My life as I see it

The People in My Neighborhood

Tony — Fri, 25 May 2012 21:17:08 GMT

Since January I’ve been working in the mental health section of the clinic and for the most part I like working here. I like it because it’s a lot closer to where I live and my boss is really cool, unlike the last one I had. My last boss was not cool at all except in his own mind, and in his own mind he was AWESOME, but that’s another story altogether. I guess that last sentence really says a lot about me because I’m taking a cheap shot at my former, flamboyant, thinks he’s better than anyone else supervisor – I know, I’m petty…so, sue me.

Well moving on to the real subject of this post – one of the great things about working in the mental health building is that not only is this the mental health section and the people that come here are colorful, but the building is located right in the middle of one of the worst areas of the city. The reason this is great is because it’s like my friend, Zack says he likes to talk to people who have been through a lot because by talking to them you do learn something because they have something to say and different ways of seeing things. Believe me, there are lots of people who have been through rough times in around the area where I work.

I remember when I first came here one of the nurses was on break with me and she pointed to the gas station across the street (the one I was told was off limits to us) and she pointed to the dumpster next to the store and told me they had found a body in it. She also told me about a man who tried to rob the store and was chased by the cashier. As they were running the cashier shot the robber in the ass – I guess when he woke up that morning he didn’t realize just how much of a pain in the ass it would be to rob that gas station. The nurse then pointed to a stop light on the other side of the building. The same stop light that I had to pass going home. She told me that a guy was waiting at the red light and someone came up to the car and randomly shot him in the head. She went on to tell me about a body found behind our building. I told her that it would have been nice if someone had told me all this before I agreed to take the position, but what can you do? It is what it is.

Since working here I haven’t really seen any violence, but I have had encounters with some colorful characters. The other day I was outside when a very thin lady approached me. She was so thin that she looked like a skeleton with a thin leathery covering. Her skin was so thin that I was afraid that if I looked close enough I would see her organs through her skin. She had cornrows in her hair and as she approached me she smiled a toothless smile at me. I’m sorry but as I looked at her I imagined her being a living jack-o-lantern on a skeleton body. As she walked by me she waved her skeleton hand at me and said, “Hello baby boy.”

I didn’t know what to say so all I said was, “Hello.” She turned, gave me another toothless smile and a look like she could eat me…if she had teeth, then she continued on her way.

…and that is just the beginning of The People in my Neighborhood.

Break Time

Tony — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 19:13:21 GMT

This morning I was in a hurry to get to work, so I ended up forgetting my phone in my car. It’s not a big deal I decide to walk outside and get it during my break. I watch as an older man starts backing his truck into the parking spot in front my car. I’m watching as he backs right into my car.

As I’m standing there waiting for him to get out of the truck his wife approaches me. It seems that she came in another car and has parked in a spot a few spaces away. She has a tone to her voice that reminds me of a mean old teacher I had in the second grade. “What do you want?” She asks in a voice made gruff from smoking for many years.

I try to be clam and respectful as I tell her “he just backed into my car.”

There wasn’t any damage to my car but the fact is that he backed into my car and I wanted to make sure that he knew what he had done.

She acts like nothing has happened or like it’s an everyday thing that her husband backs into other people’s cars. ”I didn’t see anything.” She says nonchalantly. The wind is blowing her dyed blood orange hair so I can see some of her pink scalp and for some reason that kind of freaks me out.

At that point the man gets out of the truck. He’s wearing giant 1980’s headphones and a jean jacket. I can’t help but wonder if he has a huge boom box on the front seat of his truck. Although he was old and walked with the aid of a can, he must have excellent hearing because even with the giant headphone he seems to know what we were talking about and what was said. He answers, “yes I did. I felt it.”

The lady just sort of flips her head back like she had smelled something really bad. “Well, I didn’t see anything” She says again.

I double check to make sure that my car is ok and as I’m doing so the man asks me, “Do you have a problem?” By this time he has the giant 80’s headphones around his neck.

I almost have to laugh at this point. “You just backed into my car.”

“So?” The wife asks annoyed. “What do you want?”

I look at them and say, “A simple I’m sorry would be good.”

Neither one of them said anything, they just walked away.

Cola Wars

Tony — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 20:22:49 GMT

I’m driving to work this morning listening to classic rock, minding my own business, and just when everything seems right in the world a Coca-Cola van swings into my lane and almost hits me. The driver not only almost hit me once, he almost hits me twice. The first time we are both waiting at the light, he’s on the far turning lane and I’m on the inner turning lane waiting for the green light. As the light turns green we both make the turn. I’m turning in my lane when out of nowhere the Coca-Cola van starts to move into my lane into the very space I’m in. I don’t know where this driver went to school, but I remember being taught that two objects, not even something as small as a proton, can take up the same space. I might even go so far as to say that I remember something along the lines that if two objects were to try to take up the same space then the bigger object would knock the smaller object out of the space, so by that logic – the Coca-Cola van would knock my little KIA right out of the car lane and send me into oncoming traffic, which would not be a good thing. At least it wouldn’t be a good thing in my book. It’s much like my much larger Aunt Emma knocking my much smaller Aunt Lupe out of the buffet lane. I’m sorry to use my Aunt Emma as an example of a large proton, but I’m trying to make it simple and it has nothing to do with the fact that she said I was fat when I went back home to my uncle’s funeral. Ok, so I hold grudges – sue me.

So, back to the Coca-Cola van – as the driver turned, trying to occupy my space I honked my horn at him. The sound of my little KIA honking madly at him must of woke him up or made him look up from his texting because he severed the other way. I continued my drive, not giving it a second thought. I know sometimes we don’t see the person next to us because of the blind spot – I’ve seen those mayhem commercials. There wasn’t any point in getting mad because we didn’t hit each other, so I let it go, no big deal. I didn’t even have the urge to flip him the bird. As we continue driving down the street the van driver decides he wants to try and get in my lane again, so without putting his signal light and without warning he starts to turn into my lane again. Apparently, he also failed to look before trying to make the lane switch otherwise he would have seen that I was still in the next lane driving next to him. For the second time within five minutes the Coca-Cola driver tries to turn into my lane while my car was in it. I slam on my brakes and honk at him again.

I’m thinking, “Keep that up and I’m switching to Pepsi”

The thing the Coke guy does that really gets my road rage going is that he doesn’t acknowledge the fact that he almost hit me, not once, but twice. He doesn’t wave or even look at me when I honk at him. I’m guessing it’s just an everyday occurrence that Coca-Cola van drivers try to drive other people off the street. The only thing I can think of is that my car is blue so maybe he thought I was the Pepsi delivery guy, so he was trying to run the competition off the road.

The BGD and the Clean Fork

Tony — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 23:45:26 GMT

When I started my working career my first job was doing maintenance in a hotel. I remember the first week on the job I was walking through the hotel restaurant when an older woman stopped me and called me over to her table. She referred to me as “hey you boy” and that just didn’t sit right with me, but it was my first week so there wasn’t a lot I could. I didn’t really have much experience in dealing with rude people and it was the first week of my first real job. I didn’t want to get fired for saying what was going through my mind, so I just stayed quiet, took it with a grain of salt, and walked to her table to see what she wanted.

She said something much like, “Hey you boy.” When I looked over to where she was sitting with her husband she continued, “yes, you boy. Come here.”

I looked around to make sure that she was actually talking to me. I didn’t see anyone else around so I figured she had to be talking to me. She pointed at me and then pointed to the spot next to where she was sitting as if saying “hey boy, you come here.” The first two words that went through my mind were ‘fat bitch’ but I just smiled and walked to her table to see if I could help her.

She was an older lady who was extremely overweight. Her rolls of fat hung over the chair arm rests and she had a tiny chin resting on a bed of fat neck. I imagined that she couldn’t be very comfortable with her fat hanging over the arm rests; maybe she wanted a chair without arm rests. I remember that she looked like someone had painted her face because she way too much make-up and smelled of strong old lady perfume. I could smell the perfume while I was still about ten feet away and it was already starting to give me a headache.

“How can I help you?” I asked trying not to breathe in the perfume because it was really starting to make my head hurt and my eyes water.

She held up her fork and asked,”What do you see?”

I looked at her and then I looked at her husband who just looked away slightly embarrassed by his wife’s behavior. “I see a fork.” I answered with just a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I was reaching my breaking point and the old lady perfume was not helping. I couldn’t help staring at her tiny chin resting on the bed of neck fat. It was hard to look away from it. I had never seen anything like that. It was fascinating.

“If you’re going to be a smart ass about it I’d like to speak to your supervisor.” Her face was red and I figured that if she spoke to my boss I would be fired for being a smart ass to the customers and I couldn’t go home and tell my family that I had gotten fired during my first week at my first real job, so I said I was sorry.

“I’m sorry” I tried to sound sincere and it must have worked because the lady didn’t ask to speak to my boss anymore she just kept being a bitch to me. Her neck fat just giggled the more she talked and I just stared and stared at it.

“Well, if you look closely you will see that this fork is dirty. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see this.” She handed the fork to me and added, “Now, run along and bring me a clean fork will you?”

My friend who just started the job with me was standing a few feet away and he was rolling laughing at the whole situation. He walked back to the kitchen with me.

“Hey boy, you still need to clean out the pool” He said mocking the old lady.

I looked at him, “shut up.” I shoved him and he shoved me back. He was bigger than me so his shove almost knocked me down. We both laughed. I looked over at the old lady and she was glaring at me.

My friend and I had made friends with the cook because he was the one who made our lunches and we both knew that you wanted to be friends with the person that made your lunch. His name was Berry and he was a big black guy, but we fondly referred to him as BGD. Well we referred to him as BGD when we were alone; we never called him that to his face. It was my friend who came up with the acronym. When I asked him what it meant he said Big Greasy Dude. I laughed when I first heard him say that because Berry was huge. He stood about six feet six inches tall and weighed a good 300lbs. His white uniform was never white. I don’t think that in all the time I worked there I ever saw him in a white uniform. It was kind of yellowish, gray with light red smears all over it and it was always soaked in sweat and grease. The thing about this BGD is that he could make a mean chili burger.

I took the fork to him and told him that the lady at table five said it was dirty. He looked out to the restaurant and saw the lady who was impatiently waiting for her clean fork. “she said this was dirty?” he asked looking at the fork.

“Yeah” I said, grabbing a French fry from a plate waiting to be picked up by the waitress. “And she wants a clean one.”

“It’s not dirty” he said. “It just has some water spots from the dishwasher.” He showed me the fork and then said see and he did something I had never seen anyone do before but I’ve suspected has been done many times to customers who complain. He put the fork in his mouth and then ran his tongue over it. He took the fork and cleaned it on his apron and handed it back to me. ”it’s all clean and sparkling now.”

I was shocked. I couldn’t give the lady the fork that he had just taken out of his mouth. I’m not that kind of person. I told him that I couldn’t give the lady the fork after he had put it in his mouth. He said he would give it to the waitress and have her give it to her. I was ok with that because I was out of the whole bad karma circle. I walked out of the kitchen toward the pool which I should have already have cleaned. As I passed the old lady she said, “Well boy, where is my fork? I’ve been waiting for a long time and I don’t appreciate you keeping me waiting like this.” I tried to explain to her that the waitress was going to bring a clean one, but she wouldn’t hear it. “I want you to go and bring me a clean fork now before I call your supervisor.”

I looked at her tiny chin resting on her neck fat and simply said, “yes mama.” I walked back to the kitchen and looked at my friend and the BGD and asked, “Where is the damn fork?” The BGD laughed as he gave me the “clean fork.”

2012 Handbook

Tony — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 19:28:23 GMT

I got a message saying that my mailbox was full so I started looking through some old emails and found this one that was sent to me from The Tough Guy. If you’ve read my blog you might remember The Tough Guy from some of my earlier posts:

I know that some of you have probably already seen this or something like this, but after my decent into the darkside from my last post I thought I should post something a bit more positive and this is just what I think I need to follow or at least try to follow to get back on track to be the guy I used to be... the guy I want to be. Thanks to The Tough Guy for forwarding this to me.

2012 HANDBOOK

Health:

Drink plenty of water.
Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dinner like a beggar.
Eat more foods that grow on trees and plants and eat less food that is manufactured in plants..
Live with the 3 E's -- Energy, Enthusiasm and Empathy
Make time to pray.
Play more games
Read more books than you did in 2011
Sit in silence for at least 10 minutes each day
Sleep for 7 hours.
Take a 10-30 minute walk daily. And while you walk, smile.

Personality:

Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.
Don't have negative thoughts or things you cannot control. Instead invest your energy in the positive present moment.
Don't overdo. Keep your limits.
Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.
Don't waste your precious energy on gossip.
Dream more while you are awake
Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need..
Forget issues of the past. Don't remind your partner with His/her mistakes of the past. That will ruin your present happiness.
Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Don't hate others.
Make peace with your past so it won't spoil the present.
No one is in charge of your happiness except you.
Realize that life is a school and you are here to learn. Problems are simply part of the curriculum that appear and fade away like algebra class but the lessons you learn will last a lifetime.
Smile and laugh more.
You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree....

Society:

Call your family often.
Each day give something good to others.
Forgive everyone for everything..
Spend time w/ people over the age of 70 & under the age of 6.
Try to make at least three people smile each day.
What other people think of you is none of your business.
Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends will. Stay in touch.

Life:

Do the right thing!
Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.
GOD heals everything.
However good or bad a situation is, it will change..
No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.
The best is yet to come..
When you awake alive in the morning, thank GOD for it.
Your Inner most is always happy. So, be happy.

Now let’s see how I do as far as following these. It’s one thing to post these on a blog, it’s another to actually follow them.

on a rant -

Tony — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 14:15:00 GMT

I always felt obligated to give something every time someone walked up to me and asked me for some “spare change.” If I had it then I felt like I had to give it to them otherwise bad karma would stalk me and kick my ass, but recently things have changed. Every time I walk out of the clinic some random stranger asks me for money. They want money to buy a soda, money to make a call, money to ride the bus, etc. I’m thinking that next time someone walks towards me I’m going to ask them for a dollar before they get a chance to ask me. I’ll turn the tables on them and see how they like it. Maybe I’ll ask them for two because of inflation

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m older and as I age I get more cynical. I'm not just more cynical with life, but with my job as well. I remember when I first started working at this job the patients were all so nice to me and loved me. One patient looked at me and told something along the lines of “You’re so kind hearted. Don’t ever change. Don’t let this job change you because it will try. I’ve seen it change a lot of people” Those were some strange words for a stranger to say to me. I think that’s why they have stayed with me all this time.

I’d like to say that she was wrong, but I can see how this job is changing me, and has changed me. I don’t feel like that bright-eyed kid who thought he could do well and help everyone. I used to believe in the system and the fact that if you did your best then you’ll be promoted and life would only get better. In the years that I’ve been here I’ve learned that no matter what you do for a person they will never be truly happy. They will want more and if you can’t give it to them they will complain about you. They will never truely be happy. They will expect you to go out of your way for them every time they come in and will not take responsibility for their own actions. No one will appreciate that you do your best or that you go above and beyond. They will recognize the screw up and move them up. They will hire the boss’s daughter and when she has trouble with her boss they will move her to your clinic so that she doesn’t get fired and she’ll be just as incompetent at the new clinic as she was at the old.

The only time they notice you is if you do something wrong. The supervisors will never pat you on the back for a job well done – maybe they fear their hand will fall off because it’s not used to patting people on the back it’s used to stabbing and twisting the knife. I’ve learned that it’s not about what you know but who you know.

I feel like something is coming over me, almost as if it were a dark cloud surrounding me and encasing me in a hard “I don’t give shit” shell. The other day someone approached me and asked for a dollar. I told him that I didn’t have one and I walked away. My sister gave him a dollar and as she ran to catch up to me she asked me why I didn’t give the man a dollar. I told her, “I can’t save the world. I wake up every morning at five o’clock, take a shower, get dressed, and drive on a freeway with hundreds of other crazy drivers for an hour, work an eight hour day with people who don’t appreciate what I do. I get yelled at by patients. I get yelled at by providers and my new supervisor has no idea what he’s doing or how to do it. I suspect that most of the day he sits in his office looking in the mirror singing "I feel pretty," and then I then drive home, eat, sleep, and do it all over again. If I can do it then they can do it too. I can’t save everyone.”

My sister didn’t say anything, but the look on her face and the heavy silence that surrounded us spoke plenty. I have to admit that I felt a little bad about it and if the guy had come back I would have given him a dollar at that time, maybe even two. I don’t know, maybe that is proof that there is still a little bit of hope or compassion somewhere inside me. Maybe there is still that little spark somewhere in the dark where a bright eyed kid still believes that he can do well and change the world.

********

An Update: I've moved to a new clinic and the boss here is much better, at least I don't think he sits in his office looking in the mirror singing, "I feel pretty."

My amazing cousin Burke

Tony — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:16:28 GMT

When I was a kid it was real easy to impress me. My uncle would do some simple card tricks and I’d be amazed beyond belief, thinking that he had to have made a pact with the devil. How else could he do those tricks – they had to be some sort of witchery going on there. Once I saw an old man who was walking down the street. An old man walking down the street is not an event that is impressive in itself, but what he did seemed to make an impression on me that to this day I still think of and say to myself “wow, that was so cool.” As he was walking he suddenly stopped and without a care in the world took his index finger, covered one nostril and blew the biggest, wettest booger I’ve ever seen out of his other nostril. The booger was so big and fat that I could actually hear the splat sound it made as it smashed against the sidewalk. I know…impressive, right? As impressive as that sounds that was still not the most impressive thing I saw as a kid.

The most impressive thing I ever saw as a kid was something that my cousin, Burke did. His name is actually Anthony, but as long as I can remember we’ve just called him Burke. I think that’s his middle name, but I’m not sure as I’m not sure he’s not going to kick my ass for putting his first and middle name in my blog. Hey, at least I didn’t use his last name – hahaha. Burke was not the favorite grandkid in the family, that honor went to my other cousin, Rey Jr. but at the same time he wasn’t too far down on the favorite list, probably third after Ketha – who actually grew up to be everyone’s favorite, even surpassing Rey Jr. in that department. Anyway, Burke used to live in Arizona so he had a different view on life than we did, because we were all from Texas and when you’re from Texas there is nothing better than Texas. It’s true when they say that Texas is like a whole other country and if you ask any Texan they will agree that it’s God’s favorite country. How else would you explain Chicken Fried Steak, Tex-Mex cuisine and Nolan Ryan?

I know that when Burke came to visit I always felt like he was special, like the chosen Buddha successor. He was “the enlightened one” because he came from Arizona and he knew everything. I wasn’t jealous of him or anything like that, even though he was the good looking one who worked out and was so smart.

He proved just how smart he was at an early age. I remember that day as if it were a week ago. My Aunt Frances (who many years later would have to ride in my car on a wet seat) and my Uncle Joe came to visit, so we all ended up at my Grandparents house. They brought Burke along because the authorities in Arizona frown on leaving your little son alone when you go on vacation, they don’t care how smart he is. You just don’t leave a five year old alone when you go on vacation. Well for whatever reason, they brought him along and had him sit in the middle of the living room as we all gathered around him to see what he was going to do. It was exciting. I waited and waited, but all he seemed to do was look at us with a weird look in his eye. He looked away and just sat quietly for a while playing with his fingers.

My aunt spoke, setting up the show, “Burke learned how to say the days of the week in Spanish.”

And that’s when he began:

He looked up at us and stared with, “lunes.” He paused for a second, judging the reaction from the people around him. They loved it, so he continued. “Martes.” Everyone was smiling and he was eating up the attention. “Miércoles.” I had to give it to him. He knew how to work the audience. ”Jueves.” He stopped and I wondered if maybe, just maybe he had forgotten the rest of the days, but then just like saying ‘L-M-N-O-P’ in the alphabet song he said the last three days, “viernes-sábado-domingo.” He was a genius!

As he said each day in Spanish, I said the English counterpart in my mind, “Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.” I didn’t know my days of the week in Spanish but I guessed he had said them correctly because he had mentioned seven days and my grandparents clapped at this astonishing feat.

I remember that at the time I thought it was the most amazing thing ever. I had never heard anyone say the days of the week in Spanish. I guess if I were to be honest, I was a little jealous of him at that moment because not only had he recited the days of the week in Spanish, but he had gotten the approval of my grandfather – something I felt I could never get.

He’s still a really smart guy, but I don’t feel jealously toward him anymore. I care about the guy and have come to care about him more as I’ve gotten older and wiser – hey, I can now recite the days of the week in Spanish too.

I want you back

Tony — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 14:08:54 GMT

my nephew decided that he was going to try out for the talent show at school. This is him working on the song he wants to sing. Let me know what you think so far.

Little League Dreams

Tony — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:46:26 GMT

When I was a kid I used to throw like a girl. I blame that fact on the lack of a solid father figure while I was growing up. My dad was in the military, so he was away for most of my younger years. It seemed that he volunteered for the assignments that took him places where he couldn’t take his family. At times I used to think that maybe it was easier for him to deal with the military than to be a father, but that’s just speculation on my part because I really never knew what he was thinking.

The closet person I had to a father figure was my uncle who would tell me that he loved me every time that he got drunk. It’s good to be loved and to be told that you’re loved, but when you really thought about it, it wasn’t so great because he used to tell everyone that he loved them when he got drunk including the dog, as far as I know he still does that to this date. I’d like to think that I outgrew that throwing like a girl thing, - yeah I’m sure I have. Put it in the record - I don’t’ throw like a girl anymore! Throwing like a girl was not my only problem, I couldn’t catch anything either. When you’re a male child you want to be able to throw and catch otherwise you might as well spend your entire recess on the corner of the blacktop playing tea party with the girls. For a kid who can’t catch or throw the only fate worse than death itself is to be forced to play little league baseball - and the only thing worse than playing little league baseball when you can’t throw or catch is being on the same team as your older superstar cousin who can throw and catch.

I don’t even remember how I ended up on the little league team. All I know is that my cousin was going to sign up for baseball and somehow he convinced me to go with him and before I knew it … parental forms were signed and I was a member of the White Sox little league baseball team. From the beginning I had a feeling that the coaches were disappointed that I was on the team, but at least they had my superstar cousin so if I stayed on the bench everyone would be happy, including me.

I think the only person who in their heart really didn’t believe I sucked at baseball was my mom. She was at every single one of my games, cheering the team on, cheering me on. Once I figured out where right field was I would stand there and watch her cheer. On those rare occasions when I was allowed to bat everyone else moaned or yelled things at me, but not my mom. She would cheer me on just as loud as she would cheer my superstar cousin, maybe even louder. Now, that’s unconditional love.

If I have to be honest, I didn’t really take little league baseball too seriously. I was content to sit on the bench and pull boogers out my nose, then stick them under the bench, adding to a collection of dried nerd boogers from past little league games. As the year progressed I got better at the game. We found out that I had bad astigmatism so with the addition of thick plastic glasses I was able to actually see the ball when it came my way so I was better prepared to catch it - and for the record, I did catch it a few times.

I remember how excited and scared I was when I found out that my father was going to be coming in from overseas in a couple of weeks and would be at one of my games. I was excited because I wanted him to see me play, but at the same time I was scared because I didn’t want him to see how bad I actually was at America’s pastime. I asked my superstar cousin for help in doing all the things a good little leaguer should know how to do, and he agreed to help me. Every day after school we would go to the park and practice - queue “Rocky” music here – my cousin and my uncle set out to help me become a better little leaguer. They would pitch the ball to me, slowly at first, and help me to correct my swing so that eventually I was able to hit the ball. I wasn’t going to hit it out of the park, but at least I was going to hit it. They spent countless hours throwing or hitting the ball to me, giving me encouraging words when I missed it and cheering loudly when I caught it. That’s when I realized that my uncle really did love me, even when he wasn’t drinking. In the end I wasn’t a great player like my cousin, but I was better than when I started and that was good enough for me.

On the day of the big game I was ready; ready to hit the ball, ready to catch the ball, and ready to win the game for my father. He was going to be so proud of me. I looked out into the crowd expecting to see my father in his military uniform sitting with my mom and little brother, his chest puffed out with pride. I saw my mom, and I saw my brother, but my dad wasn’t there. His plane must be running late, I wasn’t worried because in my heart I knew that no matter what he would be there. He had promised me he would and he never went back on his promise. I was still scared and nervous, but I had worked so hard every day after school so no matter what was to happen I was ready.

“Please coach,” I begged. “Can I bat?”

The coach was not one of those coaches you see in little league baseball movies who believes that every kid should play no matter how bad they were. He was the coach who wanted to win even if it meant keeping me and all the other bad players on the bench.

I think that on that day the coach was caught off guard by the fact that I wanted to try and hit the ball because he knew I was happy to just sit on the bench and add to the booger collection. He told me that I might be able to bat later depending on the score. I knew then that the only way I would bat would be if we were winning by so many points that the other team had no chance of catching up.

I didn’t care. I just wanted to go out and hit the ball so my dad could see me. I didn’t care if I were the last kid to bat in the game, all I cared was that I had a chance to make him proud of me.

Finally, toward the end of the game the coach called my name and told me to get ready. I would be batting next. My heart was racing and I wanted to run to the restroom. I hated myself for not going to pee before the game because now I felt the urge and it was bad.

The batter before me, his name was Morris, hit the ball out toward left field and made it to second base. I walked out to the plate and was too nervous to look over to where my mom and dad were sitting. I tried to focus on the ball and remember everything that my cousin and uncle had told me during those hours after school. It didn’t even bother me when the whole outfield took three giant steps forward when I stepped to the plate. I was going to show them.

The pitcher went through his windup and whoosh before I could even think of hitting the ball the umpire was yelling “Strike!”

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe. I don’t know why I did it, but I’d seen a professional player do it in a game once, so I figured it could only help me. I can’t be for certain, but at that moment I thought I saw the umpire roll his eyes.

I thought about using The Force, so I tried to clear my thoughts and tune everything out except the ball.

“Strike two!” I didn’t even see the ball fly over the plate.

Apparently, The Force wasn’t strong with me.

I wanted to do something really cool, but I didn’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of doing was spitting. I don’t know why but as a kid spitting seemed really cool to me, almost as cool as covering one nostril and blowing a booger out the other. I didn’t spit because I knew that if I did all I would do was get a big, slimy loogie all over my shoes, and that would not be cool at all.

I squinted against the sunlight. This was all I needed, the sun. How was I supposed to see the ball if I was looking into the sun? it was bad enough when I could see, and so much worse when I was blinded by the sunlight. I knew then and there that God liked messing with me, how else could that be explained? I closed my eyes for just a second, just to shut out the sun, the other team’s chants of “batter can’t hit”, and the ballpark smell of hot dogs, popcorn and car exhaust, which was making my stomach feel funny. I wanted to throw up and I probably would have if it weren’t for the fact that my father was there watching me. I didn’t want him to see me throw up all over home plate.

In that second that I closed my eyes the pitcher threw the ball. I didn’t know what to do so I did the only thing that registered in my mind…I swung the bat. I didn’t see the ball, but I did hear as the ball hit against the bat and then I heard the voice of Coach Rodriquez yelling, “run! Run!"

I threw the bat and ran to first base as the other team members just stood there transfixed by the ball as it bounced twice then rolled out into left field. Morris ran to third base and I ran to second. I’d like to say that I ran all the way home, but things don’t always turn out perfect in real life like they do in the movies. I never made it home. We were struck out and all I got to was second base, even so, it didn’t matter because I had hit the ball and in the end we won the game. As we left the dugout all the other team members ran to the concession stand where the coach bought us each a snow cone. I ran the other way toward the spectator stands to find my mom and dad.

Coach Rodriquez stopped me before I got too far. “You did a good job out there,” he put his hand on my shoulder. “Here I want you to have this” He handed me a dirty, old baseball. I turned it around in my hand looking at it, not knowing what to do or say. No one had ever given me an old dirty, baseball before. Coach Rodriquez smiled and said. “It’s your ball, the ball you hit out to left field.”

I smiled a big cheesy smile. I know that if I could have seen the smile on my face at that time I would have smiled even harder because when I see someone with a big smile on their face it makes me happy. I don’t know why it does. I think it’s because I get the feeling that they’re happy and their happiness makes me happy. One time I saw an old man walking out of the Mexican bakery with a white bag full of sweet bread. He had this big ol’ cheesy smile on his face and watching him made me smile. He was happy with his sweet bread and I was happy for him. I ran past the other kids who were running the other way toward the snow-cone stand. I ran, with the ball in my hand, and the big cheesy smile on my face toward my mom and dad. I held the ball up in the air, a trophy of all that I worked for, all that I was proud of, all that my father had come to see.

“Daddy,” I yelled. “I got this for you. Are you proud of me? I hit the ball”

My mom went to her knees and hugged me. I remember that as she hugged me, my baseball cap fell off my head and the wind blew through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.” She had the same cheesy smile on her face as I did. “You were so good.” I hugged my mom, but quickly pulled away from her. I wanted to show my dad the baseball and share with him everything that it represented to me.

I looked around for my dad, but didn’t see him. When I looked at my mom something in her eyes confirmed what I was trying so hard to hide. “I’m sorry.” She began. “Your father couldn’t make it for your game.”

I know she said more, but I didn’t hear anything else she said after that. I let the ball drop to the ground then turned around and slowly walked away, dragging my feet and kicking up dirt as I walked to the car. I turned and watched my cousin as he ate his snow-cone and excitedly told his dad about the homerun he hit during the game. I watched as my uncle put his arm around my cousin’s shoulders and started to walk to their car. I know that if I had run up to him he would have put his other arm around me and told me how proud he was about my accomplishments, but somehow, I knew that just wouldn’t be the same.

The Case of The Missing Cheese and Crackers

Tony — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 08:26:56 GMT

Recently we moved to a brand new, built from the ground up, clinic. It’s a state of the art building, and has almost everything you could ever want in a clinic. The only thing that is not new is that fact that people are still going into the refrigerator and eating other people’s lunch. It was soon after we moved into the new building that someone went in and ate my leftover pizza that I had brought in for lunch.

The stealing of the lunches doesn't end there. The other day I walked in the break room and I saw the following note:

As I read the note I wondered if someone had actually thrown away the cheese and crackers or had they been eaten by the same scoundrel that had eatten my pizza. I wasn’t the only one who suspected foul play in the disappearance of the cheese and crackers. My friend Charlene made a list of suspects and is narrowing it down as we speak – this is a short note to the thief “We will find out who you are and you will pay. Damn you, you will pay for eating my pizza!”

It seems that this case of missing crackers and cheese has become the talk of the clinic. One of my co-workers, George, even sent me this message:

The Case of The Missing Cheese and Crackers:
Records 1 to 1

Record ID 15986

Incident Date: December 29, 2011   Time: 9:44:00 PM Division: SE Shift III

Title: Theft                                                             Location: Boulder Highway

Summary:

On 12/29/11 at approximately 9:44 PM officers were dispatched to the break room at the South Boulder Highway location... The suspect obtained an undisclosed amount of Cheese and Crackers before fleeing to a vehicle in the north parking lot.

The suspect's vehicle was described driving a silver Honda, possibly a hatchback, older model.

The suspect was described as a male in his twenties wearing a gray or white sweatshirt. He had a mustache, and a thin build.

Adults Arrested:

None ; Will consider this a “Cold Case “if not solved- Assigned special agent Puente to further assist

Media Contact Name and Phone Number:      Lt. Baez     555-7270

_________________

Well, it seems that George has a bit of a sense of humor when it comes to another person's missing crackers and chesse. He's actually a pretty funny guy and you can find him posting all kinds of stuff on his facebook page.

I don't think we'll ever find out who actually ate the cheese and crackers - I don't think we'll ever find out whose cheese and crackers they were either. I guess that's just life - sometimes you eat the cheese and crackers; sometimes you get your chesse and crackers eaten.

Story on the radio - what would I do? What would you do?

Tony — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 19:58:22 GMT

As I was driving to work the other day there was a news story about a man who found two envelopes with $5,000.00 in each one at the airport. They said that the man took the envelopes, which were marked with the Caesar’s Palace logo, to security and they were able to trace them back to a gambler from Texas who had dropped them while running to catch a flight back home. The man who found them said he turned them in because he wanted to set an example for his kids by showing them “the right” thing to do.

Now, there have been many times when I’ve found things like wallets, cell phones, and little purses and I’ve turned them in, without giving it a second thought. I believe in Karma, so I fear that if I keep whatever I find I may end up losing more as the universe’s way of making things right. The thing is that $10,000.00 is a lot of money, especially during this time of year. If I were a multi-millionaire sports figure, singer, or actor then yes, I would give it back, but I’m not a multi-millionaire. I’m a low level government employee that makes a lot less than most people. I'm the employee that wakes up every morning at 5:00 am, travels 45 miles to work on a busy highway with 50, 200 crazy drivers trying to get to their job; I sit at a desk for eight hours while doctor's complain or patients yell at me because their doctor called in sick and now their appointment is cancelled. I sit through boring meeting after meeting about how important the dress code is while little is mentioned about patient care. I scarf down an unhealthy lunch because out lunch times are being monitored and then at the end of the day, I drive the freeway back home, go to sleep and do it all over again the next day. When I think of that, I have to wonder and I ask myself; If I found $10,000.00 in two envelopes would I give it back?

I’d like to think that I would do “the right thing” but even as I type this I have my doubts that I would do the right thing and give it back. I’ve never been in that situation where I’m faced with keeping that much money. I would think about the person who lost it, but I’m sure it would be a fleeting thought. That much money could buy a lot of stuff, stuff that I need and stuff that I don’t need, but really want. The first thing I would do with that money is buy tickets for my nephew and myself to go see the Cirque Du Soleil show Love. It would be the ultimate birthday gift for both him and myself and since my birthday is Jan 8th and his is Jan 12th it would work out great. The fact that we’re both huge Beatles fan adds to the greatness of this gift.

The only thing is that I’m sure as I sat there watching the Cirque acrobats perform to the Beatles music I would wonder what sort of pay-back does the universe have in store for me now?

I'm pretty sure what I would do if I found $10,000.00
... what would you do?

Neighborhood Wars pt 3

Tony — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 09:19:00 GMT

We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

My cousin, “Boy” didn’t hurt himself when he fell over the bag of onions, but the red, mesh bag they were in split, spilling huge yellow onions across the carport. It was then that my cousin, Dorothy, who was the pretty one in our little group of misfits picked up an onion and threw it at JC. She may have been the pretty, girly one but boy could Dorothy throw. She could throw a ball like a boy and she could fight like one too. The onion splattered all over the floor in front of JC spraying him with onion juice and little pieces of onion some of which may have landed in his eyes because it looked like he had begun to cry. In all the years I had known him, I never saw JC cry until that day, so I imagine it was the onion juice that made him cry, but even so we still laughed. He rubbed his eyes and he cried harder - we laughed harder. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea for what we did next. I’d like to think that it was me because I like to think that I was and still am the misunderstood genius of the group, but I’m pretty sure that it was one of my other cousins who came up with the idea.

“You boys find the bottles and then do what you got to do.” Sara ordered as she pulled out a huge switch blade knife from her pocket. Now that I think back on it, it may not actually have been a huge switch blade knife but more like the little file thing that comes with a fingernail clipper. She picked up an onion and cut out a cap much like she was carving a pumpkin for Halloween.

We didn’t have to be told what to do, we knew what had to be done and we did it. We each took a bottle from my grandfather’s recycling can and went behind the big tree. We were bad but we still had our dignity. We weren’t going to show our penises to the girls, we were still too young for that. We pulled them out and began to piss into the bottles, each of us trying to fill them up. That was our little machismo way of determining who the Alpha male would be in the group since we were all pretty close in age.

“Have a Coke and a smile,” I said holding up my Coke bottle that was a little more than halfway filled with the warm yellow liquid. I smiled a little smile and I could feel the evil glint in my eye because I knew what we were going to do next was bad and deep down I liked being bad. Hey, I’m the grandson of southern Baptist preacher – there is a bad streak in me.

We all laughed when “boy” filled his bottle and still had to pee. He peed into my grandmother’s rose bushes, that would be the thing that would later get us into more trouble than actually throwing piss filled onions at the enemy would.

“He’s full of piss.” My cousin Ruben said.

“That’s not all he’s filled with,” my cousin Patricia said. “He’s full of shit most of the time.”

We all laughed because at that point of our lives it was funny whenever anyone said the word “shit.”

The younger kids were tasked with the chore of filling the onions with the warm urine and putting the caps back on them to make sure nothing spilled until they found their target.

It was our turn to sacrifice one of our own. My little cousin Eddie walked out into my grandma’s yard and started prancing around on the ground singing at the top of his lungs:

“JC is gay
He throws like a girl
He fights like one too
And he cries like one, boo, hoo, hoo.”

When that didn’t work we sent out my cousin Velinda who had what called a “white girl” voice. We never told her she had a “white girl” voice and she probably never knew it either, until she reads this. What it means is that her voice would change when she talked to grown-ups or people in authority, so that to us she sounded more sarcastic, but the grown-ups thought it was cute. She pointed her butt toward JC’s house and taunted them in her White Girl voice:

“JC and Mark sitting in a tree
First comes love,
Then comes marriage
Then comes Japo in a baby carriage”

That worked. JC and Mark both came running out, their judgment clouded by anger. They didn’t even get close to my cousin Eddie or Dorothy because Sarah was waiting in the shadows for them. She stepped out and let loose with two piss filled onions. Mark got hit on the chest and JC got hit on the side of his face. If I live to be a hundred years old I will never forget the look of shock, anger, and humiliation on JC’s face. I have to admit that when I saw the look on JC’s face I felt bad. We had done something bad, something terribly bad, but it was war and people did terribly bad things in war.

We weren’t the first and we wouldn’t be the last.

Neighborhood wars pt 2

Tony — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 09:09:00 GMT

Most of our battles consisted of each of us throwing dirt clogs at each other, but as with every other rivalries in history there came a day when our weapons were escalated and things would never be the same again

This particular war started like most of our other wars before. We were outside playing when we saw Japo walk onto the driveway of his house. He saw us and did the worst thing he could have done. He threw the middle finger at us, laughed, and then ran back under the carport. We were kids and for us throwing the middle finger was the worst thing you could do, it was even worse than saying that your mama was a female dog. Throwing the middle finger was something that adults did to each other, not something elementary school kids did to other elementary school kids. It made us mad, but none of us were as mad as my oldest cousin Sara. I think that even as a kid she had anger issues because she was always beating up someone whether they were enemies, friends, or just family. I know she gave me my share of bloody noses growing up and that sucked big time. You could almost see the steam coming out of Sara’s ears when Japo ran back out and started making faces at us. It was a bad move on his part and I think he realized that when he saw my cousin Sara pick up the dirt clog, but by then it was too late. She threw it as hard as she could. A cloud of dirt exploded as it smashed into Japo’s right thigh. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

Japo fell to the ground and began to cry. We ran out to watch him cry because that’s what we did when we saw the enemy fall and start to cry, that’s when we realized that they had sacrificed one of their own…it was a trap. JC and his rag-tag team came out yelling as they threw dirt clogs at us. The sky became brown as dirt clogs rained down on us and for a second it looked like JC and his team were winning. We ran as dirt clogs fell from the sky, exploding on the ground around us, some of them finding their target causing red welts to appear as if by magic on each of us. We were running over each other when my cousin who we simply called “Boy” fell over a big bag of onions that one of my uncles had brought from a farmer on one of his trips through the back roads of Texas. It was a huge bag of onions, more onions than any person or family for that matter could ever eat in a lifetime, but we weren’t going to eat them. We had found a new weapon and once we modified them we would have a super-weapon

Neighborhood Wars pt 1

Tony — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 09:02:50 GMT

When I was a kid, my arch enemy was a tall, skinny boy who lived two houses away from my grandma’s house. His name was JC. I never knew what the initials “JC” stood for and I really didn’t care, all I cared about was destroying JC. I don’t know when or even how we became enemies. We just were. I don’t think he even knew what my real name. He only knew me as Peewee, but that was ok because arch enemies don’t need to know your real name, especially when you’re both only eight years old.

It wasn’t that we were two boys that hated each other. We were each a part of a larger group that hated each other. I had my group that consisted of my cousins and myself and he had his group that consisted of his best friend, Mark who also happened to be my friend. When we weren’t having wars Mark and I would hang out on account of our mothers were good friends. I have to admit that when we threw dirt clogs at each other I would intentionly try to get as close to hitting Mark as I could without actually hitting him and I suspected that he did the same when he threw dirt clogs at me. Aside from Mark and his other friends, JC’s team also consisted of his freaky little brother.

We were kids, so we weren’t politically correct at that time. I don’t think most people were. It was a time when people said what was on their mind and didn’t care about the repercussions or about hurting anyone’s feelings. Things were the way they were, and that was that. We didn’t even know what political correctness was. All we knew was that according to our grandfather the Japanese were the enemy because they bombed him and his friends in a far-off land called Pearl Harbor many years before any of us were born, and since JC’s brother had little, slanted eyes and looked Japanese we called him “Japo” and he was the enemy.

Butt-Chugging and Vodka Tampons

Tony — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 09:04:54 GMT

As most of you who follow me on facebook know, Tuesday was wing night – every Tuesday is wing night. Most times the conversation starts with catching up on what went on during the week and then the talk can turn to anything at all. Last wing night the conversation took a sudden turn when my friend David asked, “have you guys ever heard of ‘butt chugging and vodka tampons’?”

I looked at him as my brain tried to process what he had just said, after thinking about it and coming to the only conclusion that I could come up with, I asked, “Is that when you lay on your stomach and someone puts a bottle of vodka in your butt?”

“No,” He said not even surprised at my answer. David has known me for so long that I don’t think anything I say or do surprises him anymore. “A vodka tampon It’s when you take a tampon and soak it in liquor and then you shove up your butt.”

The first thing that went through my mind was what the hell are kids thinking these days? Sticking a tampon up you butt to get drunk? I don’t know which visual was worse; laying on a table with a bottle of vodka sticking out from between your butt cheeks or shoving a liquor soaked tampon up your ass. I shook my head lightly like an etch-a-sketch trying to rid my brain of both visuals.

“You’re kidding,” Tamika, a former co-worker and friend, who had joined us for this particular wing night took a sip of her drink and said. “You’re making that up.”

At that point her high school age daughter and the foreign exchange student she is hosting excused themselves and went to the rest room.

“You can youtube it” David said as he chugged on his beer. For the record, he wasn’t butt-chugging his beer, he was just chugging like any regular person would – through his mouth, not through his butt. Although at one point during the night he said he was having his last drink and acted like he was going to pour it in his butt.

“Hey, the girls took off suddenly” Tamika said a little concerned, “You don’t think they’re doing it. Do you?”

I sucked the meat off a chicken wing, took a drink from my iced tea, wiped my mouth, turned to her and said the first thing that came to mind, “if she farts and it smells like vodka, then that means she’s butt chugging.” We all laughed.

"Why would anyone do that?" She asked, trying to see if she could see her daughter and the foreign exchange student through the door that lead to the restroom.

“It's supposed to make you feel intoxicated quicker,” David explained. “The alcohol doesn’t go through your stomach, so it doesn’t go through the acid. It goes straight into your system, so you get drunk right away. If you’re at work you wouldn’t be able to smell the alcohol on your breath.”

“but, wouldn’t they be able to smell it coming out your butt? Plus you'd be squirting vodka everytime you took a step."

“Whose going to smell someone else’s ass?” David looked at me, maybe I could surprise him afterall, because he had the surprised, disqusted look that people tend to get when they talk to me for any long period of time.

“Who would even think to do that?” Tamika asked. "I mean who was the first person to take a tampon and decided to soak it in liquor and then shove it up their butt?"

David looked at me, “You should make a Youtube tutorial on butt-chugging and vodka tampons.”

“Yeah,” I said pretending I was holding up a glass of spiced rum with a tampon in it. ‘I have a super absorbent tampon that has been soaking in Captain Morgan for the past 12 hours. You take the tampon and shove it up your anus so you have the captain in your ass.”

“Do you even know what a tampon is?” David asked. “You don’t need to soak it for 12 hours. You just put it in the glass and it soaks up the liquid.” he made a soaking sound with his mouth that I wouldn't even know how to type here.

Tamika asked, “How do you know that?’

“Once, when I was younger,” he began. “My buddies and I put tampons in our mouths to see who could keep it in the longest.”

I turned to Tamika, “that was before we were friends, I never put a tampon in my mouth.” Looking at David I asked, “Did you win?”

“No, but it soaks up all your saliva and you get…”

Tamika cut him off, “cotton-mouth.” She laughed. At that point her youngest daughter and the German Exchange Student came back to the table. Tamika looked at her daughter suspiciously, “You’re not doing it, are you?”

“Doing what?” Her daughter asked.

“Butt-chugging a vodka tampon.”

“Eeewwww,” she made a face like she had just stepped in dog poo in her bare feet. “No I haven’t even heard of that but it sounds disgusting.” Apparently neither of them were paying attention to the conversation before they went to the rest room.

“It’s when you soak a tampon in liquor and then shove it up your butt.”

“Eeewww.” Both the youngest daughter and the foreign exchange student said at the same time.

I looked at Tamika and asked, “can you imagine her letter back home? ‘Dear mother and father, you would not believe what the Americans do with their tampons.'”

Conversations with Jesse at the In-N-Out

Tony — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 13:45:43 GMT

I have a friend named Jesse who seems to notice the strangest things and has the strangest ideas. The other day we went to eat at In-N-Out when he began to tell me about the crew.

“Did you notice how at every In-N-Out there are a bunch of white people working?” He said as he took a sip of his root-beer.

“Huh?” I asked. “You’re strange.” I hated to get pulled into these kind of ‘Jesse conversations’ but I knew that I was about to be sucked into this one. “What are you talking about?”

He began his explanation “Every time I go into an In-N-Out hamburger place I always see a whole crew of tall, young, white people working there with the exception of one black person.”

I looked at the employees and he was right. The crew consisted of one black guy and a bunch of white kids. I started to laugh. “You just made that up.” I said.

He looked at me and his face was serious, “No, I’m not making it up. It’s always the same, no matter which one I go to or when I go. The thing about these kids working there is not the fact that they’re Caucasian, it’s the fact that they’re “white” I’m talking about pale, gothic white except that instead of the dark gothic hair, they have blond hair. It’s like these kids are some sort of tall, white, blond haired breed of In-N-Out crewmembers that are intent on taking over the world - or at least the west coast with deciduous double cheeseburgers with their own “special sauce.” I’m serious, look around.”

“dude, there is something wrong with you,” I looked at him and smiled. “Seriously, there is something wrong with you.”

“At first,” he continued as he chewed on a double double, “I thought the one black employee was there as a way to avoid any scrutiny of the pasty colored crew, but the thing I’ve noticed is that not only is one employee black, but he or she is always really dark black. I’m not talking about a mocha color, beige, or even a brown color - the employee is always really dark. Look, look at the dark employee.”

“I’m not going to turn around and look at anything.” I shook my head.

Jesse continued, “Well, if you look, you’ll see that he’s the one in charge. He’s controlling the whole thing. It’s like he’s pulling the strings of the white crew, telling them what do and when to do it”

“He’s probably the boss and that’s what bosses do.”

As we ate Jesse suddenly got this strange look on his face. He had an epiphany. “I just figured it out.” He said all excited. “the dark employee is so dark because he is some sort of skin-pigment vampire and he’s feeding off the skin pigment of the other employees. That would explain why everyone else is so ghostly white.”

“Dude, you really do need some help.”

I dream of puppies

Tony — Fri, 23 Sep 2011 03:12:11 GMT

For as long as I can remember I've had really vivid dreams. Sometimes it's good, but a lot of times it's not so good because with vivid dreams come vivid nightmares. Sometimes my dreams are just strange. The other night I had this really strange dream. In my dream we were on some sort of road trip probably through the backroads of Texas. I say that because everything was flat - you could see for miles. There weren't any mountains or any bright casino lights. My mother was driving a van, my sister was sitting on the passenger side and I was in back wth my nephew and my niece. We stopped at this little store in a little country town that had a little dinner next to it. I don’t think we even got gas, just some snacks. My niece got some sort of hard candy that she almost chocked on - that was all I remember of the snacks. As we were getting back in the car when we saw a stray cat playing in front of the store. Somehow I knew that my sister had decided that she was going to take it home with us. She was looking for a bag to put it in when we all saw two small gray and white puppies come around the corner and start playing with the cat.

“oh look at the puppies” my sister says and then looks at my mom and my niece. “we should take them.”

“No” I say. “don’t take the puppies. No one will take care of them.”

At that point my niece starts to choke on the hard candy again and I put my hand out for her to spit the candy out. I look at the slobber covered candy in my hand and think about putting it in my mouth and eating it, but then think better of it and throw it out the window.

“what do you say, mom?” My sister asks putting on he own puppy dog face that she has perfected throughout the years to get anything she wants from my mom and dad. "I promise we'll take care of them."

“I guess we’re getting new dogs.” My mom says.

"I ain't taking care of anything." I say.

My little eight year old nephew looks at me says, "You know 'ain't' ain't a word"

Even in my dreams someone has to be a smart-ass.

My sister gets off the car but for some reason can’t bring herself to capture the puppies. “there’s too many people, how about we park next to the dinner and I’ll get them when it gets a little darker.”

We park next to the dinner. A really big, dark woman leans out of the dinner window and asks us what she can get for us. I try to tell her that we don’t want anything because we had gotten some burritois from the dinner earlier, but she can’t hear me so my sister gets off and goes to the window.

“I’ll tell her and I’ll ask her about the puppies.”

As my sister gets in line these two big black girls get in line behind her and start talking about some dance at the high school the following week. As my sister is about to ask the lady at the window about the puppies when a Chinese woman walks up and blurts out, “do you have change?” she's holding up a twenty dollar bill. The lady at the window tells her that she doesn’t have any change. My sister holds up some five dollar bills. The Chinese lady pulls out another twenty and my sister looks over to where my mom and I are, then pulls out more five dollar bills. We nod at her as if giving her permission to exchange the money.

I walk into the dinner and buy a can of Coke and start to drink it. As I look outside I see a lot of people suddenly pulling up and I wonder if they are here for the dogs. I know it’s a strange thing to think but that’s what the dream Tony was thinking. I sat my can of Coke down on the counter and walk outside to see what’s going on.

I see the puppies playing in front of the store and notice that everyone else is just sort of making their way into the dinner talking about the economy and how bad it was. I walk by a huge guy with long black hair and a beard and goatee. He’s looking at me with evil eyes in a mean face, as if I had just insulted his mother or something. I was still looking at him when I caught the sight of the high school kid who was a big football player wearing a football letterman jacket. He looked down at me when we ran into each other and he almost knocked me down to the ground.

“I’m sorry sir.” He says and he reaches out his big hands to help steady me and keep me from falling.

I looked up at him. He’s a good head and shoulders taller than me and simply said, “thanks kid.” I walked on and can't help thinking "he called me sir. I'm not old enough to be a Sir"

Through the corner of my eye I see my sister grab the puppies and go back to the van, so I head back into the dinner for my can of Coke because even in dreams a cold Coke is a cold Coke. I notice that my Coke is now hot so I grab a new one and walk out the dinner leaving my hot can of soda there. As I’m walking out the big lady at the window yells out, “I left you a new can of Ice cold Coke as a thank you for waiting around gift.”

I looked back and saw the new, unopened can of Coke next to my hot one “She left me a new coke, but I took one anyway” I said to my mom as we walked back to the van. “Should I go back and get it?”

“No,” my mom says. “You already got one. Don’t be greedy.”

“yeah, you’re right.” I say getting back into the van where my niece and nephew are both playing happily with their new puppies. “besides I’m ready to go.” I look around at all the people filling the dinner. “something about this palce gives me the creeps.”

We drive off in the van and I notice a big white sign with black letters by road that reads, “Pray every day”

The next thing I know I’m standing in the dinner again, but this time it’s full of people. I look around but something is not right. I can see everyone but no one can see me. It’s one of those dream things. I see the big man with the long dark hair and beard and for some reason I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks over to where I am, and for a second I feel as if he can see me, but I know he can’t. I watch as everything suddenly goes into slow motion. The man pulls out a shotgun and aims it at the guy to his left, the guy standing next to me. He fires and blows the man’s chest away. People start to yell and try to run out the door, but they can’t. They are all pushing against the door but the door opens inward and no one wants to move back to open it so they're stuck pushing against each other. The man starts shooting over and over again. He shoots the Chinese lady that is holding the five dollar bills my sister just gave her right in the middle of her head. One second she’s standing there about to scream, the next her head is blown across the wall of the dinner. The football player tries to run to the window, but the guy turns and fires the shotgun blowing a hole in his back big enough that I could see through it. I see the girl who moments ago was talking about the school dance. She’s screaming, crying, begging for some sort of mercy. There’s a flash of light and the girl is gone. I try to look away but I can’t. I watch as the man kills everyone in the dinner, then sits at the counter where my hot Coke was still sitting. The man begins to eat his final meal which consists of an onion omlet, hash browns and a cup of coffee. He then blew his own head away.

I don't know how I know this but somehow I know that he had come back to the store looking for his beloved puppies and when he couldn’t find them, something inside him snapped and his mind went crazy with rage.

Then…I woke up

The 911 Call

Tony — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 14:46:36 GMT

We got a call from a patient who wanted his methadone and he claimed that if he didn’t get it then he was going to kill himself. The clerk that received the call did what we are told to do and kept the patient on the phone while getting someone else’s attention, that someone else just happened to be me. I went and found a doctor and nurse to talk to the patient, then I called the suicide prevention section where I work and I got a voicemail. I couldn’t believe it. It had to be a mistake so I called again. I got the voicemail again. I then tried to call the mental health section to see if they could give me some help. I told her that I tried to contact the suicide prevention section but I was put on hold. She put me on hold so she could go see what was going on with the suicide prevention team. She finally came back on the line and told me that the person was not at their desk and she didn’t know where he was, so she tried to help me. The lady on the other end of the phone line asked me if the patient was at our clinic. I told her that the patient was on the phone threatening to kill himself.

She told me, “You need to detain the patient and don’t let him go anywhere until help arrives.”

I told her again that the patient was not at our clinic, he was calling from his apartment and he was going to kill himself if he didn’t get his methadone.

The lady from mental health then said,” Well, in that case you can have him call us here.”

I was a bit surprised by that answer. “You want us to hang up with the patient and have him call you?” That was totally against protocol. According to what we’ve been told countless of times – we are not supposed to hang up with the patient until help arrives.

“Yes,” the mental health lady said. “You can hang up and have him call here or he can call after you finish with him.”

I was ready to hang up on the mental health lady because I felt that the patient needed someone with a little more brains than the person I was talking to. “I’m calling 911 and letting them know so they can do a check on him.”

“You can do that too” the lady said.

I hung up on her and immediately called 911.

At this time the doctor was talking to the patient, keeping him on the phone. I called 911 and gave the dispatcher all the information I had on the patient. He asked me for an address and I gave him the one in the system which the doctor confirmed with the patient. The doctor was smooth asking the patient where he was because he had to put the address in the system to order his medications.

“Does he have any weapons?” The 911 dispatcher asked me.

I asked the doctor, who then asked the patient. The patient said he did not have any weapons, but he said he would still find a way to kill himself if he did not get his medication.

The dispatcher asked me once again for the patient’s address. I gave it to him again and he told me that they were having another suicide incident in the same apartment building, so he wanted to make sure it wasn’t the same person. I couldn’t help thinking that I was glad I didn’t live in that apartment complex.

The doctor was amazing in the way he talked to the patient. He kept calm and answered all the questions I passed on from the dispatcher.

The whole thing seemed like something from a movie. I felt like things were going so fast, but at the same time I felt that we were working like team; the doctor, the nurse who was pulling up information from the computer so I could give to the dispatcher, and myself. We were a team that was trying to save this man and any wrong word or bad decision by either of us could cost him his life.

I don’t know that the patient would have actually killed himself or not, but when you’re faced with a situation like that you really don’t want to take any chances. You never know what someone else is thinking or what they are capable of doing.

Later I was told that we handled the situation very well and that we worked well together in relaying information back and forth.

The dispatcher finally told me that a police unit had arrived at the complex and were making their way to the patient’s apartment.

At this point the doctor looked at me and said, “He hung up on me.” I could see the surprise and fear in his face. I felt my heart race as I thought of how we had failed the patient we were trying to help

“The police have arrived and are with the gentleman.” The dispatcher said as I felt a wave of relief go over my body.

I told the doctor and I could tell that he was feeling the same way too. We were both relieved. If nothing else we had potentially saved someone’s life.

The dispatcher thanked me and gave me a number that I could use in case we wanted to find out more about the outcome.

As I hung up the phone I felt good. I felt good because I felt that in some way I had made a difference in someone’s life. Again, I don’t know if the patient would have actually killed himself or not, but it’s good to know that I won’t have to ask myself “What if…”

Booger-face Margret

Tony — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 12:00:00 GMT

When I was in elementary school I used to sit next to a girl named Margret. Margret had a problem with her nose, it wasn’t that it was a huge forty year old nose on a ten year old face. The problem with Margret’s nose was that it produced too much mucus, way too much mucus for one person to make. Sometimes she would run the back of her hand across her nostrils to wipe it clean, but most times she would simply use her finger to clean it. She was a nose picker, picking her nose all day long. Once, I picked my nose in class and the teacher made me go wash my hands immediately, but she never said anything to Margret about her nose picking. I guess it was either because she knew that if Margret didn’t pick her nose then her nose would fill with mucus and she would drown on her own boogers. How does a teacher explain to a parent that their kid drowned on their own mucus? I think that the real reason she never said anything to Margret was the fact that Margret was a giant girl who was so mean and tough that the teacher was afraid to tell her anything for fear that she would get beat up by a booger spewing ten year old.

Margret would push her finger so far up her nose that I think at times she would actually touch her brain. I would try to avoid looking at her, but every once In a while I would look over at her and she would be in her little booger world with her finger up his nose, when she saw me looking at her she would slowly pull her finger out. On the end of her finger would be a long slimly booger that would go on forever. I’m sure that if someone were to measure it, it would be some sort of world record. If she saw me looking at her she would one of three things. One thing she would do was swing his finger and the booger would wrap around her finger like tetherball would wrap around the pole when we were on recess. The other thing she would do was stick it under her chair. I would hate to look under her chair because I knew that if I did I would see stalactites of dried boogers under there. The third and most gross of all was that she would eat them.

No one really liked to play with Margret, mostly because she was so mean, but also because her hands were always boogery (I made that word up). The only time anyone really played with her was when we had to, like during PE. I remember one day in PE we had to play baseball and since she was the biggest, meanest kid in the class she was the pitcher and boy could she pitch. She could throw that ball by you and make you look like a little girl trying to hit a fastball.

Although Margret and I sat next to each other we really didn’t like each other. I didn’t like the fact that she was a booger-face and she didn’t like the fact that I called her a “booger-face,” so when she threw the baseball and hit me right on my eye I had a feeling that it was not quite the accident she claimed it was.

I remember standing at home plate waiting for her to pitch the ball and thinking that I wasn’t going to let her strike me out. The first ball came hard and fast. I swung at it with all the strength that was in my ten year old body.

“Strike!” yelled the coach from behind me.

“what do you mean strike?” I asked as I gave him my are you blind look.

“It came over the plate and you swung at it. It’s a strike.” The coach gave me the ‘I’m the authority figure and if I say it’s a strike then it’s a strike’ look.

I tapped the end of the bat on my shoe, something I’d seen one of the professional baseball players do in a game once. I’m sure it didn’t look as cool when I did it as when the pro player did it, but I was a kid – what did I know about being cool?

I got ready for the next pitch and while I still thinking about getting ready the ball flew by me.

“Strike two!” the coach yelled.

“What?” I turned to him. “I didn’t even swing at the ball. How could it be a strike?”

“The ball came right down the center over home plate. It was a good ball and you didn’t swing so it’s a strike. Keep your eye on the ball next time”

I looked at Margret and I was determined not to let her strike me out. I stood there concentrating like I had never concentrated in my life. I wasn’t going to let that booger-face strike me out in front of the whole class. I watched as she pulled her arm back and then threw the ball. I could see the ball coming right at me, getting bigger as it got closer, then I heard the sound of the bat hitting the ball and then something strange happened. Everything went dark and all I could see was a lot of colored sparks shooting in all directions like a firework show on the Fourth of July. It was as the pain ran through me and I fell to the ground that I realized the sound I heard earlier was not the sound of the bat hitting the ball, but it was the sound of my face hitting the ball.

Everyone ran toward me and I thought I heard the coach say, “that’s not what I meant when I said keep your eye on the ball.” I think he laughed a little bit, but I’m not sure that he did or if it was just my imagination.

They took me to the nurses office and put some sort of bag with cold, blue gel on my eye. The nurse asked me to name some of the letters on the eye chart. I laid in the nurses office for most of the day. I don’t know if I was lucky or if I just had a hard head because I didn’t get a huge black eye or anything that would make me look cool. I just had a small bruise over my eye that hurt every time I poked it.

“Hey,” The creepy voice made my blood run cold. I looked toward the doorway and standing there larger than life was booger-face Margret. At first I thought she had come to finish the job and kill me. My mom was going to be so mad because she asked me to take the trash to the curb that morning and I'd forgotten - now I'd never take the trash out because I'd been killed by a booger-face girl - oh man, was my mom going to be mad. ”Mrs. Bostwick told me to come and say I was sorry.” She ran the back of her hand across her nose wiping away a stream of mucus. She than added, "even if I'm not" and she stuck her tongue out at me.

“I’m okay.” I said. “I hardly even felt it.” I rolled my eyes back in my head and instantly regreted it because it hurt. "Besides," I said,"you throw like a girl."

“Yeah,” she said. “whatever.” I didn’t like the way she said that, but I didn’t say anything else to her, because I wasn't ready to die yet - I still had to take the trash out at home. “Well, I’ll see ya later shortstuff.”

“I’m not short!” I yelled after her. She would pay for this…I began to plot my revenge

…but, that’s another story.

The Exposure

Tony — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 07:02:00 GMT

“Hello, I’m calling from employee health. You did get the message about the exposure? Didn’t you?” I listened to what sounded like the beginning of a Zombie Apocalypse movie. “A message was sent out last week requesting you to fill out the exposure form and return it to us. We have not received it yet and need it to continue the investigation”

“The exposure? The investigation” I asked. “What are you talking about?” I thought about an email I had received a week before about Tuberculosis, but didn’t think much about it because we have to get tested for Tuberculosis each year. It’s all sort of routine.

“Yes, we are investigating the case of a patient who died of Tuberculosis. We are testing all the people that he came in contact with on his last visit to the clinic and your name came up on our list.”

“What?” I asked, still feeling that creepy feeling in my spine like I was suddenly thrust into a bad zombie movie. I looked over to my co-worker and she was still the old woman I worked with and not Michelle Rodriquez so I knew I wasn’t dreaming. “You’re saying that I’ve been exposed to Tuberculosis?”

“Well, I’m saying that we’re testing everyone who may have come in contact with the patient.”

I was feeling the anger starting to rise in me as I thought about the fact that I could be carrying a virus and spreading it to everyone, especially to the people that I care about. “What about all the people that have come in contact with me? What if I have it then what?”

“Well, we will treat you for it.”

“What about the people that have been in contact with me? What’s going to happen with them”

“if you are positive then they will have to be tested as well.” It wasn’t a great answer, but I’ve worked with the government long enough to know that there weren’t any great answers.

“When was I exposed?” I had all these questions in my head but could only fully form one at a time. I felt angry and scared at the same time. I remembered that one of the symptoms was a persistent cough. I didn’t remember having a cough, but I could imagine myself coughing up blood at some point if I tested positive.

“The patient came into your clinic in March and he died in May. We didn’t know that he had the live virus until after his death”

“This happened in March and I’m just now finding out about it?” I was getting angrier as the conversation progressed.

“Can you come in tomorrow to be tested? You may have to get permission from your supervisor. I can talk to her if you want me to.”

“I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I’ll talk to my supervisor and I’ll make sure she knows what’s going on.”

I talked to my supervisor and told her about the phone call. She seemed a little concerned because if I had come in contact with the virus then there was a strong possibility that she may have come in contact with it as well and when you think you’ve been in contact with a virus that can kill you – you tend to worry a little bit.

As I thought about it I was a little relived that I had already taken my yearly TB test and it was after the exposure, so the chances of me actually having Tuberculosis was pretty slim, but even so, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

The next day I showed up at employee health before they even opened their doors. The nurse was very kind and tried to answer my questions, but she didn’t seem to know what to do. This must have been her first investigation because she called the doctor in to find out what to do.

The doctor came in and started asking me all sorts of questions. She told me the name of the patient and even showed me a picture of him while asking me if I remembered talking to him. I told her that I didn’t even remember the patients I talked to yesterday much less someone who I had talked to months ago. I don’t tend to remember patients unless something out of the ordinary happens – they can be either really mean and nasty to me, or really nice and I’ll remember them, but otherwise I don’t tend to remember people.

The doctor told me that it was unlikely that I had the virus, but they had to follow protocol and test everyone who may have come in contact with the patient at his last visit. I told her that I didn’t think I had it because I had been tested in the time between the exposure and the time I was notified because my yearly TB test had fallen in that time and I had been negative. She then told me how the patient would have had to have stood within six feet from me and talked directly to me so that the virus could spread from him to me.

She asked me a few more questions, which I answered as best I could. I filled out the exposure form and then she left the nurse to do the test. The nurse injected my arm and all we could do then was wait the two days to see if I had a reaction.

The next two days were really quite normal because I was sure that I did not have the virus. I did joke with everyone at work that if I had it I was going to cough on everyone and everything because if I was going down I was taking them all with me. I joked but at the same time I don’t know how much of it was really a joke. Don’t start a pandemic with me because I will spread it

This story is pretty anti-climate as most of my stories tend to be (at least that’s what my friend David says) – the test came back negative and I was ok. The thing that worries me about this whole thing is that every day we come in contact with people who are sick with who knows what – it’s just a matter of time before someone’s test comes back positive…and then what?

********
During meetings at work I tend to doodle, I added my little zombie doodle for effect