The day before was warm, sweat warm. Overnight everything changed. It was now 60 degrees and threatening to rain. A friend recently referred to Chicago as a “cold rat box”. I am learning to understand that.

Inside of a cab. One of the kind that I like. No talking. No radio. Silence. Get out of the cab and step into the night. Cold, loud, and unnaturally bright. A few crosswalks, storefronts, and left turns and I will arrive at a birthday party. The final left turn dropped me on a quiet residential street. The stillness was a welcome change. I have the address in my pocket. One more block. Dog walkers, joggers, and drinkers still crowd the sidewalks at 12:30am. I smoke and watch the numbers approach the number written down inside my pocket. I come upon it. Oh, christ. It’s a loft apartment. Growing up in a small town and watching movies that took place in large cities, I remember the characters living in loft-style apartments. I always thought that it would be nice to live in a place like that. That is until I moved to a city years ago and met the people that actually live in places like that. The building begins as an abandoned factory and then the artists move in and spend a lot of time and money improving the building and, subsequently, the entire neighborhood. These are the nice people to meet. These are the ones that come up with creative solutions for otherwise unlivable conditions. These are the intelligent people. Unfortunately, with a dropping crime rate and affordable housing, the other half comes in and buys every corner up. Old buildings, sturdy brick 20th century homes, are torn down to make monstrosities like the building to the left. And they stay.

An intercom greets you. I’m still a sucker for the old doorbell, but those are going the way of the buffalo. I dial the number and wait. It rings. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Are you downstairs?”

Two things run through my mind: I don’t know the voice on the other end of the line, therefore she doesn’t know me. I could be anyone; and the absurdity of the question. Of course I’m downstairs. “Yes.”

I don’t hear a buzzer but all of a sudden the door is unlocked. I take the elevator to the third floor and locate the apartment. Maybe I should’ve knocked, but they did buzz me in after all. I walk in. Two small dogs, one wiener and the other a mystery, come up and look at me. I bend down to pet them and they allow it. I take a step inside and they go ape shit. Barking, snapping. An unknown, attractive female hollers, “You have to take your hat off.”

“Oh, sorry.” Sure enough. The dogs retreat. These little fuckers are trained to point out bad manners. I look around and don’t recognize a soul. My entrance causes little stir. Actually none whatsoever. I find the person that invited me and enter myself into a near-dead conversation. She says, “This is my friend. He’s really into metal.” Is this how people think of me? That guy who likes metal?

“So you’re into Rudolf Schenker?” The guy asking this seems to be shaking. Almost vibrating. Is he nervous? Is he drunk? On coke?

“I don’t know who that is.” And with that my friend walks away and leaves me with Mr. Earthquake. She had been waiting for an out and I walked up. I can’t blame her. I found myself in the same situation seconds after she walked away.

“Guitarist for the Scorpions.”

“No.”

“People think that because I play punk music, I only listen to punk music. But that’s not true. I listen to other things. A lot of other things.” One of the 657 things that furrow my brow is people who make a statement as if you’ve just asked them a question. This guy is so impatient to talk about himself that he doesn’t even wait for an inquiry. Skipping an integral social step can damn a conversation from the get go. I say nothing and look for booze hoping that he will stop talking and walk away. It doesn’t happen. He continues.

I concoct an escape plan. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a cigarette. I then pull out the lighter. I know it’s taboo to light up in another’s apartment but it was the only way out. I am quickly directed to the balcony. Luckily a few friends are outside. A few strangers, too. One of them is a female who is very attractive until she spouts out slurred, stupid observations.

She talked more than anyone but managed not to say a goddamned thing.

I suck down two vodka tonics and make my escape. I share a cab with friends to a corner nine blocks from home. I needed to walk. To clear my head. It’s cool and quiet. A few sprinkles graduated to raindrops. I enjoyed my hat and my destination.

The next scheduled event is two days away. I will remain home until it is absolutely necessary to leave. Amen.

Images courtesy of http://www.carlstumpf.com.

As you pray for the family of Reverend Jerry Falwell, also remember these kind folks:

IMAGE DELETED DUE TO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT

Children with Epidermolysis Bullosa

Your skin rubs off like peanut butter from a bread knife. You took a misstep against the coffee table. Not because you’re drunk, but because you’re nine and have Epidermolysis Bullsoa. From Nicky’s EB Info World:

Epidermolysis Bullosa Patients have skin as fragile as a butterfly’s wing which can blister at the slightest touch — even from a mother’s cuddle. Normal day-to-day life can cause constant pain and scarring, which, in the worse forms, leads to eventual disfigurement, disability and often early death.
EB is an inherited disease that affects less than 10,000 children and adults in the United States. According to the latest figures, most of these patients suffer from the simplex form of EB, about 600 have the Junctional form, 600 have RDEB, 840 with DDEB and 320 with some unclassified form of EB.
People born with EB lack anchors that hold the layers of their skin together. As a consequence, any activity that rubs or causes pressure produces a painful sore akin to a second-degree burn. One forms of EB is lethal in the first weeks or months of life. Some are mutilating over time. Infection is a serious, ongoing concern. As if the diagnosis is not heartbreaking enough, no treatment for EB has been effective. Parents have coped by protecting the child’s skin with gauze and ointments, to prevent and protect the wounds and healthy skin-something that HMO’s refuse to pay for.
The saddest part is that EB is so rare that most doctors and nurses can work a lifetime and never bump into this condition.

At least you’re not THAT guy at the party.
“You’re dressed as a mummy! So classic! Nice.” The guy is holding a glass of champagne in his hand and a wonderful girl under his arm wearing a Bea Arthur outfit. It’s Halloween. His outfit is remeniscent of a Misfits stage prop. You’re drunk so you break the truth.

“I have Epidermolysis Bullosa. EB for short. Touching me might end up killing me.” Your straight face commands the guy’s attitude from jubilant to empathy-and-fear ridden.

“What?”

“I’m not a mummy, fucker. It’s hard enough to get in these special loose-fitting clothes, let alone some Halloween costume. Excuse me…I’m gonna go molt.”

Everyone would be dumbfounded, but you would lose in the end. Because you would live to the age of 13.

People With Downs Syndrome

Know these things, and these only; Your parents chose to have you after they knew that you were mentally and physically retarded; They tell you that you’re beautiful because you’re functioning HALF of what a normal human would be at the same age. Here’s what’s comin’ for ya:

While some kids with DS have no other health problems, others may experience a host of medical issues that require extra care. For example, half of all children born with DS also have congenital heart defects and are prone to developing pulmonary hypertension (high blood pressure in the lungs). A pediatric cardiologist can monitor these types of problems, many of which can be treated with medication or surgery.

Approximately half of all kids with DS also have problems with hearing and vision. Hearing loss can be related to fluid buildup in the inner ear or to structural problems of the ear itself. Vision problems commonly include amblyopia (lazy eye), near- or farsightedness, and an increased risk of cataracts. Regular evaluations by an audiologist and an ophthalmologist are necessary to detect and correct any problems before they affect a child’s language and learning skills.

Other medical conditions that may occur more frequently in children with DS include thyroid problems, intestinal abnormalities, seizure disorders, respiratory problems, obesity, an increased susceptibility to infection, and a higher risk of childhood leukemia. Fortunately, many of these conditions are treatable.

The one emotion that downs kids can’t feel is sadness. I hope this brings it to them.

Jobs are something that you have to do, except in rare circumstances. I’ve had a few. I’ve had quite a few that were intolerable. This is the chronological order the best that I can remember:

1. Lil’ Orbits

It was the summer of 1992. I was 14 years old. If you know me, even halfway, you know that I was born in the country. Southern Indiana. My parents were over protective and by then knew God. They really knew him. I never really understood how but they did.

Anyway, over protective…that’s what they were. On snow days from school all the kids would go to hole #12 at the Otis Park Public Golf Course to sled. It was a massive hill and a great reason to get out of the house and reach speeds of up to 30mph on a piece of plastic. When I say all the kids I mean just that. At least all of the ones that I knew.

I lived down the road from the Otis Park Public Golf Course. I wanted to ride my bike down the country road, where no one would be driving due to the 6″ of snow, and sled with all of my friends. Why not? was my argument.

“Ain’t no way you goin’ on Tunnelton road on a day like today. Yer libel to get killed.” Dad said this while making a bologna sandwich. It was topped with Velveeta and Miracle Whip. He told me this with a mouthful of the “salad dressing”. After every massage of Whip into the bread he would bring the knife, still heavy with the shiny white blob, up to his tongue and ingest it like a Popsicle. I would spend the rest of the day riding my bike through the snow in the yard.

I loved riding my bike. I would meet up with Rusty and we would ride down to an abandoned railroad track. Only the long, straight bed of gravel extended to the horizon. On each side a deep forest engulfed the untouched area in the middle of Bedford, Indiana. We rode until completely exhausted, only returning home with quaking muscles.

My life was my bike. I spent weekends in the garage shining it up. Fine tuning the cables and truing the rims. I had a helmet (a requirement from my parents), gloves, shorts…even a subscription to Mountain Bike Action. In all the ads the bikers, from World Champ John Tomac to Ned Overend, wore awesome sunglasses. I had no sunglasses. And I needed them.

“Get a job and pay for them.” Dad was sitting in his chair reading through the police log of the newspaper.

“Really?” Anytime spent outside of their house was exciting. Even a job.

“Luke Medley, from church, runs the donut shop from his truck. And…the Persimmon Festival is coming up. Maybe he needs some help.”

Done. Two weeks later I was at the festival in the back of a early-eighties F-150 getting donuts out of a conveyor belt fryer. The oil dripped through the slits in the grease ladle. The next step was sprinkling the cinnamon/sugar mixture over the simmering Os. “Make ‘em sparkly,” Luke would say.

“I’m tryin’,” Luc would answer.

I saw the Persimmon Queen. I watched kids try to win stuffed animals. I sweat.

I earned my sunglasses.

I received a $120 check. I spent $110 on sunglasses.

I felt guilty and then returned the sunglasses for my money which I promptly spent on a Nirvana CD.

2. McDonald’s

An alarming statistic of young Americans at one point or another have found themselves donning a McDonald’s uniform sometime in their lives. Mine was in a surprisingly hot week in April, 1993. A classmate in German 2, Joe, said that it wasn’t that bad. He worked there so since we had fun in German class, we would have fun at work. The logic seemed to make sense.

They gave me an Arches uniform and a front row seat to the McVideo, and yes that is really what it was called. “Section Two: Fries. McDonald’s is world famous for its fries. To properly cook them, immerse the basket into the oil well…blah…alarm…blah…floor manager…”

They moved me from station to station. I couldn’t seem to do a single thing right. One might joke about working at McDonald’s, or the people that do work at McDonald’s, but it really isn’t that easy. A few questions I remember asking:

“How many shots with the mustard gun?”

“Which button on the microwave is for the Fish Fillet?”

“Where do I dump the litter from the parking lot?”

I worked the lunch rush once. I was running to and fro, being careful not to slip in the ketchup/pickle/grease-slick floor. I needed to retrieve the bun from the toaster. My knuckle touched the top of the quick oven and I pulled away involuntarily. A blister quickly grew, bubbling into a mini orb, and finally bursting onto someone’s Big Mac. I looked to the left and to the right. Everyone had head down and hands moving…sandwich madness. I finished up and served my signature edition sandwich.

On my lunch hour I left and never returned. Not even to eat.

3. Hickory Hill Buffet

Her name was Rhea Dawn. In the Bedford Free Methodist youth group, she was the slutty one. The one that kissed boys behind the youth building. The one that sprouted breasts before girls one or two years her senior. The one that, though she was pale and slightly yellow-toothed, the younger boys, like myself, pined and imagined touching in the most sacred places while hiding in the House of the Lord. (The upstairs of the youth building was a long hallway lined with Sunday School classrooms that were only used on Sundays. During the Wednesday youth meetings, the classrooms were dark and abandoned and perfect for hiding and playing the various pubescent, coed games. My first kiss was behind a temporary wall separating two classrooms. I remember opening my eyes after tonguing JoAnna and seeing the word SALVATION on the chalkboard. True words indeed!) She waitressed at Hickory Hill, so I became a dishwasher to be around her more and, hopefully, escalate my chances at fulfilling my masturbatory daydreams.

The rest of the guys in the dish room were made for the dish room. The steaming plates didn’t burn their hands as they stacked and hauled them to the dining room. As you probably know, every trip to the buffet warrants a new plate, for health code reasons. The average Hoosier can put away a lot of food, therefore the dish room was constantly moving. Scraping, nibbling off of other’s plates, spraying, loading, unloading, stacking, replenishing. Over and over. All night. After a few weeks, I wanted to quit. I talked to my manager, Junior, and he convinced me to change positions rather than quit.

I became the meat carver. The guy in the chef’s hat stationed behind two gigantic hunks of meat doling out customized slices to the line of seniors, principals, preachers, and other middle class professionals out for a “good meal”. It was a step up. I was taught how to properly sharpen a knife, carve various cuts of meat, and cater to the whims of mostly pleasant people. The best part was being on the floor watching the waitresses, namely Rhea Dawn, walk quickly in their burgundy polo shirts and khakis from their station to the numerous tables. Her and I began swapping glances and short conversations. I became less nervous and shy around her. She began to sense this and added casual physical contact (hand on arm, teasing/poking, etc.) to our repertoire.

Swim season began and I had to reduce my hours to only Sundays. They scheduled me for the After Church rush. My enjoyment of the job waned due to a) The constant, frantic pace, b) My constant, frantic slicing leading to numerous injuries (once the knife seemed to leap out of the ham and straight into my thumb, spraying blood over everything within 6 inches of the wounded digit. The customer waiting for her pink pig slice said, after waiting in line for for five minutes, “Great…he bled on the meat…”), and c) The lack of Rhea Dawn. She didn’t work on Sundays. She was at church, probably making out in the choir room with one lucky boy after another.

Needless to say I quit. No two weeks. No explanation. No call, no show.

Rhea Dawn joined the Drama Club at school. I inquired with the teacher and convinced him to make me the “sound effects guy”. After much persistence, I pulled off a flawless aural performance of the Odd Couple – and a sloppy make out session on the cat walk during rehearsal.