suicide! Suicide, I tell me! SUCIDE!” The dogs continued to stare at me as I tried to reason thing out. “E! I need to take E!!! Maybe, with some luck, there will be something on E?” I decided that I had to take the brakeless car somewhere…. And it would be safer taking “E” … I would only have to be on U.S. Highway 12 for a little bit until I reached civilization… and maybe I wouldn’t die. Less of a chance dying… That’s what I told myself. That’s what I planned.
I sucked it up. I started the car. I eventually got the car on the road. I put the hazards on . I prayed. I prayed. I prayed. I prayed. I moved. I only used the gas a little bit… The Emergency brake, you ask? Yes, the car had one. The emergency brake broke long before that! The car was a piece of shit! What a silly question. Anyway, I drove…. Slowly, brakeless, and prayed. I hoped I wouldn’t meet any cars. I prayed I wouldn’t meet any cars. So far, no cars!!!! Thank GOD for August! Nobody is around!!!! Up and down hills… over rivers… around curves… I drove… What seemed like eternity… And, eventually I was going to reach HWY 12… and, that was when the fun was going to start… BUT, what’s this? This here on “E”… A mechanic? A garage????? A mile from 12??? FUCK YEAH!!!! I am saved! I am saved!!! I rolled into the mechanic’s yard, with the car stopping inches from another rusty truck. The lot? It… well, it looked like an old car lot loaded with lots and lots of rusted cars and shit everywhere. If there ever was a “red neck,” I found his location. I got out, and an old man appeared, wearing oil, from some rusted out car bay. He looked at me. “I have no brakes,” I said. Without a word, he popped the hood. He looked under the car. He rubbed his face with his hand. Then he said, “Come back tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” I asked.
“My son needs to run for the part. I won’t have it until tomorrow.”
“My car has no brakes!”
“Come back tomorrow!”
He went back into his bay. I looked over at my death trap. “Tomorrow?”
Yes, … that is exactly what I had to do, my cleaver ones. I had to drive the car, brakeless back to the cabin, and then, in the morning, brakeless back to the mechanic. Brakeless… over hill … over dill… brakeless…. Why? Because the mechanic wouldn’t have the part until the morning…. Oh, sure, he could’ve loaned me a car… But, would that be the Wisconsin way? Or, maybe his name was Russell… In any case, I prayed a lot in those 24 hours… A LOT!
The mechanic came from the bay that next morning and pushed my car into his hovel. “This will take a few moments. Make yourself comfortable.” “Where?” I wondered. I was in the back woods in what looked like the car lot of the damned. I found a dead tree, and sat under that. I took out a book. I read. What else was I supposed to do in the car lot of the damned? In an hour the mechanic came forth with my car. He stepped over to me under the dead tree, and said, “Yup, it is what I expected.” He handed me my old brake lines. “See,” he pointed at one of them. “Teeth marks…. Some critter got into your engine, and chewed them.” “A critter?” I asked. “Yup. By the looks of them, probably a mouse.” “A mouse?” I asked. “More than likely.” A mouse… a mouse…. It suddenly came back to me… my step-mother’s story about the mouse nest and the babies. Those fucking bastards tried to do me in like my father did in those babies! An eye-for-an-eye! Take my baby! We take yours!... those fucking bastards.
It wasn’t that incident that brought the “tweeter” to the cabin…. That came after my father’s jeep stalled on I-355 because a mouse ate his electrical system. He bought the tweeter to save his car, not because some fucking bastard mouse almost took my life. Ironic.
I since learned that it doesn’t matter where the car is located… in a city… on a farm… suburb… neighborhood… fucking bastards… I mean mice… can chew up your car. It just so happened that my near death experience happened here, at a very bad time. Fucking bastards. Thus the sound of the “tweeter” sounds around us to protect the thing we should hold dear… our lives. I have also installed a fake owl under the eaves. One can’t protect life enough.
The moral of the story you ask?
First, and foremost, mice are fucking bastards.
Second, brakeless cars are dangerous.
Third, if a male, don’t date a lesbian.
Fourth, don’t work at Burger King.
Fifth, if it can go wrong, it will.
And, finally, mice are fucking bastards.
Now, how about a story about coyotes?
Prost!
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