Voices From The Past Update

I'm sure that it is a surprise to nobody that I received another email from T.B. today. I would bet that most people could even guess the nature of the email. Let me preface this by saying that I have sent one email to T.B. and made one phone call. Both after she stopped to see me. So, can you guess, dear reader, what the content of the message was? What would a woman that I have not been trying to contact in anyway have to say to me?

"I am engadged (sic) to be married, please don't email me anymore!!!"

Some people have tried to clue me in on evil girl tricks. I'm guessing that this is one of them. Why would you call a person that you have already severed contact with to tell them not to contact you because you are engaged? I'm still a little slow with this, but I'm guessing that she WANTS me to contact her. Why else would she do such a thing? So I bit. I didn't call her, but I sent her an email, which she may or may not read. Basically I told her that I wished her luck, but hoped that she wasn't making a mistake. Oh, I also pointed out that I thought her message was a girl trick.

None of this is wise, I'm sure. I have nothing to gain. I don't even know why I'm dealing with this eighth grade crap. Yes I do. I like her and I would hate to see her make a huge mistake. Or is it hubris for me to think that she can't make an informed decision on her own? At any rate, I wonder if this is the last chapter in this little saga.

My Evil Twin

Yesterday, I was told by somebody that she had been practicing her stalker skills. I asked her what she meant and the reply was "You were quite accident prone for a while weren't you? You had accidents in '96, '98, and 2000."

What???

Turns out she knows somebody with connections to the Memphis Police Department and was able to "check up" on me. I guess I deserve it to an extent since I had made fun of her for being involved in a stereotypical woman car accident. She dropped her phone while driving and when she tried to retrieve it, she ran over a wooden sign.

Still. She was very lucky, or I was very lucky depending on how you look at it. There is somebody else with my exact name that lives in the same town. He is a bad man.

My first clue was shortly after I started work in Jackson. I walked into the department at seven in the morning and the first person I met wanted to know "What are you doing here?" I responded with surprise. I knew that I hadn't worked there very long, but it was a little quick to be fired. When they saw the look of confusion on my face, I was told that somebody with my name had come through the emergency room at two in the morning with a head injury. Seems my twin was at a local night club, got drunk, fell off of the dance floor and whacked his melon. I pointed out that it couldn't have been me because I had been sound asleep at that time. This was only the beginning of my evil twin's antics.

Six months later I got a phone call from a woman that identified herself as "Tiffany's mother." Now I knew a Tiffany in high school and we had actually gone to prom together, but I had never talked to her mother and didn't realize that she knew who I was. I asked what I could do for her and she said "Well, I want to know how long it's going to be before I get my daughter's wedding pictures."

What???

Apparently my twin had been paid to take some pictures at a "Tiffany's" wedding. I assured the woman that it wasn't me and I had no idea where the pictures were.

About a year after that, a local medical clinic called to inform me that I owed them over $6,000 in medical fees. Again, I had to explain that it wasn't me and that I had never stepped foot in their clinic.

Around 2003, a woman called and said "This is your mother." Well, I knew that this lady with the Clampet accent was not my mother and tried to let her down easy.

"Are you sure you aren't the Chad from Skullbones, Tennessee?"

"Ma'am, I promise you that not only do I not know where Skullbones, Tennessee is, but I would disown a mother that sounded like Granny after she had "smoked" to many "crawdads." The kicker was when she asked if I knew where her son was as if we had some kind of psychic connection because we had the same name. I think she was looking to borrow money.

Shortly after that, I was served a subpoena to appear in a local court. I had found a toddler wandering in a parking lot and the mother was being charged with child endangerment or something. When I stepped out of the house, the officer had an intense look in his eyes and said "I'm looking for Chad."

I explained to him that my name was Chad and what could I do for him. He waved the subpoena in the air and said "You aren't the Chad I know. I'm not sure this is for you, but this is the address I was given."

Jackpot. I asked John Q. Law about the Chad that he knew and he blurted "You don't want to be involved with him," and then I swear he quoted Lady Byron and said "He is mad, bad, and dangerous to know." That was all I could get out of him.

The final straw was a phone call I got from an irate lady who was somewhere in Kentucky. She threaten to come to Jackson and "plant a foot in my ass" if her fiance went to jail because of me. I got her calmed down and explained that regardless of how entertaining it would be for some to see me with a size seven in my colon, I hadn't been to Kentucky in years and didn't know her crack head fiance. Her response was "Do you know where Chad is?" I suggested that she start looking under rocks and to leave me alone.

The point is that now, in the age of "Google", every time I meet somebody I have to explain that I have an evil twin out there and to please, please pause first if somebody tells them in the local vernacular "that Chad be a bad mutha', pop a cap in his nuts if you see him." I had forgotten to tell this person that felt the need to check my background. I guess we are all lucky that my record came up first. Accident prone indeed!

I Hate People

It came out in conversation the other day that I hate people. Not any particular group, race or orientation, just people.

I think the seeds of my personal philosophy were actually the product of a friendship that I had in high school. Tippi was the guy's name (don't ask) and he reminded me of Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show. Nothing pleased those two old curmugeons and Tippi had their act down to a science. Won the lottery Tippi? That's great!

"Fucking taxes."

You get the picture.

I didn't realize at the time that Tippi had a genuine dislike for people in general. Old, young, black, white, male, female, straight, gay, it didn't matter. He would take one look at you, size you up, immediately do the math in his head and come to the conclusion that you weren't worth a damn. The funny thing was that as he got older, he actually converted a whole house full of people to his way of life. You would go over to their old bungalow in Cooper-Young and they would all sit around smoking one cigarette after another, slamming down Guinness and watching CNN.

They spent most of their time calling people in the news "Fucking idiots" and that was their term of endearment. If they really disliked the person they saddled him or her with "hippie communist" which was kind of funny considering the Charles Manson cult of personality thing they had going.

The highlight of the evening was when the phone would ring. Tippi always screened his calls and he would completely ignore the phone on the first two rings. On the third ring he would casually turn his head and blow cigarette smoke in the direction of the offending sound. The fourth ring, his eyes would squint like Clint Eastwood. Finally the machine would pick up and it would be some poor bastard that thought Tippi actually wanted to hear from him. The message would be left and Tippi would stare at the machine for several seconds before slowly turning his attention back to CNN.

"Fucking idiot."

Why was I over there watching the slow ballet that was Tippi's life of hate? I think that I subconsciously realized greatness when I saw it. As I got older, I began to understand that Tippi was a man ahead of his time. He didn't need anything from anybody and made damn sure they knew it. Last I heard from Tippi, he had moved to Taos, New Mexico and set up a tee pee out in the wilderness. I imagine him in the scrub, meeting the Gila monsters eye to eye, blowing smoking in what passes for their faces, and uttering "fucking idiot."

Now that I've had a chance to step back and look at my life and my personal philosophy, I see that Tippi had it right. What I was missing was the why. Why do people sicken and disgust me? Is it because the world is full of bullies and sycophants? But there has to be a pecking order, right? Otherwise it's anarchy.

I finally hit upon the answer the other night when somebody asked me why I hate people. It isn't that I hate all people, just the ones that don't do what I think they should. Drink Pepsi? Fucking idiot, you should drink Coke. Wear suspenders? Only a fucking idiot wears suspenders rather than a belt. And so on and so forth. If you want to stay on my good side, do what I think you should.

Dillinger and Me

My mom came to town recently for some computer help. Over the last year she has been compiling her family history and had committed it to CD. Now she wanted some help editing a few of the pictures and copying the CDs. I was dreading it, but she is my Mom and what are ya gonna do?

Sure enough, Mom didn't just want to stick to business. She wanted to show me every single picture of each mutant buck toothed hillbilly. Each picture either had somebody holding a shotgun or some sort of farm animal. Needless to say, I was unimpressed and completely bored but was trying to humor Mom.

Then she turns the page and there is a black and white photo of a young woman with no other pictures on the page. She stopped and looked at it, but didn't say a thing. Well, this was the equivalent of the Mississippi running backwards. I had never known my mother to be at a loss for words, so naturally I felt compelled to ask.

"That is your great uncle's girlfriend."

I shot her a look, because the answer was way to short. Let me tell you, for my family to be ashamed of something is unheard of in my lifetime. I have uncles that have gone to jail for impersonating five star generals, a grandfather that just quit one family, changed his name and started another brood (that is another story for another campfire), and my own mother married a man named "Uncle Raymond." I knew this had to be juicy.

"Uncle who?" I inquired.

Mom sighs and says "His name was John Dillinger." I immediately begin to chuckle, but I could tell that she was not amused.

"Not the gangster? The bank robber and murderer?"

"Yes that's him," and then she turned the page.

We left it at that and even though I was curious, part of me really didn't want to know how she figured out that I was related to John Dillinger. It does explain my aversion to law enforcement. If anybody is familiar with the legend of John Dillinger, they know that he was also famous for his exceptionally large penis. Rumor has it that upon his death it was removed and sent to the Smithsonian. All I can say is that it must have been a recessive gene.

Voices From The Past

It is such a mistake to post this, but I'm an idiot and can't help myself. Oh, I guess you can forget about the anti-negative posts. This one will probably ooze with negativity.

I'm working hard today (riiiigggghhhhttt) and I get paged overhead that I have a phone call on line two. I figure it's a nurse or somebody wanting to know something about a patient. I snap off my gloves, leave a patient on the table (with a needle in her right boob no less), tell the doctor that I will be right back and go to answer the phone.

I pick up the handset and in my phony hospital voice I give it the "This is Chad, how may I help you?"

A female voice replies "Chad?"

"Yes."

"This is T.B." And I go quiet, real quiet, because my first guess is that something is really wrong. Either her mother has gotten much sicker or she is in some kind of bind and needs my help.

"What are you doing?" I managed to choke out, "Where are you?"

"I'm pulling up into the hospital drive, I was on the way back from my boyfriend's and thought I would leave you a note on your car, and then just decided to call you."

My mind just goes limp. Why in the hell would she risk her current relationship, for which she dumped me like a hillbilly drops a rattlesnake after he handles it one time too many. I mean, this is the guy that FOUR days after she met him, she called me and said something along the lines of "I don't want to risk losing him by seeing you." No way would he be happy about her being in Jackson.

So things are quiet for a second, it's fairly obvious that she wants to see me, but I'm not sure what to do. We have some kind of awkward verbal exchange that I don't remember and I agree to meet her in thirty minutes in front of the emergency room.

She's there with her daughter. She looks good. She is smiling. I tell her first thing that she is nuts for being there, working up to really giving her a piece of my mind. She says she knows and that her boyfriend is obsessed with me and our relationship. That stumps me and I realize that I'm not really mad at her. So we hug and there is some small talk. She asks about my dogs and I ask about her kids and her mother. She wants to know how my grass is doing and I inquire about her new car. I meet her daughter for the first time. Shirley Temple curls and all. The little girl wants kisses. I can't resist. T.B. and I hug again and then say goodbye.

So now I'm totally confused. It has been about six weeks since she suddenly dropped out of my life, so what does it mean when she wants to see me out of the blue? Is she having trouble with her current beau? Am I just that irresistible? Does she miss our friendship? What?

I sent her an email. I don't know if she will get it anytime soon since the only one I could remember was one that she didn't really use much. I told her not to do that again. It isn't fair to me. It isn't fair to her boyfriend either, but I couldn't care less about him. I have no idea what her angle was. Made for an interesting day though.


*Here is a small addition, I got home about 10:30 p.m. after playing softball (we lost). There was a messege on my machine, "Chad, this is T.B. Please don't send me an email, somebody has my password and will read it."*

Tossed Salad

I recently met somebody that used to live in Jackson, MS. and it reminded me of a horrible practical joke that I was the victim of once.

I was dating a girl in Jackson and left work early one Friday to drive from Jackson, TN. to see her. It was something like a five hour drive. I threw my bag in the truck before work, so I didn't have to go home to get anything.

It was a nice sunny day and I thought I was Joe Cool with my sunglasses on the way to Mississippi to see my girl. A couple of cars honked at me and flashed their lights, but being from Memphis, I just figured that my driving sucked.

Little did I know that one of the product reps at work had been told that I was going to take a little drive that weekend. He thought it would be cute to put one of those little magnetic bumper stickers on my tail gate. I got to Jackson, visited with girly for a little while and then we decided to take her car to dinner. As we pulled out of her apartment's parking lot, I noticed something white on my truck. I asked her to back up so I could see what it was. There, in bold letters for the entire world to see was a sign that read:

I Toss Salad

Sadly, I have watched a couple of episodes of "Oz" on HBO so I immediately knew that I had been advertising to everybody on I-55 my sexual preferences. To this day, I'm ashamed to show my face in Mississippi.

I Fear For My Scalp

Have you ever been truly scared before? The first time I was in fear of what might physically happen to me occurred, oddly enough, in Arkansas.

Seven friends and I decided to go to Little Rock. It was all about the road trip. Rusty was from Little Rock and had created this little fantasy world for us around a place called Burns Park and a rock quarry there that provides a swimming hole for the locals. Keep in mind that Rusty is legally blind, but for some reason we completely bought into his detailed picture of a redneck Disney World complete with girls in bathing suits and free flowing narcotics.

So eight of us loaded into two tiny cars, a Datsun B210 and a Honda Civic. We bought two cases of Boone's Farm, put them on ice, and put the coolers under my control in the Datsun. I know, you are thinking "Boone's Farm? What kind of pussy shit is this???" but keep in mind we were underage and we took what we could get without reservations. We made a pact to not drink any of the booze until we got to the park, mostly out of some misguided sense of responsibility.

Of course the no drinking rule only lasted until we had left the city limits of Memphis. I reached back into the cooler and cracked open a bottle. My crew and I quickly made short work of that bottle and three others and being the light weights that we were, we felt pretty good. Until...... mother nature called. We couldn't pull over, there would be questions from the other car and they would know we had broken the covenant.

Eventually, we had to make a decision. Being the brilliant thinker that I am, I decided that the empty Boone's farm bottles should not go to waste and quickly filled one up. The other fellas followed suit and we were left with four bottles of warm piss that kind of looked like Boone's Farm!

All was well, we had our little buzz, we were on our way to fantasy land, and our buddies in the other car had no inkling of the deception. Suddenly, the steering wheel spun like the girls head in The Exorcist and Art, the driver, was having trouble controlling the car. We managed to pull to the side of the road where we discovered a flat tire. We quickly jumped out and made short work of the change before the others caught a clue that we had been into the goody cooler. However, we all agreed that we should get a new tire since the one that had just been put on was balder than Telly Savalas.

We found a mechanic and while he was working on the tire, Rusty came over and notice the bottles on the floor of the car. I quickly made my apologies, told Rusty that we had only drank two and it was fair that they drink two in the other car. Rusty called Tony over and they agreed that while our transgressions were serious, they were not fatal and just as the mechanic threw the old spare into the trunk, we handed Rusty and Tony a couple of bottles. Everybody piled into their respective vehicles and we returned to the road.

A note about Tony. He is a full blooded Navajo, six feet tall, close to three hundred pounds, and has a very quick temper.

About three or four miles down the road, the other car suddenly zoomed up behind us, horn blaring and lights flashing. Jim asked out loud "wonder what their problem is?" When I informed him that I gave them a couple of bottles of Boone's Farm he looked a little puzzled and leaned back to look in the cooler. "They are all still here," he said.

"Not the ones we emptied and refilled," I replied.

His face blanched as he put two and two together. The other car pulled even with ours and we could see Rusty leaning out one window puking his guts. Tony merely glared at us, then grabbed his hair, pulling it up and drew and index finger across his forehead. The implication was very clear.

Two or three years later, Tony had his revenge. He had been drinking seven and seven from a big gulp all night and a one point asked me if I wanted a drink. I will never forget the taste of warm Navajo piss. At least I still have my hair.