Big Daddy Gouda

It was coffee that nearly killed me yesterday.

As I arrived on the outskirts of Waterbury yesterday on my way to work traffic started to back up. Snow was starting to fall hard and people were starting to notice.

I had about 40 minutes left on my drive to work and I hadn’t stopped for coffee as I usually do. However the prospects of a prolonged drive stuck in traffic with no coffee was too much to handle. I flicked on my blinker and prepared to pull off exit 36 in Waterbury.

I pulled off no problem and began coasting down the exit ramp. As soon as the ramp started to twist I lightly tapped the brakes….Nothing. I kept going and if I didn’t know better I’d say I actually picked up speed.

I slammed my foot on the breaks since tapping did no good. Same result. Nothing! The STOP sign at the end of the exit ramp was approaching. At the end of the ramp was Colonial Avenue. A fairly busy Waterubury street that was sure to be littered with morning traffic. If I don’t stop I was most definitely going to pull out into this traffic and then….who knows.

I decided to take my chances with the guard rail rather than the busy road. I turned my wheel to the left and immediately the back-end of the jeep started to fishtail to the right. I was no longer driving the Jeep. It was driving me.

I attempted to straighten the wheel but the Jeep just kept sliding sideways. The front left tire clipped the guardrail and I heard what sounded like a small explosion, then felt the car dip slightly on the left side.  Just as I approached the stop sign, thankfully, the jeep stopped.

It felt like an eternity but the whole ordeal, from the time I pulled off the exit to the time I crashed into the guardrail was about 20-30 seconds, tops.

As I sat on the side of the road, hands shaking, heart pounding, a truck pulled up alongside me.

“Walt!,” the man said, as he pulled up along side me.

I instantly recognized him as Adam Perrin, a close friend of Keely and Charlie.

“I didn’t think you were going to stop,” he said. “Are you alright.”

I nodded YES.

I got out of the Jeep and instantly noticed that my tire had come clear off the rim. That explains the explosion sound.

I got back in the jeep and drove across the intersection, safely, on three tires.  Adam waited with me for a few minutes before I convinced him I was physically fine, just a little shaken up.

I called AAA. They towed my car, and me, to Sears Tire Center. $160 later I had a new tire and it was as if the whole thing was just a bad dream.

But it wasn’t. For a few hours after the incident I felt a tad bit enlightened. Like I had stared death in the face and survived. Little problems seemed insignificant. When I thought of all prior disappointments I just laughed.

By 5 o’clock I was mentally back to normal. Worried about money, longing for a beautiful woman, pissed that I’d have to walk Andy in the rain.

But don’t get me wrong I was thankful. Thankful that LOST would be starting in three hours.

I have told you all before about Bob. Growing up we spent most of our summers together constantly trying to come up with “The Greatest Game Ever Invented by Kids”.

The friendship started for the same reason that all friendships begin when we’re younger. We were neighbors. Our divorced fathers lived across the street from each other and during the summer we both spent the majority of our time with our old men. Hence the friendship.

Now, the reason the friendship lasted was because of our love for two things; going to the movies and causing trouble. This story is about the latter.

Our friendship peaked when I was 13. Bob was about 11. After that his father moved so he stopped coming to town and as I got older we kind of went our separate ways.

Anyway, as teenagers, or in Bob’s case, on the cusp of being a teenager, we possessed dirty, curious minds.  Whenever we found something in a book or on TV that was even remotely sexually related we’d share it with the other one. ( a joke, a new word, a movie that was supposedly going to have full frontal female nudity)

In this sense, one of our favorite things to do was to sit in Bob’s kitchen and talk dirty in front of his deaf old grandma. She was also kind of clueless, which helped out immeasurably.

Our favorite little game to play was called “The Party Game” where we would talk about all the parties we were going to. Thing was, the people throwing these “parties” had names that could be classified as….saucy.

Here’s a typical conversation Bob and I would have in the presence of his deaf old grandma.

ME: So are you going to MIKE HUNT’S party next week?

BOB: Probably. HARRY BUSH said his parties are usually great.

ME: Really? Because JACK HOFF said they usually suck.

BOB: No, he only says that because he prefers parties at the beach house owned by Phil McKrakin.

ME: Well, good, it should be fun, especially if that new foreign exchange student Chu mei is there.

So yeah, that was a typical convo and only once did Bob’s grandma give any indication that she was listening when she said, “Wow, you guys sure go to a lot of parties.”

Just to be fair, we did try to the conversation once in my kitchen, in front of my Grandfather, who was always smoking a cig, drinking a beer and looking out the window.

 Big mistake.

As soon as I mentioned to Bob that we were both invited to that new Italian restaurant owned by Harry Ballsonya,  Bob was sent home and I was sent to my room.

When it came to sexual innuendo, nothing got past grampy.

“How’s the dog,” I asked my father, knowing he had stopped by the house during the day to pick up a few things.

“That’s a good question,” dad said, ominously.

As I cleared the lump from my throat and attempted to speak, dad beat me to the punch saying, “He’s fine, but you almost came home to no dog.”

Apparently, around 11 a.m. dad attempted to hook Andy to his chain and let him out the front door to do his business. Unfortunately, dad, with his arthritic hands and poor eyesight, missed the hook without realizing it.

Andy took a few steps down the sidewalk when his chain, which was laying loosely on his collar, fell casually to the ground with a clink.

The puggle looked at my father who was standing in the doorway, knowing that he was, for the first time…free.

Dad opened the door and calmly said, “Andy”.  That was the first mistake. The one time Andy got out on me, I raised my voice (which I never do) and he stopped dead in his tracks and came back inside, his head bowed, tail between his legs.

Dad, with his nonchalant call, was not going to convince the little rascal to come back. According to Dad, Andy bowed his head, his chin on the sidewalk and raised his backside into the air….He wanted to play.

Dad approached and like lighting, Andy the Puggle was gone, darting across the street into the neighbors back yard.

Dad pursued him, calmly calling his name. The closer he got, the further into the neighborhood Andy would run.

After about 10 minutes Dad went back to the house and got in his truck. He perused the neighborhood, calling for the dog out the window.

Occasionally, while weaving up and down the area streets he’d catch a glimpse of the puggle traipsing through someone’s yard, stopping to sniff a bush or a tree and then darting further into the woods when he heard my father call out to him.

After about a half hour Dad gave up and returned home, seemingly wondering how he was going to explain to me that he’d lost my dog and then probably wondering how I was going to explain it to Keely who would, in turn, have to explain to Aidan how sending the family dog to Uncle Walt may not have been the best idea.

Two hours had passed with no sign of the dog……

Then, as dad sat in the living room, he heard the unmistakable Italian accent of Mario Pesce, our neighbor for 40 years.

“Peter, Peter,” Mario yelled from across the street. “Zis youra dog!”

Dad looked out the front door and there was Mario, standing in his front yard, holding Andy by the collar.

According to the dad, the dog sat quietly, his tail thumping, until my father crossed the street to get him.

Mario snuck up on Andy, who he found in his back yard sniffing at his home-made wine barrels. He knew, from peeping out his window like all our nosy neighbors do, that Andy was a missing person.

So, it was no surprise to me that Andy, for the first time since I got him almost three weeks ago, was in no hurry to go outside when I arrived home from work at 6 p.m.

God only knows what he got himself into while running through our neighborhood Tuesday afternoon.

I’m only thankful that Mario did the honorable thing and returned the animal, instead of making sausage out of him that I’m sure would have gone oh so good with that wine that Andy found so appealing.

You better shape up Puggle or during my next trip to the grocery store, instead of doggy treats, I’ll  spend the money on chloroform, medium-sized Hefty bags and a shovel.

Now that dad is in the process of setting up his own Facebook page, I figure it’s time to get this story out of the way, before Porkchop realizes what he’s doing and suddenly stumbles upon this Web site through a FB link.

………………………..

In the late 70s, before I could even walk,  over the span of three years, my father had turned our attic into two extra bedrooms, turned our basement into a bar, ( complete with a fishtank built into the wall) and had purchased brand new cars for he and my mother.  The topper, so the story goes, after dad got tired of mowing the lawn in the backyard, rather than pay someone to do it,  he installed an in-ground swimming pool: Eight feet deep, three feet on the shallow end: complete with a diving board and a slide.

Not bad for someone who worked part time at the long defunct Regency Lounge as a bartender for his friend Carmine.

Dad’s bartending gig was similar to Tony Sopranos “waste management” job. It was all for show.

Anyone who was anyone in Torrington knew that my dad, “Gogo” as he was known back then, was the town’s biggest bookie. If you needed to place a bet on a game, then dad was your man.

Working at the bar was the perfect front. What a better way to meet clients: A bunch of drunks spending sunday afternoon bellied up to the bar watching football. All Carmine asked of my father was a little piece of the action. In return, he could use The Regency Lounge as his own personal Bada Bing!

According to Mom, the good life lasted about four years. Then, someone who was in hot water with the local police, flipped on my father to save his own ass.

As soon as the local pigs were turned on to dad they set “Operation Cook The Porkchop” into motion.

Bar patrons were interviewed and threatened.  And, worst of all, dad’s “private” phone line was tapped. I shit you not. The Torrington PD tapped our phones. Years later this made dad laugh, seeing, as he would say, “Half the police force would place bets with me.”

Unfortunately, only a select few were in on the little sting. They kept the whole thing so secret, no one who could have warned dad about the heat had any knowledge of what was going on.

In the days before it all fell apart, Dad was tipped off that something could be going down by our neighbors. Apparently, cops had visited a few of them to ask if they had seen a lot of different people coming and going from Dad’s house during the week. Especially on Sundays!

Of course they had! Who knows about your goings on better than your neighbors! But, as legend goes, not one of them said a thing. Yeah, the cops hit a big ole brick wall when they confronted all the Italians in the hood who would sooner go to jail themselves than rat out a fellow ginny.

It wasn’t until one of dad’s biggest customers/friends squealed. He sung like a canary. Told the cops everything there was to know about dad’s business.

The Police hit The Regency Lounge first and rounded up the usual suspects. Carmine managed to call ahead and warn my dad that he would probably be next.

Dad spent the next few minutes in the basement bar, destroying evidence. Then, the cruisers pulled up and banged on the door.

Dad opened it casually.

“We have a search warrant for John Gogolya,” the officer said.

“He’s upstairs,” dad said, calmly.

And, truth be told, he wasn’t lying. My dad, Pete Gogolya, was actually named John “Peter” Gogolya, named after his father, John Gogolya, who, like dad said, was upstairs.

So, the idiot cops went upstairs to question John Gogolya senior. My grandfather. Dad tried to use the precious extra seconds to get rid of all the gambling tickets and all the excess cash lying around.

I’m almost embarrassed to write this, but dad had a safe built into the floor boards. Invisible to the naked eye. By the time the cops figured out what was going on, Dad had everything that could be considered “incriminating” safely stashed away in the floor safe.

The cops came back down stairs. Angry and unimpressed. Before they could begin questioning him, the phone rang. The basement phone. The one no one in the house was allowed to answer except him.

“Allow me,” the officer said.

“Gogo,” the voice on the line said.

“Yeah,” said the deceptive cop.

“$100 on The Giants,” the voice said.

Dad’s goose was cooked. Within seconds he was in handcuffs. The next day all over the front page of the local papers.

Dad blew all his money on a good lawyer. The lawyer argued that the search warrant was not valid because it had not been signed by the proper authorities.  It worked. Nothing the Torrington Pd obtained from Dad’s house that day could be used against him. He would later say this kept him out of jail. Unfortunately, the testimony given by fellow gamblers, looking to save their own skin, was enough to ruin my dad’s gambling business forever.

He paid some heavy fines and was put on probation for three years, in which time he had to show yearly proof of his income.

Although dad would never admit it, those that know him best, including my mother, would later say those years, “The Gambling Years”, were the best times of dad’s life.

And how could they not be. He was popular. He didn’t have to work a “real job.  And he never had to worry about money.

I remember in 7th grade, a few of us guys decided to run a weekly football pool. Over the weekend Mom found an envelope on my bed, filled with a schedule of all that week’s games and about $20 cash, all in one and five dollar bills.

She called dad to ask what he knew about this. He knew nothing and that was true. I had decided to do this on my own.

That night, I heard Mom remark to my step father about Dad’s response to finding out I was running a weekly football pool in school.

“It must be in his blood,” dad said of my new hobby.

I suppose he’s right. The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the money tree.

After much internal debate my father Pete finally decided to have a Tag Sale.

My family home is, to put it simply, filled with junk. The house, originally built in 1934 by my great grandfather Angelo, has accumulated quite the lot of needless items. Well, needless to my family anyway.

For years my sister and I have been trying to convince dad to have a Tag Sale rather than his prefered method of getting rid of old junk, which consisted of renting a dumpster and piling it with old furniture every few months.

I agreed to assist dad with his sale. He spent the week leading up to “the event” pricing everything in the house. I spent the week removing price tags from some of my things that there was no way I was selling for $2, if at all.

“Dad, Why are you selling my copy of Harry Potter and The Deathly Hallows,” I asked.

“Well, I never see you reading it,” dad countered.

Yep, it was gonna be one of those weeks.

The night before the sale Dad brought out the tables and lined up hundreds of items by the front door. At 5 a.m. he left the house and wandered the neighborhood putting up signs. At 7 a.m. he began to bring the items outside. At 7:05 his heart stopped. At 7:12 it began beating again.

The first sign of trouble came around 8 a.m: One hour before the posted start time.

An old couple pulled up to the house. (“early birds”, as they are called in the Tag Sale world.)

“Are you selling any fishing equipment”, the old man asked, as my father struggled to find the perfect placement for his scratched up Beatles record with teeth marks on the cover.

“We’re not selling anything till 9 o’ clock sir,” dad said, without so much as a glance in the old couple’s direction.

I asked my father why he hadn’t simply told them we had NO fishing equipment  rather than reply with his seemingly rude, “nothing till 9″ comment.

“Cuz I’m too busy to deal with people right now,” he said.

Oh yeah, today was gonna be interesting.

Dad assigned me a ton of jobs and I couldn’t argue. I was in charge of the money, I was to answer questions about whether or not we had certain items, I was to handle negotiations and I was to keep an eye out for thieves. Yes, dad was really worried that someone was going to run off with his unopened bottle of Windshield Wiper fluid.

Dad’s job was to keep things neat. And he did.

After the vultures rifled through books and Cds and unfolded clothes, Dad had things back in order before the people got back in their cars.

I’d say for the first few hours things went smooth. People showed up. People bought stuff. Nothing was stolen. Then, the Spanish guy arrived.

He drove  a white van, already filled with junk. My aunt Barbara would later refer to this man as a “Tag Sale Locust” - traveling from sale to sale, filling his van with items from his various stops…as long as the price was right.

As soon as he picked up the first item, a Green Bay Packers mug, he said, “I give you one dollar”; a buck cheaper than the sticker price. I agreed to it.

Every item he touched, he asked for money off the marked price. And me, granted the power of negotiations from Dad, pretty much agreed to it. After all, he was buying a ton of stuff. Then, he set his sights on one of Dad’s prized possessions: His miniature model car collection.

Dad was asking $12 for the set of five cars. The guy offered $6. I countered with $10. The guy offered $7. Once again I said $10

“Seben Seben,” the man repeated, as he began putting the cars in his box.

I was about to let it go. The guy already spent about $25.  I figured he deserved the $5 discount. However, dad, who had been watching the situation unfold, disagreed.

Dad stepped in front of me, and, for the first time all day, was actually interacting directly with a customer.

“$7 is way too cheap,” dad said. “I can’t let this set go for anything less than $10.”

“Seben,”  the man said, as he put the last mini-car in his box.

Dad snapped.

“I said NO,” his voice rising, as he began pulling the cars, one by one, out of the man’s box.

“THESE – CARS- ARE- IN- MINT- CONDITION,” dad said, emphasizing each word as he took the cars from the man and put them back on their display shelf.

“Joo don’t wan my money,”  the man shot back.

“Not at that price I don’t,” dad said.

At that point the man rubbed his hands together, as if he was wiping away dirt and then showed his hands to my father, seemingly wiping himself clean of dad’s rudeness.

“Fine, den I buy nothing,” the man said.

“Good,” dad fired back, “then drag your ass.”

The  guy walked back to his van shaking his head, muttering under his breath in Spanish and, most importantly, taking his $25 with him.

“Dad, why didn’t you just give him the deal,” I asked. “He was spending a ton of money.”

“Because,” dad said, arranging his precious car collection, “there is a difference between making money and getting raped.”

Aside from that little bit of unpleasantness things went well for the rest of the day. Especially when all the old Italian guys from the neighborhood stopped by to shoot the shit and pop off about old times in the neighborhood.

I sat there counting the money as these old men told some crazy tales. I heard things like, “I tried to enlist in Vietnahm but they told me I was too violent,” and,  “Remember when the mob wanted me dead because I was dating the prettiest girl in town.”

The day wound down around 4. People, for the most part, had stopped coming. But it was okay. The majority of items had been sold. Dad had cleared about $300.

We sat down. I counted the money as Dad drank a beer and bragged about the efficient, orderly tag sale he’d pulled off.

“HEY,” Dad barked.

I jumped and immedietly looked up. There, sitting on our wall were two young boys. This was not the first time I had seen them today. They lived down the street and periodically through out the day they would park their bikes in front of the house, sit on the wall and watch people shop.

Everytime they arrived dad would snap his fingers at me to get my attention, then procede to tell me to keep an eye on them. As far as he was concerned, if anyone was going to steal anything, it was going to be them.

The boys sat frozen on the wall, obviosly startled by dad’s yell.

“What do you two want anyway,” dad asked, sternly. “You guys have been coming by all day and you just sit there staring at us.”

The younger boy, probably 7 years old, said nothing. The older brother, most likely about 10 years old, sheepishly pointed to a pile of my old football cards.

“You have any money,” dad asked, sarcastically.

Both boys shook their heads ‘No’

 With his thumb pointed down the street, followed by a jerk of the wrist and punctuated with a whistle, dad simply said, “Then beat it.”

The boys mounted their bikes and quickly rode away.

I’m sure they will tell all the neighborhood kids about the mean old man who lives at 152 Barton Street, and, in the process, turn my father into a popular target for a Halloween egging.

“Everybody wants something for nothing,” Dad said, taking a final swig of his beer. “Lets start bringing this shit back in the house.  I’m tired.”

Dad put his beer down, stood up and let out a mighty belch, letting the neighborhood know that Porkchop Pete’s Tag Sale had come to a close.

My eyes opened today at 10 a.m. I slowly lifted my head, which felt like it weighed fifty pounds.  A small pool of drool had formed on my pillow.

Many times I have woken up this way on a Sunday morning, especially after a night out with friends.  But something about today felt different. I didn’t remember getting home last night. I didn’t remember getting into bed. Come to think of it, the last thing I remembered about the night was standing at the bar with Jay and Jamie. If memory served me correctly(and I don’t think it did), someone was trying to buy Jamie a shot. She turned to Jay and said, “If I start doing shots, we may end up taking the limo home.” Which meant, I too would be taking the limo home, because at that point, there was no way I was getting behind the wheel, and Jamie, being my “sober” ride, was about to get a lot less sober.

Apparently, the Tavern, yes the Tavern, has limo service. Apparently, for a mere $5 (a little more if you want to tip) an old beat up limousine will drive you home.

So, as I lay in bed, trying to piece together the last 10 hours, the only thing I recalled was a brief discussion about possibly taking the tavern limo home.

After I brushed my disgusting teeth, took a wiz, and smoked a cig, I called Jamie, hoping she could put the pieces together for me. No answer. Straight to voice mail.

As I attempted to nurse my hangover in the shower, I noticed my sore legs were covered with scrapes and bruises. The hot water also stung my back, which was, for some reason,  also scratched up. What the fuck did I get into last night?

The day progressed, and, when not vegging in front of the TV or trying to call Jamie, odd images flashed in my head. Images of me, inside a dark limo. Images of a creepy old man who may or may not have been our limo driver kept popping into my mind. If this creep wasn’t driving me somewhere, I could swear he was dragging me by my ankles through the woods. Was I recalling a dream I had last night, or something much much worse?

In the early hours of the afternoon my father agreed to drive me to the Tavern so I could pick up my Jeep, which I had left parked in the lot over night.

As I trudged to my Jeep I saw someone from the night before who was also picking up their vehicle.

“Looks like you had a rough night,” the person said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s why I didn’t drive home.”

“How did you get home?” the person asked.

“I’m not quite sure,” I laughed. “But I think I took the Tavern limo.”

The person laughed as if I told the funniest joke in the history of mankind.

“What’s so funny,” I wondered.

“I dunno,” the person said, “That’s just funny to me. Tavern Limo”

“Yeah, but it’s better than driving drunk,” I said.

At that point the person gave me a strange look, got into their car and told me to take care.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say, for some reason, they didn’t believe me about taking the limo home.

Before I left, I scanned the parking lot. The limo was not there. For my own piece of mind I decided to ask the bartender if she remembered how I got home.

I walked into the bar. A cute girl bartender, I think from the night before, was watching TV.

“Excuse me,” I said. “This is gonna sound odd, but I was here last night and I was just wondering…..did I take the limo home last night do you know?”

The bartender gave me the same odd look that I received in the parking lot moments earlier.

“You don’t remember me,” I said to the bartender.

“I remember you,” she said, “but I don’t know if you took a limo home.”

“I didn’t see it out there, does the guy just keep it at his house until night time,” I asked.

Once again, a strange look.

“Honestly,” the bartender said, seemingly annoyed that I was ruining her TV time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The limo guy,” I said, a bit frustrated. “I think I took the Tavern limo home last night but I don’t remember and it’s bugging me.”

“You must have had a lot to drink,” the bartender said, “because I’ve never heard of a tavern limo.”

At that point I thought maybe I was the butt of some big joke. The ultimate prank pulled on me for my years of deviousness.  Only thing was, I didn’t feel like playing along.

“You mean to tell me there is not a limousine service provided by THIS bar,” I asked.

“Well, I’ve been here almost a year,” the girl said, “and I’ve never heard of it.”

This was useless. I walked out.

I tried again to get a hold of Jamie. Once again, right to voice mail. I then began calling every person I remember seeing at the bar last night. They all went right to voice mail.

I had enough. I decided to drive straight to Jamie’s and ask her how the fuck we all got home. Thankfully, her and Jay’s cars were parked in the driveway. I rang the bell. No answer. I knocked. No one came. Odd thing was, the dog wasn’t barking either.

My heart was beating fast. I turned around, put my hand on my hips and exhaled. What the fuck is going on……

That was 5 hours ago. As I sit here typing this, I”m no closer to piecing together last night than I was this morning. I still haven’t been able to get a hold of ANYONE who I hung out with last night. I even drove back to the tavern a few hours ago, just to see if there was a limo parked out front. There wasn’t.

And, if my day couldn’t get any more frustrating, someone just pulled into my driveway, and I don’t feel like entertaining visitors right now.

While I’m sure it’s my mind playing tricks on me, If I had to bet, I’d say the car in my driveway right now looks like a limo. Only one way to find out…..I’ll be right back

As I sat in traffic this afternoon I noticed the sign on the pick-up in front of me: “Butler Landscaping”.

I chuckled to myself and was immediately taken back 28 years to the day Mom and I picked up our first pet, a parakeet.

I must have been about four years old, but truth be told, even being so young I actually remember bits and pieces from that day. What I don’t recall vividly I’ve picked up along the way, mostly from Mom, who must have told the story dozens of times at family picnics over the years.

We stopped at the supermarket on the way to the pet store. I held mom’s hand as we walked up and down the isles. Normally, I’m sure I’d be begging her for candy but not on that day. On that day I was content knowing that in a little while I’d have my own pet..

As the story goes, Mom bumped into someone she knew and began talking. I took the opportunity to explore and, before I knew it, Mom was gone and I was lost.

Like any 4-year-old, I began crying. In between sobs, for some reason or another, I took note of the voice coming over the store intercom:

“Will John Butler please report to the produce isle. John Butler to the produce isle for customer assistance.”

A few seconds had passed and a woman noticed me standing in the isle alone, crying.

“What’s the matter,” she asked.

“I can’t find my mommy,” I said, in between sobs.

“Did you come in the store with her,” the friendly lady asked.

I nodded yes.

The woman assured me that everything would be alright and she held out a friendly hand, which I instinctively latched on to.

The lady led me to the service booth.

“This boy lost his mother,” the lady informed the clerk.

“What’s his name,” the clerk asked.

The woman turned to me with a smile.

“What’s your name kiddo,” she asked, warmly.

For reasons that remain unknown to this day I responded with the first thing that popped into my head.

“Butler,” I said, repeating the last name of the guy paged over the intercom minutes earlier.

The lady looked at me strangely.

“That’s an unusual name,” the lady said. “Just Butler?”

I didn’t respond. The lady turned to the clerk and said something. The clerk then reached for the intercom.

“Will the mother of Butler please report to the service desk. We have Butler here at the service desk looking for his mother.”

Within moments my mother was at the desk, hugging me and crying. She didn’t really hear what the clerk said over the intercom, she only knew I was missing and only needed to hear the words “looking for his mother”.

“Are you Butler’s mother,” the lady asked.

“His name is Walter,” my mom said, hugging me.

An hour later I sat in the back seat of mom’s car. In my hand a small brown box with air holes on the top. Inside, my very own pet. A white parakeet with the most perfect name in the world, Butler.

I considered myself lucky at first, having found a parking space at Price Chopper so close to the front doors.

As I opened my Jeep door I noticed I had parked in a giant puddle. Actually it was more like a small pond. No wonder the space was vacant but I had a Jeep so the wet didn’t factor in to where I parked.

Glancing across the pond I estimated it was about three feet to dry land. I could make it.

With one foot on the door step, and the other in about six inches of water I  carefully slammed the door shut. I then pushed off from the door step and at the same time pushed off from the wet ground, attempting to clear the puddle.

I heard the noise first. It sounded like snapping a leather belt after its been folded. Then I saw darkness, followed my immediate white light. Then I felt pain.

The pain was unlike anything I had experienced in my lifetime. It began at my left ankle and shot up my leg, settling about mid thigh.

Without a thought about the wet ground I collapsed to my butt, my two hands behind me under water.

As soon as I sat down the pain seemed to amplify. My head began to throb and I instantly felt nauseous. I turned to my side and vomited in the parking lot.

I then felt a hand on my back. I turned my head and saw an elderly gentleman standing above me.

“Take it easy,” he said. “I saw the whole thing.”

“I think it’s broken,” I said, referring to my ankle, which I had obviously messed up. Messed up bad.

“I’d say so,” the man said. “That didn’t sound pretty.”

He had obviously heard that belt leather snap. Was it a bone?

I glanced around the parking lot. A few other people were pretending not to watch, but it was obvious they were. I was just thankful no one was coming up to me. Not that I was embarrassed. I was in to much pain to be embarrassed.

I limped back to my Jeep, through the puddle, while the kind old man kept his hand on my elbow. Not that it would have helped if I fell over but it’s the thought that counts.

Like an idiot, before I got back in my Jeep I decided to see how bad my ankle was. I tried to put a little pressure on it. The pain was instant. White light. Sharp pain.

I knew, because I drove a standard vehicle, there was no way I could make it home. I called my father and explained what happened.

As I waited in the parking lot I made small talk with the old man who never left my side. We joked that I should sue Price Chopper for not properly maintaining their parking lots but I’m the one who tried to pull a Jesus and walk on water.

I watched my dad pull up shaking his head. The old man wished me luck and I carefully got into dad’s car.

Going home and icing the ankle was not an option for me. This pain was unfamiliar and awful. An icepack was not gonna cut it. We drove to the ER.

An hour later I sat in a hospital room, full of painkillers as a doctor, while holding an X-ray of my ankle, explained to me that I’d fractured (broken) my ankle around an area he called “the medial malleolus”.

The doc fixed me with a splint and, when the swelling goes down in a few days, I will be fitted with a fiberglass cast, which I must wear for 4-6 weeks.

All of this pain and misery for a close parking space at the grocery store.

…………………………………………….

editors note: The above story is “based” on actual events, though some “minor details” have been changed for the sake of drama.

For example: I may not  have broken my ankle, or even sprained it for that matter,  but I did go to Price Chopper today…or did I?

My eyes popped open and focused on the clock: 6:43 a.m.

I heard the sound, tap tap (pause) tap tap. I had no idea what it was. All I knew was that it had awoken me. I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep.

Tap Tap. (Pause) Tap Tap.

My mind wandered for a moment. Whatever it was seemed to be coming from the next room. I looked toward the window. It seemed rainy. Perhaps the wind had blown the door open and the noise I heard was the door knob banging against the wall.

I considered just leaving it be. I was comfy and tired. I did not want to get out of bed.

I turned over and closed my eyes. Instantly visions of raccoons walking into my house filled my head. Then I thought of some drifter, perhaps wanting to get out of the rain, and, seeing the inviting open door, taking refuge in my house.

Okay, that was it. I popped out of bed and left my room.

I walked down the hall into the adjacent room where the tapping was coming from. To my surprise, the door was closed. What the hell was making that noise?

I heard it again. My eyes followed the noise to the only window in the room. There perched outside the window, staring into the house, was a bird. It was black with an orange spot on its chest. I don’t know what kind of bird it was but it was the bird that you probably see the most in this part of the state. Just a bird.

The bird then flew from the branch it was perched on and crashed into the window, making the tap tap sound that woke me up. It bounced off  the glass and once again settled on the branch. After a few seconds it repeated the process, flew into the window, bounced off, and landed back on the branch.

I immediately assumed the bird had accidentally flew into the window, knocked itself silly and now was simply crazy: Banging its head against the window for no reason, not realizing that it was slowly killing itself.

I walked toward the window and the bird flew away. I shook my head and went back to bed.

Two hours later the all too familiar tapping had returned. The bird was back. This time, since I knew what the noise was, I really did try to ignore it.

I lasted about 15 minutes. This damn bird was persistent. Like clockwork, every 30 seconds, Tap Tap (pause) Tap Tap.

I groaned, got out of bed and headed back to the window. I paused as I entered the room. Sure enough, the crazy bird was back, smashing his body into the window every half minute.

Maybe there were more possibilities than this bird simply being bat shit crazy. Perhaps there was something in the room it wanted. I looked around but saw nothing that would be appealing to a bird: An old ping-pong table covered with junk and a flashlight were all I noticed in the room.

Then my crazy mind that had seen too many movies started to wander. Perhaps there was an evil presence in my house and the bird was drawn to it. Perhaps this bird was possessed by the devil or perhaps it was some sort of zombie bird that wanted to feast on my delicious brains.

I moved toward the window and as it had before the bird flew away.

This time instead of going to bed I sat in front of the computer and immediately went to the all knowing google.com.

I typed in the words “bird trying…” and immeditely the google search bar filled in the rest:  ”…to get into window.”

50 million results came up. Thank God. I wasn’t alone.

Well, after searching about 5 Web sites, the explanation for the bird’s behavior became quite clear and was quite simple actually.

The bird had caught its reflection in the window, thought it to be another bird and wanted to either mate with it or attack it for getting too close to its nest.

Apparently this is a very common occurance. I should have known.

The term “Bird Brain” never held such meaning before.

The internet suggested I cover the window or the bird would keep coming back. That seemed like too much work. I followed a simpler suggestion.

I put an old stuffed animal in the window; a stuffed tiger. I figure that will keep the bird away. 

The next morning as I was preparing to take out the garbage I noticed a hole in the window about the size of a softball. The stuffed tiger was on the floor. One black feather lay beside it. The tiger’s plastic eyes were missing, having seemingly been pecked off….

Um…just kidding.

I haven’t heard the tapping since placing the tiger near the window.

But the other scenario is much cooler and would make a better movie don’t ya think?

BOSTON (Associated Press) - A day after studying tape from city traffic cameras and footage obtained from local news agencies, race officials have determined that a 32 -year-old computer worker from Boston did not cheat in any way, and did in fact win Monday’s Boston Marathon, finishing the 26.2 mile course in just over two hours.

Race officials were skeptical after Connecticut native Jason Maroon, a  bald, stocky, flat-footed city man, won the historic race by out sprinting world class Ethiopian distance runner Deriba Merga.

Race director Edmund Suluski said footage clearly shows Maroon take off at the starting line, weave in and out of city streets, stopping only once to sip water, before finally finishing the race in a near record time of  2 hours, 6 minutes – almost two minutes faster than Merga.

“We poured over hours and hours of footage,” Suluski said. “Not once did he stray from the course.”

Suluski said, as far as the race committee is concerned the case is closed.

“Our job is to uphold the integrity of the Boston Marathon,” he said. “We feel we’ve done that. As far as we’re concerned this Maroon guy is the winner. I don’t know how the hell he did it but a win’s a win.”

Maroon, who decided to run the race early Monday morning, attributes his shocking victory to a long dormant passion for winning, coupled with the need to release tension from everyday life.

“My plan was to start off by jogging and then maybe walk a bit here and there,” Maroon said, Tuesday. “But once I got going that runner’s high kicked in and the rest is history.”

Maroon, who is expecting a baby soon along with his wife Tina, said the stresses associated with family life combined with a poor showing in his Fantasy Baseball League, convinced him to run the marathon.

“I needed a way to clear out my head,” he said. “I figured running a marathon would do the trick.”

Merga, 28, who kept up with Maroon before losing steam on the 25th mile, said his loss to the amateur is the most shocking thing he’s ever had to endure in his 15 year racing career.

“I train for this all year,” Merga said, through an interpreter, “and then I lose to this video game playing computer nerd. I’m sick. Sick, sick, sick.”

Maroon has thus far declined interview requests as well as invitations to appear on the Today Show and Late Night With Dave Letterman, and said he will instead focus on his job and prepare for the birth of his first child.

He also sent his race winnings to family living in the country of Lebanon, where it was revealed Maroon has distant relatives there, possibly living in squalor.

“The race was fun but people are making too big a deal out of it,” he said. “Did I make history, Yes. Did I shock the world, Maybe. But at the end of the day I’m still just Jason.”