Loss

...continued from Ten Years Gone

Summer came and went and I eagerly waited to see her again. But I never did. High School was not Junior High. I barely saw her anymore and we never talked. I wanted to, but I just couldn't face her. A lot had happened since Virginia. During the summer between 9th and 10th grades my face broke out with a vengeance and I found out I had to wear a back brace at night because my spine curved too much. Even though there was never any indication that she would feel any different towards me, I felt like a monster and hid from her. Of course, she never made any effort to talk to me, either. The longer we didn't talk, the harder it became to start up again. It got so that I was even afraid to look at her. I wasn't good enough.

Also, I was in the Voc. One thing they don't tell you when you sign up for the Vocational School is that regular High School kids hate the Voc kids. That's not in the pamphlet. I lost most of my friends, including my best friend since kindergarten. Oddly, it didn't bother me as much as losing her, even though I knew him since I was six and I'd only known her for a few months. A few days, really.

I got by. I made new friends. Nick, Jose, Jim, Mike and Wah-Kee. Good old Wah-Kee. They were a little weird at first; Nick had about thirty people living at his house at any given time, and Mike is the personification of the word "spaz," but they stuck by me when the people who where supposed to be my friends bailed. I was really lucky to have friends like them.

I still thought about her all the time, even if I was too afraid to actually talk to her. Seeing her in the hallways caused my throat to dry up and my heart to start pounding in my chest so fast I thought it was going to burst. As time went on, in my mind I just kept replaying what little time we'd spent together and building her up until she became this untouchable goddess. She was like the Ark of the Covenant; one look and I'd melt like a Nazi.

Even so, in the back of my mind I imagined scenarios where we'd have some chance meeting one day and everything would go back to the way it was before. I just needed that one moment. And it kept almost happening.

Sophomore year I had Mr. Welsh for honors English first period. She had Mr. Welsh for honors English...third period. For me, third period was Principles of Technology with Mr. Soule. Mr. Soule wore glasses with one tinted lens. He explained his unique eyewear on the first day of class.

"You're probably wondering about my eye," he said as he removed his glasses to reveal one eye that looked straight at us and the other facing Mecca. As if he really needed further explaination, he told us that he had a lazy eye and the darker lens was to correct it. Mr. Soule was a great teacher, but Principles of Technology was just a fancy name for "applied physics," which itself is just another name for "math stuff." Since I'm what some people might call mathematically retarded, this probablly wasn't the best choice of classes, but it was part of a required program for kids in Tech Prep. I spent three years in that class and I think all I got out of it is that there's something called foot-pounds. The point is, I did horrible in this class and if I had any sense at all, I would have switched to biology. I know I would have done much better in Biology, which if I had taken, would have been first period, meaning I would have had the third period English class. Could have been that one chance I was looking for. If only.

There was a school magazine called Reflections. When my mom was in school, it was a quarterly magazine (and called "Reflector"), but in its current state it was only put out once a year. Anyway, it offered an opportunity for creative types to share their work with the whole student body. Or at least the six people that actually bought or was even aware of Reflections. I signed up to be part of the staff, but after a couple of weeks of sitting in an empty library waiting for the rest of the staff to show up for the meetings, I stopped going. When yearbook time rolled around, guess who was in the group photo of the Reflections staff? Missed her again.

Senior year, the guidance councilor suggested that I take a creative writing class. I didn't have any room for one on my schedule, but I was able to work out a deal with Mr. Landry, my graphic arts teacher. Instead of having graphic arts for the last three classes of the day, I'd leave sixth period for my creative writing class and come back to finish the day in the shop. It was a second semester class, and I knew it was my last chance to have a class with her. I remember actually pleading with God for her to have sixth period creative writing class. As it turned out, I had Mr. Welsh again. And she did have creative writing sixth period...with Mr. Ghiorse. She was in the next room! It's like God was saying, "You should have been more specific. Hehe."

That's the way it went. I was always just missing her. And I saw signs all over the place, like our phone numbers were one number off on the first and last digit. Even our birthdays separated by one month and one day. It couldn't just be a coincidence, right? This was bigger than just two people. This was destiny. I could feel it.

One time I went with Nick to his locker. Out of nowhere I heard, "Will you hold my orange juice, Hammel?" I turned around and there she was. I couldn't believe it. She handed me the juice while she opened her locker. A million thoughts raced through my head as I tried to think of what to say to her, but all that came out was "Phlarmmmble..."

Without turning away from what she was doing, her reaction to was, "What, did you spill it?"

Oh, that's it. Screw you and your stupid orange juice. You haven't said a goddamn word to me in two years--two years-- and now you decide you're going to speak and the first thing you say isn't 'Hi,' or 'How are you?' it's 'Hold my orange juice.' Well why don't you hold it between your knees?!

Of course, I didn't say that, I just said "Okay" and held her drink, while she got something from locker, took her drink back, and walked away again. I should have been mad, but I wasn't. She remembered my name.

I never told anyone about my feelings for her, and when Nick finally did found out, he was determined to get me to talk to her. Or at least nag me about it incessantly. As more people found out, they all seemed to take Nick's stance. He even stole my yearbook and got her to sign it for me during the senior cruise. My cousins saw her comments in the yearbook and immediately hopped on the "You gotta talk to her" train.

But it was too late. We had different lives. I wasn't about to bother her just because I had some repressed feelings I needed to express. Despite what everyone insisted, it was best for all involved just to let it go. Then something happened that made me change my mind.

After graduation we found out that my grandfather had cancer. Esophageal cancer. I couldn't understand it. He never smoked or anything. He was one of the healthiest people I knew. He used to swim laps in his pool every day and he competed in the senior olympics. But he still got cancer.

He went to the hospital Memorial Day weekend for what was supposed to be a simple opperation, but there were complications. They flew him to Brigham and Women's Hospital from South Shore. My grandparents lived next door to us, and seeing him in the hospital everyday and watching my family, especially my grandmother, try to cope was too much to bare. That's what finally drove me to write her; I was trying to get back to a place in my life when I was truly happy in an effort to ease the pain I was going through. I was trying to escape the misery that had enveloped my life. So I wrote to her and told her what was going on. I also foolishly confessed to loving her all those years ago, despite the fact that she now had a boyfriend and seemed quite happy.

I took a huge risk, and waited for her to write back. But she never did.

My grandfather's health continued to deteriorate. My parents went up to the hospital every night. I usually stayed home and watched my brothers. He died December 10, 1997, after five months in five different hospitals. I was a pall bearer. The funeral home was in North Weymouth. It was right next to her house. I remember that my grandmother was upset that they did something to his face. She said it didn't look natural and she kept crying. It was just too much for me, so I went out side and sat on the steps, hopelessly looking at her house, wondering if she was even there.

Then, just before Christmas, I got an envelope from her. I had just moved in with my grandmother to help her cope with losing the man she'd been with for over fifty years. I went into my room and opened the envelope. It was a Christmas card. She said she was sorry for not writing sooner and she asked how I was. I couldn't help but think she completely missed the point of the letter I sent, if she even read it at all. She told me to write back.

I wrote back to her and told her about my grandfather's passing. I waited for a response. And waited. Damn it, she did it again.

My friends and family continued to ask how things were going, and said the letters weren't working. If I wanted to resolve this thing I'd have to call her.

You have to call her. You have to. After hearing that over and over again, I finally called the day of my dad's 50th birthday party. We had this huge tent in our backyard and everybody was there. We even had some black people. I remember thinking, "Wow, I've got black relatives. I did not know that."

I called her and she put me on hold. We were on the phone for about an hour, but most of that time I was on hold. I'm not really even sure what was said. I just remember her saying "Oh God, this is so awkward." a bunch of times. That's not a good indication that things are going well. There was something in her voice; but I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. Was she laughing at the pathetic loser who can't let go of the past, or was she crying because she really did care for me once, but now has a happy life with someone else? My money's on that first one. I asked her how she felt back then. I didn't even care how she felt now. I knew it was too late. I just had to know. That's all I'd wanted to know all these years. If nothing else, I needed closure. She said she had to go.

Please, I said. Please.

She said again that she had to go, and I said okay and hung up. That was it. I always wondered if she liked me all along, as so many others suggested, or did I confuse friendship and kindness for love? I had been asking myself that since ninth grade, and I'll never know, because she wouldn't tell me. Honestly, that hurts a thousand times worse than if she said no. At least she didn't hang up on me, so that was classy of her.

And that was that. I thought the hero was supposed to get the girl. That's when I realized that maybe all those similarities and close calls I was so quick to point out really were signs after all. But I'd been reading them wrong. In each case, I was always just missing her, or a number was one off, etc. It seems so obvious now. I was destined to be the guy that doesn't get the girl. I wasn't John Cusack. I was John Cryer.

I don't think about her anymore. It hurts to. It doesn't matter now. I've got the best girlfriend I could hope for, and for the first time in nearly a decade, I'm happy.

Now she's just a memory. It's strange how someone that once brought so much happiness can cause so much pain. I hate memories.

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Ten Years Gone

Memories. I hate memeories. For the longest time, that's all I had. Just memories. Memories of a better time. Of her. Everyone has that one story. That one person that changed their life. She was mine. This is my story.

It starts in ninth grade Science class. I had Mr. Galiano. I hated that guy. I'm sure the feeling was mutual; he didn't like anybody. Some people become teachers to educate and inspire. Not Galiano. He became a teacher so he could yell at people all day and get paid for it. He never bothered to learn anyone's name; he just called everyone "freshman" in that condescending, excessively monotone voice of his. It was equal parts Ben Stein and Darth Vader.

Hello, freshman.

Where's your homework, freshman?

You underestimate the power of the Dark Side, freshman.

He'd get right up in your face and all you could see was this forest of tree-trunk-like nose hairs and horrible, nasty teeth that would make a dentist wake up in cold sweats.

There was only one thing that made sitting through that class tolerable. The girl that sat behind me. I didn't even know her name; it was the only class we had together and Galiano always called her "freshman." She knew my name though, probably because the only time Galiano would break his rule and say your name was if he was yelling at you. Let's just say everybody knew my name.

She always asked me how to do the lab assignments, and I never had a clue. I'm more of an English major guy. So I'd turn to my lab partner, Wah-Kee, then go back and tell her whatever he just said. Good old Wah-Kee. I found out much later that she was on the honor roll and probably didn't need help anyway. Maybe she was just wanted to talk to me. Or not.

She was just nice. To everybody; even people undeserving and unappreciative of such kindness. I actually looked forward to that class just so I could talk to her. It also didn't hurt that she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. There was a whole world in her eyes; you could get lost in there. And her hair; she had those hangy-down things framing her face. I don't know what they're called, but I love those things.

The class trip that year was to Williamsburg, VA. I went there with my family when I was younger, and decided to go again. This time around, there was no Winnebago, and anyone that wanted to go had to pay $300. I raised the money selling candy. It wasn't easy. The school gave us Kit Kats and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups to sell. I figured since everyone was selling the same thing, if I brought in a box of Snickers, I'd have the edge. Give people an extra choice. Apparently, that was illegal. I was forced to stop immediately and was told everyone must sell the same thing. Sounds a bit like Communism to me, but rules are rules.

Maybe a month or so before the trip, Ms. Qualey held a meeting for all the students going. The girl from science class was there. All this time I didn't even know she was going. She had bought some of my candy bars, and I never saw her selling any herself, so it was a bit of a surprise to see her there. Ms. Qualey asked if everyone had a roomate, and neither of us raised our hands. I remember her looking over at me. Of course, co-ed hotel rooms were out of the question, but knowing that she was going to be there put a smile on my face.

The day of the trip finally came. May 25th. I'd just turned fifteen. About forty of us ended up going. We had to be at the school at five in the morning, which meant waking up around four. My dad dropped me off in the school parking lot, I put my bags away, and got the bus. I had never been so exhausted in my life. I found a seat next to Jason Crevison. Crevison's father was teacher at the junior high; I had him for Graphic Arts. The two of them are like shaved Yetis. They're huge. Very cool people, but still...huge. He gave me the window seat, which was probably a bad idea since now I was wedged between the wall and this massive kid, but I didn't really care at that point. All I wanted was to sleep. Never happened. No sooner had I closed my eyes, I heard someone say, "Hey, wake up!" It was her, sitting in front of me, smiling. If it'd been anyone else I would've punched them in neck. Instead, I sat up and we started talking. It was a little weird trying to carry on a conversation with her without the benefit of knowing her name, but after all these months I wasn't about to say, "By the way, who the hell are you?"

At first we talked about a video we saw in science class about a con-artist guy that said he could bend spoons with his mind and faith healers that smack little old ladies to expel their inner demons. I demonstrated the process for her, saying "Satan be gone!" Then, "BAM!" I'd take my palm to Crevison's forehead. I'm lucky the kid didn't break me in half. She loved it, though, even after about eight hours.

Satan be gone. BAM! You've been healed, praise Je-hee-zus!

I was saying "BAM!" way before that Emeril guy.

By the time the bus pulled into the Quality Suites hotel we'd talked pretty much nonstop for twelve hours. Twelve hours, I couldn't believe it. It went by so fast. We just went back and forth, going on about different topics. I even finally got her name, albeit through hearing someone else speak to her. All the while I couldn't help thinking, "What's a girl like this doing hanging around with a loser like me?" It seems someone else was thinking the same thing.

Rich Bagan. The Moriarty to my Holmes. The Joker to my Batman. The Newman to my Seinfeld. The man who will forever be known as Dick had his own grisly plans for her. Plans that most likely involved whipped cream and gelatin. The fact that she had spent the entire ride down talking to me did not sit well with him, and he was ready to do all within his power to stop it.

Hey, show her your chest.

Damn. See, I've got a bone sticking out of my chest, slightly resembling the creature bursting out of John Hurt scene from Alien. My sternum, the reason I could never have a Slip and Slide when I was a kid. It serves no purpose, other than maybe conveniently fitting in the crevice between a woman's breasts. Hell, maybe that's what it's for, but I had yet to find a girl that wasn't freaked out by the damn thing. It was the sole reason for my role as an outcast of society. It was a constant reminder that no matter how much I tried to fit in, no matter how many people said they like me, they know I'd always just be a freak. Just a freak. I wish I could say that didn't hurt, but it ate away at me every day of my life. Funny thing is, I never even noticed it until I was in seventh grade. That's the first time we had to get changed for gym. The other guys were like, "Ahh! What's that thing?" At the same time I was thinking, "Hey, where's your lump?" What the hell did I know; I thought everybody had one.

There I was. Trapped. Damn. She was going to find out. I knew if she saw that I was just a freak, she'd never want to see me again. I wouldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let Dick win.

No.

C'mon, show her.

Show me what? What are you guys talking about?

Before I could protest, Dick reached over and pulled my shirt up, revealing my hideous deformity for all to see. She didn't say anything for a few seconds, but seemed relatively unfazed. I sat back in my seat and she picked up the conversation from where we left off before Dick interrupted. She didn't care. Wow. Didn't see that coming. I could almost see Dick twirling an imaginary mustache, muttering, "Curses! Foiled again!"

I never told her how I felt about her. I was too afraid. I knew she liked me a little, but I also knew she didn't feel the way I did. She couldn't. I looked like a failed genetics experiment. It's not easy going through life as a scrawny sack of bones that doesn't look like it's put together quite right. I have no ass. It hurts when I sit. Being skinny sucks. Every time I hear people complaining about wanting to be thinner, all I can think of is how I have to grab a hold of something every time a gust of wind blows by, for fear of being swept away to Munchkin City. Something to think about before you go buying all that GNC vitamin-enriched fat-free health food crap. I tried that Weight-Gainer stuff. What a load of garbage that stuff is! It's just chocolate milk, for Christ's sake, and it doesn't even mix right; it just lumps together at the bottom of the glass. Then again, maybe I just couldn't stir it hard enough with my tiny, useless arms.

I don't think petty stuff like that really mattered to her. But I felt that she deserved better than me. I didn't know what to do. She was unlike anyone I'd ever known. This was far beyond a schoolyard crush. I loved this girl.

I realized this when we were in Jamestown. It's a lot like Plimoth Plantation we have in New England, except for all the southern accents. We split apart from the rest of the group and went to look at the horses with a few of her friends. After a while I looked up and noticed that her friends had left. I don't know where they went; to the bathroom or something. It doesn't matter, they were gone. It was just us. I looked at her as she watched the horses. There was something about that moment as she stood there with the sunlight on her face; she was like some majestic beauty you always hear about in books and movies, but could never exist in real life. Yet there she was. She looked at me and I looked into her eyes. Those eyes held so many stories. I wanted to know them all. I could have stayed there forever. The perfect moment. Neither one of us spoke, we just looked at each other. That's all. It was at this moment that I realized how deeply I felt about her, but I didn’t say anything. I wish I had.

One incident that will always stick out in my mind is the flume ride at Busch Gardens. I was waiting in line with three other guys, Phil, Olsen and, you guessed it, Dick. She was ahead of us with her girlfriends, Cindy, Andrea, and some chick I didn't know. She turned around and asked me if I wanted to ride with her. I almost went into cardiac arrest right then and there. I collected my nerves and said, "Sure," as I looked over at Dick and gave him the most evil grin I could muster. I switched places with Cindy. Now you might think that riding the flume with the most perfect girl you ever met would be a good thing, what with all the screaming and wetness, but that just wasn't the case this time.

While we were waiting in line, Wayne decided he wanted to ride with us, too. Wayne. This kid epitomized nerddom to such a terrifying degree that...let me put it this way: he spoke fluent Klingon. Klingon! It's not even a real language!

The thing that kills me is that I still don't even know where he came from. He wasn't in line with us; it's like he just sort of...materialized. The flume log seats four single-file. Ours managed to squeeze in five: the three girls in front and me and Captain Kirk in back. She sat in front of me, separated by a bar that divided the front and back portions of the log. Wayne was behind me. As the log clicked its way up the incline, I sat there baffled as to why Wayne was on my ride stealing my thunder. Again, where did he come from? We were standing in line for forty-five minutes and he was nowhere to be seen. I didn't have much time to think about it, because a few seconds later we went down that steep hill, and I slid forward into the bar (which caused severe man-pain), and my head flew back and landed between Wayne's legs. Somehow when I started I didn't think this ride would end up with my head nestled in Wayne's crotch. I washed my hair about fifteen times that night.

All my insecurities and embarrassing mishaps aside, the major thing I had going for me was that the entire time we were there, from the bus to Jameston to Virginia Beach to the Air and Space Center to Busch Gardens, I never left her side. Well, almost never. Our group of about twelve people kept getting smaller and smaller as kids broke off to go on different rides. She wanted to go on the roller coasters. Screw that. I had this thing about roller coasters. They scared the hell out of me. Now I go on them all the time, mostly because I got tired of seeing little five year old girls do something I was afraid to do. If I had a time machine, I'd go back and beat the crap out of me until I agreed to go on a roller coaster with her. But I don't, so she went off to go on the big coasters the park is famous for, and I, like a giant lump of concentrated idiot, stayed firmly on the ground and just sort of...wandered. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but before I knew it, I was alone and lost. I walked around for hours, trying to find somebody --anybody-- I recognized. All this time she was in one of those booths making a video with Cindy and Phil. They did the Beastie Boys' "Fight for Your Right to Party" under the name the Hammels. She named her group after me. That's so cute I could vomit. Of course, at the time I was completely oblivious to all of this, because I was lost in a giant amusement park. Ever been lost in a giant amusement park? It can be very traumatizing.

That night, after she had us watch the video several times, I headed back to my room and went to bed. Crevison was my roommate. He stayed up watching Platoon on TV. I was half asleep, but I kept waking up because the guys on TV were shouting "Ammo! Ammo!" but I was hearing "Hammel! Hammel!" I guess I fell asleep when that scene was over. And some time after that, the phone rang. Crevison answered. It was her. She asked for me, but rather than wake me up, he told her I was asleep. Gee, think it might have been an important call, Sasquatch?! I didn't find out until she told me at breakfast. But she didn't say what the call about. What could she possibly have called me for in the middle of the night, I wonder?

Whenever the group went out to eat, we'd always sit together, and if I didn't, she called me over to sit with her. Sometimes I'd sit somewhere else just to see if she'd call me over, and every time, without fail, she would. Everywhere I went, "C'mon, Hammel!" She'd grab my hand and take me with her. I don't think there's any greater feeling in the world than that feeling you get when a girl calls for you. But she never called me John. It was always Hammel. Did that mean she wasn't interested? I mean, you call your buddy by his last name, but I've never heard a girl say, "This is my boyfriend, Smitty." It just doesn't happen. That must have been what I was thinking of when I made The Mistake.

On the bus ride home, Dick kind of put me on the spot. Again. His earlier plans to get her away from me didn't work. This time he conjured up something far worse. I was sitting next to her now. I don't know how I managed that. Before the last rest stop I was sitting next to this kid who asked to borrow my Gameboy, and then I watched in horror as his festering, pus-oozing thumb mashed down on the B button for half an hour. But there I was. Sitting right next to her. Dick leaned over and asked me if we were going out.

Trapped. Again. What do I say? There was a number of things I could have done to get out of that situation. I could have just ignored him. I could have even asked her then, "Hey, are we going out?" I didn't really know. We were in a hot tub together, but there were other people in it too, so does that count? We were pretty much inseparable, and I mean, the Hammels? C'mon. But I couldn't help thinking it was all just a fluke, and that I didn't belong with her and it was only a matter of time before it fixed itself. I could have done lots of things but instead I blurted out "We're just friends."

We're just friends? We're just friends?!! Argh!! I never thought I'd live to see myself use the "we're just friends" line. What right do I have using that line? We're just friends, what the hell is wrong me? I should have let her answer. If she said no, she said no. None of the blame would lie with me, as it does so heavily now. I made the wrong move and Dick won. Dick's a jerk.

Regardless, the rest of that year we continued to talk in science class pretty much every day. A few days after we got back, she even wrote me note.

Hammel,
Did you get your pictures developed yet?
Danielle.

Tomorrow: The story concludes in Loss

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I Like Megan

Well, I don't like Megan. I don't hate Megan, either. I don't even know Megan. But somebody likes Megan, because they spray-painted their tepid feelings for her along the wall at the beach across from my apartment.



Not I Love Megan. I Like Megan.

Why? Why would someone feel the need to write that on a wall? Why would someone say "Megan, I wouldn't mind seeing you on a semi-regular basis, to hell with what anyone thinks!"

If you're going to deface public property, shouldn't it be for an emotion a bit stronger than "like?" Oh, won't Megan's friends be jealous when they see her sort-of admirer's apathy prominently displayed for the world to see!

Maybe, one day, he'll take Megan to a Red Sox game with some friends, and on the Jumbotron it will read: "Megan, I think you're a cool chick. And if Liz is busy this weekend, do you want to see a movie or something?"

Imagine their imminent breakup...

"Megan, baby, I like you, but I'm not in like with you anymore..."

Maybe there is no Megan. Maybe it's a code..."I like Megan" could be an anagram of "Enigma like" or "I am King Lee." Or "A Milk Genie." I'd like Megan if she were a milk genie. She'd grant wishes and help build strong bones.

I guess we'll never know. So Megan, wherever you are, know that somewhere out there, there's a guy who cares enough about you to spray some words on a wall, but not quite enough to use that other "L" word.

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the Boogieman!

Michele insists I was dreaming, but some kind of horrible thing tried to rip out my life force last night. It rattled me a little bit, almost being sucked right out of my body by unseen forces, and dream or not, I'm still shaking.

I woke up at 3 AM. Why? Because we had KFC for dinner that night and it was trying to escape. Half an hour later, I crawled back into bed, feeling much better. I couldn't really go back to sleep because Michele...well...she snores. I closed my eyes and saw the residual image of the room as a high-contrast negative. That's pretty normal, it happens when you close your eyes after being exposed to bright lights.

But I also saw a door. A door that's not really in the room. And I felt myself being suddenly grabbed and pulled toward it. Not my body; but my spirit, or soul or essence or whatever the hell it is. It was being pulled out of my body by a white...thing. Shapeless. But it was pulling me and I couldn't open my eyes no matter how hard I tried. And I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I tried to, but all I could do was mumbled grunts. Some people would argue that's how I talk anyway, but that was all I could get out because I couldn't move my lips.

Michele heard me and woke up. She took my hand and I could see the white blobby thing that grabbed me slink away into the door that isn't there.

I grabbed on to her after that and pretty much stayed clamped onto her 'til morining. She said it was just a dream but dammit I wasn't asleep; I had just put my head down and I could still hear the wind blowing into the room from the windows.

I say she saved me from the evil thing because if she wasn't there to snap me out of it I would have suffocated. She says this happens to lots of people and the black people in the south call it "riding the witch." Or the witch is riding you. I don't know. Either way, it's creepy. So all these people have the same dream? Or are these things roaming the world, killing people in their sleep? Could it show up in your bedroom tonight?

I'm just glad I went to the bathroom before this happened, or I would have had quite a mess to clean up...

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Just the Ten of Us

Mr. Potter died when I was seven. He was my aunt's father, but I didn't know that at the time. To me, he was just a nice old guy I saw on birthdays and holidays who'd give me money. He had a Winnebago that he and his wife were going to travel the country in, but never did. So after he died, my aunt Betty decided we should take it on a trip to see what it would be like. So ten of us, Uncle Jay, Betty, their kids Andrea, Kristin, Joel, Jon, my parents, my younger brother Ryan and me, went on a trip to Busch Gardens.


From left to right: Kristin, Jon...or Joel, my dad,
Ryan, my mom, Andrea, me, Betty, the other twin, Jay.

We took the Winnebago and my parents' station wagon and set off on a mishap-laden adventure that we still talk about today. My mom drove the Winnebago for exactly one block before it was decided maybe someone else should take the wheel. At one point, the car broke down on the side of the rode right next to a bag of rotting fish. So we were standing on the side of the road with a stinking bag of fish guts in the middle of August, waiting for AAA. Later, my then three-year-old brother Ryan announced he had a string in his throat, which my parents didn't understand until he threw up all over the place. Joel and Jon were in the back of the station wagon, banging on the back hatch for dear life for someone to let them out.

We made a stop at a campsite and we were all supposed to go to a waterpark, but I got stung by a bee. My dad said it was because God was punishing me for whatever I did earlier. So my uncle's family went to the water park, and my family stayed behind for a while. When we did finally go, instead of going to the big water park, we went to the cheap, broken down one across the street. My mom took Ryan on a slide with her and her mat flipped over at the bottom, and for a while she was underwater on top of Ryan. None of the attendants at the park even offered to help. To this day, neither one of them has gone back on a water slide. Meanwhile, the slide I was on didn't have enough water on the slide part to make it slippery, so I stopped halfway down. I wasn't sure what to do, so I stood up. Then the guy that went down behind me crashed into me, and there was much screaming and confusion all the way down. Also, some other guy grabbed me out of the pool because I was floating face down trying to see how long I could hold my breath and he thought I was drowning. He got pretty mad.

Then there's my dad, who carefully walked all the way across the German-themed food court in Busch Gardens, with a lederhosen-clad Um-pa band playing in the background, carrying a pizza and a pitcher of Sprite all the way from the Italy-themed section of the park until finally spilling the pitcher all over the pizza when he put them on the table. Looking equally embarrassed and angry, and certainly not about to walk all the way back to get Italy to get another pizza, he clenched his teeth and said "You're gonna EAT that pizza and you're gonna LIKE it!" My mom grabbed some napkins and mopped up most of the soda.

As soon as we got back, my aunt sold the Winnebago. That trip became the template for every vavaction my family's been on since then. What a great trip.

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