party

Chuck clears his throat and goes: "Marshall Ledbetter was this crazy guy back in Florida who was always talkin' bout overthrowin' the government. He had his own newsletter even. But most importantly he was a great drinkin' buddy. "So, one day I get home from school and Mama says, 'Your friend Marshall's on the television'. And sure enough there he was on the TV at the Florida state capitol sayin' he had a pistol in a paper sack and a bomb in this big liberty bell thing by the capitol building. He said if his demands weren't met he was gonna blow it up. And his demands were somethin' like five hundred pizzas delivered to the homeless, an autographed picture of Minnie Pearl and some other wacked out shit. "Anyway, he come to find out only had a hairbrush in the sack and I think another hairbrush duct taped up in the bell." We're all grin diggin' Chuck Messer's story as we do every day and shake our heads in enjoyment and amazement at his latest installment in his Tales of Lake Wales Florida series, here at our lunch table at work. It's lunch time and we're both havin' our lunch and supervisin' the large collection of handicapped and retarded folks havin' their lunch as well, here at Progress Inc's workshop. One of the other staff continues quizin' Mr. Messer about the legend of Marshall Ledbetter while Ibe, our Nigerian co-worker of the Ebo tribe, asks, "Is Chuck telling the truth." "I think so", I answer, "though he tells that story different every time I hear it. It was a hundred pizzas originally". Ibe shakes his head at us tall tale tellin' Americans. The job here at Progress Inc. has been pretty decent and nearly always excitin'.

Whether it be a story you hear or story that happens to ya, there's always a story here to bring home. Lookin' over the sea of contorted and gigglin' adult faces that are beautifully animated by children's minds, I spy my first assignment which was with an autistic named Bruce. The whole trick with him was headin' off any 'behaviors', as the experts call it, or the act of 'freakin' out', as the rest of us call it. Bruce freakin' out usually was preempted by an obsession over somethin' out of place or anything deviating from the schedule. For instance if someone was absent from the workshop or if his daddy was a little late pickin' him up, that'd cause Bruce to get a hankerin' for some obsessin'. Everyone, staff and clients alike, knew to take cover when Bruce started flippin' at his ears with his hands because this would be followed by a good scream and punch fest by Bruce, with harmonizin' screams by the folks fleein' his general vicinity and the screams of the folks gettin' punched by Bruce. My mission officially was to work with him one on one at readin' and writin' skills and keep him happy. But he was no dummy and even after I'd take great lengths to distract him from out of place occurrences, he'd freak out anyway and punch someone. So, I soon figured out that my job was actually to restrain him physical when he went to do his hurtin'' on somebody. A couple months after I had worked with Bruce, Chuck, left the pharmacy and came to work at Progress too. They gave Bruce to Chuck to restrain and gave me a brand new autistic fella named Aaron. Aaron had been even more dangerously violent than Bruce in the past until no more agencies would keep him anymore. So, they had to have him heavily sedated and was pretty much kept him in his parents' basement for six years. That is until the sedation drugs turned toxic and was startin' to do a number on his liver. Hence, we, Aaron and me, are now best buddies and do everything together. It didn't go to good at first; he punched put a girl in the hospital within the first couple of days. Aaron's behaviors are usually triggered by someone touching him, too many people bein' in his vicinity, too much noise or somethin' not goin' his way. And his 'everyone duck for cover' signal is him pushin' his ears up and screamin' this scream that raises the hair on your back. Again, restrainin' him before he rearranges somebody's face, is what it all come down to. Aaron is happiest when he is watchin' a dryer spin round, has his ear against some kind of vibratin' machinery or listentin' to bluegrass music in the headphones. With any of these stimulations, he grins one of them eye closin' grins and flaps his hands above his head. I noticed once he seemed to study how some of his favorite mechanical noise makin' things worked and so found a broken radio, gave him a screwdriver and let him take it apart and put it back together. He especially liked this while listenin' to the headphones. He'd stop unscrewin' some part, grin his eye squintin' grin while I could barely hear some high lonesome harmonizin' leakin' from his ears. Once he got mad about something and went to stab me with the screwdriver but I pointed at him and said, "If you stab me with that, we're gonna hafta wrestle!" "Wrestle?", he'd repeat. "Wrestle", I'd stand my ground. He'd think about it, grin his grin and go back to bein' good for at least a little while. "You not eatin'?", I ask noticin' Ibe's table space at the lunch table is empty. "No man. I can't eat here", Ibe answers as if I should know this. "How come?" Ibe looks at me as if I'm stupid and then as if maybe I'm pullin' his leg. I help him out sayin', "I guess I'm stupid. Why can't you eat here?" Ibe scans over the several tables full of clients and spyin' somethin' relevant, smiles and points whatever it is out for me. Lookin' at where he's pointin', I see Thomas, a blind and deaf fella, thowin' up all over what lunch he hasn't ate yet and then after he wipes his mouth, proceeds to eat both the bile soaked food and what particles of food have already passed his palate once today. "I gotcha", I respond understandin' Ibe's point and then proceed to finish my own lunch quickly. Ibe hollers to Gary Big Daddy Yum Yum Worden at the other end of our table, who is Thomas' one on one staff. After chucklin' some at the sight, Gary leather jacket lumbers over to clean the mess up sayin', "Oh son. I had such high expectations for you."

Back at our lunch table, Chuck starts up again. "And that reminds me, the last time I was home I ran into Marshall at a bar one night and he had just got out of the state pen. He was ravin' bout the government even more now. And anyway, some other friends showed up and we get to drinkin' and had a good time havin' Marshall back. "But we all drive back home together and as we're goin' down the road, Marshall rolls down the window and pukes- right by a parked police car. The cop pulls us over and the guys in the back are holdin' Marshall down and have his mouth covered and he's squirmin' and fightin' and tryin' to say somethin'. "Everything goes well and the cop's about to let us go but Marshall gets loose and starts hollerin', 'I'm not afraid of ya, ya pig, you pig! Come back and get me, ya pig, ya pig!' "So, the cop shines his light in the back seat, does a double take and says, 'Marshal Ledbetter! They let you out?!'" Ibe laughs with the rest of us but is lookin' at me wonderin' what part to believe. Chuck starts up again, I think to tell us some bout Marshall but am sorely disappointed at his announcement. "Hey Tim, your son's havin' a moment." And lookin' at where I left Aaron to eat, see that he's fast asleep, usin' a half eaten sandwich for a pillow with the musical splashes like that of a tiny waterfall, indicatin' that Aaron is so relaxed that he is also gently releavin' himself. I groan, go get some gloves and eventually wake Aaron up and get him into the bathroom to change cloths. He's totally useless tryin' to undress himself beins he's so drowsy from the behavior medicine. The rationale is that the more one is drowsy, the more likely one will be too tired to clobber and kick ass. While Aaron sways stands above me, I'm tryin' to undo his urine soaked shoelaces, and out of the blue Aaron gets a little gumption enough to pull his shorts and underwear down, hence releasin' his monster genitalia he's been blessed with. So, while he sways drowsily, his giant damp organ proceeds to smack me in the forehead. Chuck walks in durin' this. "Whoa, daddy! I didn't need to see that! Hey Tim, I meant to tell ya, Randy called and he's havin' a shin dig over at his apartment tonight. Said they're gonna have wine from his parents vineyard and everything!" "Really?", I say pullin' off a damp shoe. "You wanna go?" "Well hell! Does a fat baby fart?" I think about that. "Well, yeah I guess they do", I answer pullin' off a wet sock. "You pick me up?" "Sure. Soon as I get off at the pharmacy", I add dodgin' Aaron's pendulum again. "Cool! Okay, I'll leave you two alone." "Thanks."

The rest of the workshop day goes without serious incident and when the 3:59 time comes, I'm bustin' a move out the buildin' and towards the parkin' lot where my faithful yellow Japanese friend, the 1973 Datsun 610 awaits and yearns to feel my agile fingers round it's sleek steerin' wheel. In the process, I fly by Grandmama Joyce Cotton, black and as beautiful as the night, who's standin' and relaxin' out the back door. She hollers out in her thick New Orlean's dialect, "Boy, what ya got cookin' that'sa makin' ya fly outta here so quick?" "Gotta get to a party!", I holler back. She smiles a gracefully aged smile that seem to be partial to the young people at the work place and gets out, "Have fun Timothy", before I get in the car and putter away. I get to the pharmacy, grab my basket of medicine and am outta there. These days I'm pretty much deliverin' to the old folks homes and no longer the nursin' homes. So, I should be done quick. Once at the old folks towers, I race up stairs, sprint down hallways, give a quick knockin', leave the medicine on the door knobs and am on my way. Now, normally I'd wait around for payment but today decide to get it another day. This kickass formula, in light of youthful agility and aged decrepity, works at all but one stop. And it only doesn't work cause the particular old lady is watchin' out her peep hole when I do my courtesy knock. "Come in, come in, young fella!", Mrs. Hacker says openin' her door and wiskin' away the wood from my knuckles rapin'. "You're awful quick today", I say totally unimpressed. "Yeah, I was watchin' out my peephole monitorin' the hallway." "Why for?" "Well, we decorated our hallway here for Thanksgiving and wake up one mornin' to find all the pilgrims and Indians with their heads cut off! So, the ones of us who decorated took turns watchin' out our peepholes after we put up some new decorations and sure enough, we catch the scoundrel up at two in the mornin' wackin' the heads off again! It was that mean old man who lives down at the end of the hallway! He gave us a good cussin' when we caught him, yes sir! But ya can't throw a soul out of a buildin' for bein' a grinch, so, we hafta keep an eye on him till this holiday is over." After givin' the hallway a quick glance back and forth, assurin' intact Indian and pilgrim heads she looks me over good as if I had just appeared there and then asks, "You look antsy! What's the matter with ya?" "Oh, I'm sorry", I answer kinda feelin' bad for not wantin' to be there in front of her, "I'm tryin' to finish work early today. I gotta a party to get to tonight." "And here I am holdin' ya up!", she says stompin' her little foot. "Get on! I'll send my check in latter." "You sure?" "Oh yes. I neededa prescription on Christmas day last year and one of you boys made a special trip out here to me. I didn't never forget that. Now, get on outta here!"

"A thousand 'Thanks you's, Mrs. Hacker", a say turnin' on my heel as she waves me on. And I'm off once again, back to the pharmacy to get my car, thinkin' I'm free to party but, GAL DANG IT!, the owner himself, Mr. Taylor, asks me to make one more delivery out to Murfreesboro, Tennessee, a town about an hour away. But I owe him for my job and his kindness. So, I break several traffic laws down Interstate 24 East and in record time get myself and the medicine to the pretty little college town. The Murfreesboro delivery gets me close to Poet Drew's house at which I can't resist bein' all that close to him bein's we live so far apart without visitin'. So, I screech stop there right off the town square and we sit on his red brick back porch swing. Drew smokes and I drink some iced mint tea Drew's beautiful red headed mama had made for me, the mint stem seemingly rooted at the bottom of the glass and reachin' out over the sweatin' glass rim. Drew hands me a couple of jotted down lines of poetry and asks me to work on jottin' on a couple more. So, I fold the jotted down lines up and file 'em in my flannel shirt pocket, shake Poet Drew's smokin' hand and stand and skip and sit and drive off as quick as I came.

Just as I am about to get back onto I-24, I see a bunch of cattle grazin' in a roadside ditch and eventually see the jarred open gate. The cows are dangerously close to the skull crushin' cruisin' cars and rigs, so I pull over and attempt to herd 'em back into the open gate. They end up runnin' from me and in the direction of the highway. There's a single wide trailer home close by, so I bang it out on the fiberglass door until I figure ain't no body home. The cattle are eyein' me while munchin' on down a little further on ditch grass and trash and so I accept that I can only do more harm here than good. Pullin' off, I'm back on my way to the party! Datsun recovered, Yvette and Chuck picked up, we pull up, outside Randy Caldwell's apartment, apparently the pin pointed sight tonight for the get down and get groovy party. I say just for the sake of it as we climb up the partitioned apartment stairway, "If this party ends up suckin', we can at least take stabs and wagerin' at how many times Randy's girlfriend says the F-word throughout the night." Yvette chuckles and Chuck responds, "My money's on no less than 20 times." The door is pushed open producin' a warm, strange smell resemblin' a Middle Eastern grocery store and nearly pushes us back down the stairs. We walk in wearin' our expectant ready-to-have-a-good-ole-time faces and after surveyin' the roomful of people there, realize what we've walked into. Countless khaki covered legs, tucked in shirts, trendy wet-look hair cuts, beautiful yet creepily perfect faced girls and men with clear skin and thick necks. Whether it is self imposed or in fact real, intimidation by the well manicured folks was what the three of us was feelin'. But we file in anyway, bein' greeted with "Hello"s and "How's it going?"s and us returnin' with "Howdy, howdy"s. Yvette is slightly embarrassed at me and Chuck's howdys because she was raised in Dutch and British colonies, la te dah! We embarrass her some more by all three of us at the same time tryin' to squeeze into a vacant love seat. The rich kids go back to talking to each other about high fluetin' stuff, every once in a while stealin' glances at the small town aborigines packed in on the love seat. "The 'Wine from my parent's vineyard' should of been our first clue", Chuck mumbles while the token non-consumer culture created blues music plays in the background. I nod sayin', "I'm thinkin' we're the token trailertrash." "Speak for yourselves", Yvette adds still embarrassed though lookin' just as goofy as the two of us, all squeezed up between us. I hafta admit that if I'm biased against or wary of any one people in this world, it's rich people. It probably stems back to my high school years where my hometown's major rival was a white bread suburbanite town called Newburgh. The people there actually were more well off or upper middle class than rich. But they were without a doubt snotty towards our town, constantly callin' us 'rednecks', 'hicks' and so on. Fist fights at games were common, with, I'm ashamedly proud to say, us winnin' a majority of the time. When havin' the choice to bet on either a steroid fed boy or a corn fed boy in a fight, always go with the corn and sit back and watch a good ole country ass whopin'. Will trumps mechanics always.

But my irritation with rich folk peaked when soon after I moved to Nashville, I got a job parkin' cars at the trendy restaurants in the city. Some of rich people were genuinely nice but it only takes a majority to ruin them all for a guy. Rich women and girls seemed to win the malicious contest. A lot of the Vanderbilt University rich girl students would do the old hold out your tip to ya and when ya went to reach for it, they'd drop it on the ground. Some time after this, Yvette was asked by one of our music professors to join his Episcopalian church choir out in a extremely rich area outside Nashville. They'd mock the people they didn't like, they'd run off rectors they didn't like, they'd whisper cruel comments amongst themselves, usually directed at the poor or political conservatives, people they certainly didn't like. The poor must always live conservatively as we cannot afford to throw money away nor can we live immoral lives and when it all catches up with us get plastic surgery to hide it, like rich people do. The sickest thing was to hear them braggin' to each other on what socialist politician they voted for and then make the assertion that it was a vote of compassion for the poor. I wanted to hog tie 'em, drag them out of their townhouses and mansions and take 'em on a hay ride through the projects to show 'em how much compassion government social programs have on the poor. There were several times I had to keep myself from over turnin' wine tables and luxury cars and holler, "You've made my house a den of snobs!" and then chop down the church sign and rename it The Eye of the Needle Church for the Wealthy "Where Seven Digit Salaries is God's Sacred Number" check in your fur coat and conscience at the door. Well, anyway, that's not entirely a Christ-like attitude for me to have. Let the rich have their riches, for gold is a heavy load to carry. Sides, if you are a member of any of the major world religions, hating the sinner is a sin, as is coveting what other people have and desire for something that was earned or stolen by someone else is the greatest of sufferings.

But back at the party, Chuck and I attempt to make educated conversation. "So Chuck, what are the origin's of your last name?" "Well, it's German. My family is of the opinion that it was originally 'Messershmit'. Kids back in high school were of the opinion it was originally 'Messinyourpants'." "Chuck Messinyourpants! Yeah, I'd just go with 'Messer'." Yvette has lost all of her dignity and is laughin' one of her laughs that envelopes her entire body in the act. "Chuck Messinyourpants!", she says with rockin' the rest of us on the loveseat with each of her writhes in between each syllable within 'Messinyourpants'. "Stop it Chevette, Corvette, whatever your name is!", Chuck returns tryin' to reposition himself. The rich kid's conversations quiet down as they watch the three uncomfortable freaks on the loveseat. One of the rich girls says out of the blue I guess in reference to the blues on the stereo, that gansta rap is modern day blues. I jump in sayin' that blues are modern day Hebrew lamentations. The whole room sits in silence. So, Chuck clears his throat and goes. "One time me and some friends back home in Lake Wales, Florida drank some Lord Calvert and went to a 4-H fair. This Middle Eastern guy at the ticket booth for some reason made me mad and so I punched the plexi glass and it shattered and the Middle Eastern guy chased us through the park sayin', "You bastard infidels must pay! YOU MUST PAY! "After that we were drivin' around and one of my friends had us stop at a gas station so he could use the bathroom. While we were waitin' for 'em, I started to feel sick and so I ran in the bathroom to throw up and in my drunkenness busted in the stall my friend was doin' his business and threw up on him!" The rich kids are actually evidently amused by Mr. Messer's adventures, evidenced by the open mouth smiles and tiny polite laughs. "Take it away, Tim!", Chuck enthusiastically says taggin' me with a high five and thus hands over the whole room's attention he has completely captured. So, I clear my throat and go. "One time me and my dad ate some chili at an old lady's house after Sunday mornin' church. We then went back to the church cause my dad worked there in between services and I went over to play with the preacher's kids that lived in the parsonage next door. What I'd usually do was let myself in the basement of the parsonage and watch the TV down there until the preacher's kids got done eatin' and then they'd come down to play. But while I was sittin' down there I started to feel sick and so ran to the bathroom down there and not quite makin' it all the way there, threw up my chili beans and bile on the throw rug in front of the toilet. Thinkin' as quick as I could, I folded up the rug, tossed it in the bathtub, pulled the curtain shut and left the parsonage leavin' no evidence of my presence. "Later that night at the children's church, I started to feel sick again and threw up all over the table everyone was sitting at, soaking lesson papers, cardboard cut outs of disciples and bibles with my bile and chili sauce. I don't think I had any beans left in me. "One of the church ladies dragged me down to the bathroom and pushed me in. I go to get in one stall so I can sit on the toilet, but somebody was already occupying it. So, get in the next stall, sit down and try to collect my thoughts. But the guy in the next stall is really havin' a time himself except in matters of the other end and is really stinkin' up the place, almost makin' me sicker. I look at the guy's shoes and they look real familiar. "'Dad, is that you?', I ask. "'Tim, is that you?', my dad returns. "'Yeah. I'm sick.' "'How bout that chili?'" The rich kids left the politeness back at 'me and my dad ate some chili' and are really lettin' themselves laugh in full body convulsions, much like Yvette does. So, I try to keep it goin'. "Yvette", I end givin' Yvette a high five, tryin' to pass on the storytellin' torch. "I've never thrown up", she says breakin' the storytellin' chain. I think we're almost about to lose the moment, but then one of the rich kids raises his hand and pipes up, "Ya know, I threw up once..." and proceeds to tell a not-very-good puke story. But the beautiful thing is that the walls that both classes had built up come tumblin' down by way of throwin' up, or at least by way of tellin' about throwin' up. And we encourage the rich kid by laughin' at his digestion misfortunes and askin' 'What happened next?' type questions. The rest of the evenin' consists of good wine, food we can neither pronounce nor recognize and some stimulatin' conversation, peppered with Randy's girlfriend's fairly frequent F-words. And I end up exchangin' phone numbers with a guy there that teaches at a boy's academy because we find out we share many literature interests. As Jesus said, the rain falls on everyone. Wicked and righteous, rich and poor, smart and stupid, we are all brothers and sisters no matter with all the divyin' up we do. We all breathe, eat, drink and then throw up. Or at least most of us did at the party that I'm glad I got to.