Cursed With Ambition

Ojo's Latest Unbelievable Story Part IV

I got back on the freeway and headed east.  I visualized my plan as I drove:  exit the freeway at Uvalde, find a payphone, call the police, wait for them to meet me, go with them to Gracie's house and get my phone.  I thought it was a shitty plan.  It was the HISD cop's plan.  First of all, I'd seen how difficult it was for him to reach the right person to talk to when he was calling around.  It would probably cost me eight bucks worth of payphone calls just to get the right precinct or whatever.  As my reward I'd probably have to try to convince some idiot dispatcher to actually send someone to meet me for this chickenshit deal.  Then I'd probably have to wait an hour or more for the cops to show up.  It was already almost midnight. 

"Fuck that," I decided.  I couldn't deal with that kind of aggravation anymore.  Not after all of the shit I'd already been through.  Instead, I was going to drive around until I spotted a police car, approach them, tell them the story and get them to go with me to the house.  I figured it would be much harder for someone to tell me no when I was standing right in front of them.  Especially when if they told me no and I went anyway that there was a high likelihood I'd be killed.  I figured nobody would want that on their conscience.  I couldn't lose.  Now I just had to find a cop.

I exited Uvalde and my head was on a swivel looking for flashing lights or a doughnut shop.  I looked in all the parking lots lining the I-10 service road.  Nothing.  I got to the next major intersection and went under the freeway to go back the way I'd come - toward Uvalde.  The neighborhood where Gracie lived was on that side of I-10 anyway.  I passed several major boulevards.  I looked down each one hoping to spot a cop car.  Nothing.  "Never one when you need it," I thought to myself.  "Fuckers."

I was just about to go back down the other side of I-10 when I looked down a major thoroughfare and saw flashing lights in the distance; about a half mile away.  Jackpot!  I quickly made the turn and sped toward the lights.  When I got close enough I could see that a cop had pulled over an SUV.  No one was outside of their car - I guess the cop was running their tags or whatever.  I pulled into the parking lot where they were sitting, parked my truck and got out.  I started walking toward the cop car and I had to pass the SUV on my way.  I saw two enormous black chicks in the front seat and they were staring at me like I was from another planet.  "What all this?" I heard one of them say as I walked alongside their car.  Right then the cop got on his loudspeaker,"SIR, WALK AWAY FROM THE SCENE.  RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLE."  "Well, shit," I thought, "I should've known better."  As I was turning to go back to my truck another car pulled up behind the cop car and a black guy holding some papers got out and started to approach the cop car.  "What all this?" I thought to myself.  I first thought the guy must've been called by the chicks in the SUV to bring proof of insurance or something.  Or he could be walking up to pop a cap in the cop's ass so his ho's wouldn't get pinched for the crack they had in the glove compartment.  I got back in my truck to wait it out.  Within thirty seconds, two more cop cars roared up with their lights flashing.  One came toward me, the other to the guy with the papers.  I rolled down my window as the cop got out of his car.

"Hi there," I said as friendly as I could.

"What's going on here?"

"Yeah, I should've known better than to walk up on them like that.  But I've got a weird situation and I need some help."

"Okay."

He looked skeptical.  I'm sure he thought I was high.  You know, I'd come across the tracks to score some smack and now I was wandering around living out some drug induced paranoia.  I proceeded to tell him about my truck getting broken into, the phone call, the address and my suspicions about them luring me over there to rob me.  Or worse.  The cop's eyes lit up as I finished my story.

"We can jack 'em!" he said excitedly.

I wasn't sure what he meant - either to catch and arrest them or something to do with police brutality.  Either way, he was really getting excited.  I don't know if his regular duties were bland compared to what I was asking him to do or what.  But it was clear to me that this guy was fired up about storming this house and kicking some ass.

"Where do you live?"

"Well, technically I live in River Oaks, but it's not really River Oaks.  I live at XXXXXX St. and XXXX."  (This is my little dilemma about where I live.  I live where the River Oaks and Montrose neighborhoods come together.  If you look on a map it shows my address in River Oaks.  But River Oaks - the real River Oaks - actually starts a couple of blocks from my house.  If I tell people I live in River Oaks they jump to the conclusion that I'm some rich fat cat.  If I tell them I live in Montrose they think I'm a homosexual.)

"Where do you work?"

"I work at a law firm.  I'm an attorney."

"Oh.  Hmmm..."

So now I was the lawyer from River Oaks who ventured out to Cloverleaf to retrieve my cell phone from some hood rat who said she had it.  I'm sure he thought I was a fucking idiot.  The feeling of being a white collar pussy washed over me stronger than ever.

"Do you think you guys would be able to help me?"

He thought for a second.  "Okay, here's what we're gonna do - you go down to the parking lot at this store called Greener Brothers and wait for us.  When we're finished here I'll round up some other officers and we'll come down there and figure out a plan.  Okay?"

"Okay.  So I'll wait for y'all in the Greener Brothers parking lot."

"Yeah."

"Allright.  Thanks a lot for your help."

I rolled up my window and headed to Greener Brothers.  I pulled in, parked and lit up a cigarette.  Thoughts started swirling through my head.  "Damn.  Now I've got the cops involved in this deal.  They're going to storm this poor bitch's house all because of me.  If she really is a good Samaritan that's going to suck."  "Shit.  It's 12:45.  Way later than when I told her I'd be there.  I hope she's still up.  I hate imposing on people."  "I did get the cops to help me though.  I found them just like I planned and now they're going to help me.  I'm a cop manipulator.  Hell, I'm the 'copulator.'"  Right then a patrol car pulled up next to my truck.  The officer I spoke to earlier got out and came over to my window.

"Hey, we've just gotten another call.  It's a serious wreck on I-10.  We've got to respond to that call, but I just wanted to let you know so you didn't take off.  Just wait here and we'll be back."

"Okay, I'll be here."

He got back in his car and peeled out of the parking lot.  "Great," I thought, "no telling how long I'm going to be waiting here."

Ten minutes passed, then twenty.  I was still waiting.  Doubts began to creep in.  Maybe these cops were laughing at me, at how stupid I was, and now they were messing with me so they hauled ass and had no intention of coming back.  Maybe they intended to help me but they were still at the wreck on I-10.  If there were fatalities no telling how long I'd be waiting.  After thirty minutes had passed I started wondering what I would do if they never showed up - do I go over to Gracie's house anyway?  Do I cut my losses and just say fuck it, write off my phone and forget about the whole thing?  Do I try again in the daylight?  I was already over there and I just wanted to resolve this thing.  Plus, Gracie sounded nice on the phone.  I was probably just being paranoid about the whole thing.  I could just go over there, knock on the door, apologize, get my phone, give her $40 as a reward and get my ass on down the road and back home.  But then I thought, "That's exactly what Gracie is hoping I'm thinking."  Fuck that.  There was no way I was going over there by myself.

Ten minutes later three cop cars pulled in.  The guy I'd talked to earlier got out and came over to my window. 

"Sorry to keep you waiting so long.  I went and picked up my sergeant."

"No problem."  I wondered why he needed superiors for this.

"Okay, so here's the plan:  we're going to follow you over to this house.  We're going to park a way's off.  You're going to wait for us.  When we get there you're going to go to the door.  We'll be right beside you the whole time.  If they try anything we'll be right there.  You've got to get them to come outside or it's no good.  And whatever you do, don't go inside the house."

"Don't worry.  I'm not going inside the house under any circumstances."

"Once they're outside - we'll jack 'em."

I was still uncomfortable with the concept of "jacking them," but I figured the cop was just posturing to look tough.  I doubted the situation would come to "jacking them."  Whatever that meant.  I mulled over the plan.

"Wait a minute.  I don't mean to question what you want to do, but why do we need to put me in danger.  Couldn't you just go up to the door and knock and ask about the phone?"

"No.  That's not going to work.  You've got to go to the door and get them to come out or it's no good."

I knew this was bullshit.  I ran through all of the Fourth Amendment shit I'd learned in Judge Baird's class.  I knew about reasonable suspicion and probable cause and warrantless searches - there was nothing about needing the victim of the crime to do the actual knocking.  But, I didn't want to piss the cops off by being a know-it-all.  So I decided to go along with the plan.

I followed the three cop cars, each with two officers inside, over to Victoria Street.  13900...14130...14306 - we were getting close.  All three cop cars pulled into the parking lot of a small neighborhood convenient store, if you could call it that.  There were no street lights and all of the houses were small and run down.  There were cars on up on blocks in many of the driveways, most of the windows in the houses were blacked out.  There was nobody outside.  The place seemed dead.

I pulled up alongside the cop cars and rolled down my window.  They all got out of the cars.  The same one I'd been talking to came up.

"Okay.  This is it.  It's a couple of houses down on the right."

"I think it's on the left."  I'd been looking at the house numbers as I drove.

"Yeah, yeah, on the left."  "You pull over there slowly and we'll be walking up behind.  When you get there wait for us to catch up."

"Okay."

I rolled up my window, killed the headlights and pulled slowly forward.  14305...14307...14309 - this was it.  I pulled over as best I could.  There were no curbs or anything, just the street, which was narrow to begin with, and deep ditches on either side.  I looked over at the house.  There was a tall chain link fence across the entire front of the yard.  The house itself had a small covered front porch with boxes and crap stacked up all around so that you almost couldn't see the front door.  All of the windows were blacked out with foil or fabric.  In the side yard was an old mobile home.  It was old, but it looked liveable.  I immediately thought that's where the ambush would come from.  There were no lights on in either house.  I looked behind me and saw the shadows of the six cops coming up the street twenty yards behind.  I waited until they got even with the house.  They hung back in the shadows.  I didn't know whether I was supposed to get out now or what.  A dog started howling.  I got out of my truck.  The dog was at the house we were going to.  It was standing on the front porch and it looked like a pit bull.  I walked over to where the cops were standing.  They had already discovered that the chain link fence gate was chained and locked.  A couple of them were looking for a way through the edge of the fence.  I heard one of them mutter something about not wanting to have to kill the dog.  The cops fanned out, looking for a way past the fence.  I was just standing out in the open in the street right in front of the house.  "This wasn't part of the plan," I thought to myself.

Just then one of the cops made a short whistle - he'd found a way into the yard.  The cop who'd found the opening went into the front yard.  "Heh.  He's entered the curtilage," I chuckled to myself.  One of the other cops shot him a hushed warning, "Watch out for the dog!"  He nodded and made his way over to the porch.  The dog hadn't moved, but it also hadn't stopped howling.  There was no way the owner of the house hadn't heard it by now.  But still there were no lights on in the house.  I thought this was suspicious.  By this time two cops were at the front porch.  They were trying to coax the dog into it's doghouse, which was a large pet carrier.  Amazingly, the dog went inside and they locked it in.  The dog got quiet.  Once the dog was locked away, all the cops entered the yard.  Some went to the back of the house.  They motioned for me to come forward.  I went through the fence and into the yard.  When I got even with the front porch I stepped in a huge pile of slippery dog shit.  "Sweet," I said out loud.  "What?" the cop nearest me asked.  "Nothing," I said.

They directed me to the steps leading up to the front door.  Before I got there I could hear one of the cops at the rear of the house knocking on one of the doors.  This was definitely not part of the plan.  I hesitated.  The other cops got uneasy.  Whoever was inside had been alerted to our presence, but they'd not come to the door or turned on any lights.  Something just didn't feel right.  I sensed it and so did the cops.  I backed away from the steps.

Most of the officers were carrying flashlights.  They periodically flipped them on to look at something or another.  One of them was shining his light inside a car that was parked in the driveway.  I was standing close by.

"Hey," he said, "does this look like your stuff?"

I stepped closer to the car so I could see into the front seat where he was pointing his light.  IT WAS MY BAG!!

"That's my bag!  That's my stuff in the car!" I whispered.  This was a setup after all!  Fuck!  "This ain't right," I said to the four cops who were standing nearby.  "She never said anything about having my bag too - only my phone."  "This was a setup."

The cops' demeanor changed immediately.  They got on their radios to the two in the back.  At least one unbuttoned the strap on his gun holster.  Two of them went up on the porch.  I was standing completely out in the open.  I remembered this situation that happened in Austin where these cops went to this house for a drug raid and while they were at the front door, the guy inside started blasting away.  One of the cops had been killed in that incident.  The killer's defense was that the cops hadn't identified themselves and he thought someone was trying to break into his house.  Well, that exact situation was playing out right before my eyes.  I expected chulos to start pouring out of the trailer or for the sound of gunfire to erupt at any moment.  I got very uncomfortable.  At that moment I thought to myself, "If I live, this is going to make a very good blog post."

"I'm going back to my truck," I told the cop standing nearest me.

"Good idea."

Just as I was leaving the yard they started banging on the door and yelling.  "Open up!  This is the police!"

They kept banging and yelling, but no one came to the door.  I was sitting in my truck by this time and all I wanted to do was drive down the street a ways to get out of the line of fire.

Apparently by this point the cops heard someone in the house moving around.  They got even more agitated.  "Open your door right now or we're going to break it down!  This is the police!"

All of the cops were gathered around the front door, ready to burst in.

Right then, the door opened slightly. 

"This is the police!  Show me your hands!  Step outside of the house!"

A short Hispanic woman came outside onto the porch.  I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the cops were grilling her.  She looked very nervous.  One of the other cops went into the house with his flashlight.  The other cops continued to question the woman.  This seemed to go on forever.  The cop that had gone inside the house came back out and reported to the others that it was all clear.  At least that's what it looked like from where I was.  They led her back inside and when she came back out she had my phone in her hand.  I tried to roll down my window so I could hear what they were saying, but I didn't want to make any noise and let her know that I was there until the cops were ready to tell her.  Before too much longer the cops were apparently satisfied with her story.  Eventually one of the cops motioned for me to come over.

I got out of my truck, went through the gate and up to the front porch.  I felt like I was the boss man in some movie scene where I step out of the shadows after my henchmen have worked someone over.

The officer who'd been questioning her the most reported to me, "She says she just found the phone and the bag at the Wal Mart.  I think her story checks out."

"Okay." 

I stepped toward the woman.

"Mrs. Galindo, I'm Ojo Rojo."  I extended my hand.  "I'm really sorry that we scared you like this.  I hope you understand why I couldn't come over here by myself."

She was obviously freaked out.  Not crying, but definitely shaking.  "No.  No.  I see that."

"I had no way of knowing if you were legit.  You know?  You might have been trying to lure me over here or something.  I couldn't take any chances."

"Yeah.  Yeah."

"I'm sorry that we scared you.  But the police needed to do this the way they thought best.  If you really did just find my things and were trying to return them then you did the right thing and I'm really sorry that things happened like this.  I hope you understand."

"Yeah.  Yeah.  I understand."

"It's just that when we saw the bag in the car and we weren't expecting it that we got really suspicious that this was a setup.  You know?"

"Yeah.  No.  I can see that."

"So how did you get my bag?  When we talked on the phone you didn't have it."

"I found it at Wal Mart - like I said."

"So you went back over there and looked around and found it after you talked to me?"

"Yeah.  Yeah.  I went back over there."

I didn't really believe her.  I had intentionally planted the explanation in my question because I didn't want to drag this out any further.  I had my shit back and I really didn't care about anything else right then.

"Well, can I get my phone and my bag back from you now?"

"Oh.  Oh.  Yes."  She handed me the phone like it was a hot potato.  She went over to the car and grabbed the bag off the front seat, brought it over and handed it to me.

I set the bag down on the porch to look through it and see what all was missing.  I pulled out the day planner, folders and some papers.  I pulled out the sets of photos from Christmas and my recent ski trip and when I did the cop asked me, "Is there anything in those photos you wouldn't want anybody to see?"

"No.  Not that I can think of."  I thought that was a weird statement.

"Well, because if they put any of those pictures on the internet we could find out where they were coming from."

"Oh.  Yeah, no, there's nothing in here.  I mean, my girlfriend's real cute and all, but she's not naked in any of the pictures."  The cop didn't think I was funny.

Everything appeared to be in my bag except a stack of bills.  I looked up and told them that everything was there except for the bills.  Nobody made a move.

"So, is that it then?" I asked.

"That's it," the cop said.

I turned to Mrs. Galindo.  I wanted to give her the money for the reward for returning my stuff, but I felt uncomfortable doing it in front of the police.  Plus, I wasn't entirely sure I trusted her after the whole thing with the bag.  So I just reached out and shook her hand again and thanked her and apologized to her one more time.

I put my bag on my shoulder and stopped in the middle of the street and thanked all of the police officers who were there.  I got back in my truck, lit a cigarette and headed home.

Ojo's Latest Unbelievable Story Part III

I had looked at a map before I set out, so I knew where I was going. The wind was blowing into the cab of my truck as I drove. I looked over at the pile of shattered glass on the passenger seat. In a way, I felt helpless and victimized by the fact that my truck had been broken into and I knew this was going to cost me money. I had already lost a bunch of my shit. And I hate losing shit. Especially shit that I like. But since I'd gotten the call from Gracie Galindo I felt like I was on a recovery mission. I felt good about the fact that I was able to do something to actively improve this otherwise shitty situation. I was going to get my phone back and thinking about it made me feel better.

These were the thoughts I had as I drove the miles down I-10 into East Houston.

For those of you who don't know, East Houston is pretty rough. It's the armpit of the city. It's the industrial area where all of the oil refineries and chemical plants are mixed in with these run down neighborhoods. There's a lot of the familiar stuff though: convenient stores, fast food joints, big box retailers, but they're grimier on this side of town. I had the very real sense that I was off my turf. All of a sudden I felt like I'd been living some kind of pampered and sheltered life. I looked down at the way I was dressed - white button down shirt, flat front cotton dress pants, leather shoes and a black linen blazer. I would have been in my element strolling into Downing Street to sip on single malts, but now I felt like some white collar pussy, which, in this situation I guess I was. I'd be haunted by that feeling for the rest of the night.

I saw the Wal Mart off the service road and a Whataburger. I knew I was close. I exited the freeway and took a left. Ten, twelve blocks down I saw Victoria street. I took a left and started looking for numbers on the houses. All of the houses were small; none alike. It should have been dreary, but I found something cheerful about it. Maybe it was the disintegrating paper Christmas decorations hanging from the eaves. More likely it was the gaudy outdoor statues and lights that signify you're in a Mexican neighborhood. I started counting the house numbers - 4606, 4608, 4614... A lot of the house numbers were spray-painted on. I had chosen my route so that I could travel the entire length of the street and see all of the house numbers. My map didn't have block numbers on it so I figured I'd start at one end and work my way all the way down. But I got to the end of the street and the numbers only went up to 7400. Shit. I doubled back and started looking for house numbers again, hoping I'd just made a mistake. No dice. The house numbers were the same. A couple of blocks down I happened to look down a side street and I saw a cop car in a parking lot of what looked like a school. I turned down the street and into the lot and pulled up next to the cop car. I rolled down my window as the cop did the same.

"Hi there. Say, I know this is a little strange, but I could use your help."
"Okay."
I quickly recounted the story and explained why I was there.
"So anyway, this is Victoria Street here, but it only goes from the 4600 block to the 7400 block. The woman who has my phone is at 14309. Do you have any idea where that's at?" I knew most cops had maps in their cars or on a computer linkup to find where they were going. He had a map book of the Houston area that he pulled out. He spent a couple of minutes poring over it.
"Yeah, see, you're in Denver Harbor. Victoria only goes up to 7400 over here. The Victoria Street you're looking for is in Cloverleaf."
I got out of my truck to look closer at the map. Sure enough, I wasn't far enough east.
"You say you're going to this woman's house who says she has your phone?"
"Yeah."
He paused. Before he could say anything I cut in, "Say, I'm a little out of my element over here (this was an understatement) and I don't feel real comfortable going up to this house by myself. I mean, this woman might be waiting to waylay me or something. Would it be possible for you to escort me over there? Just to be on the safe side?" Right then I noticed the markings on his car: Houston ISD Police. I knew immediately that this guy was a chickenshit cop, but I also knew that this didn't matter. He had a uniform and a cop car - he'd do the trick for my purposes. I don't know if he had a gun; he was sitting in his car the whole time and he had a big jacket on. All I needed was a show of force so I didn't really care.
"Well, Cloverleaf is pretty far away. Out of my jurisdiction. I'm here babysitting this school because it's under construction and I can't leave my post."
"Yeah. I didn't realize you were HISD until just now. Do you have radio contact with anybody in that area who might be able to meet me? I really don't feel safe going over there by myself."
"No. No. I don't have a radio. I mean, I'm not in contact with those guys. I think that might be the sheriff's jurisdiction that far over. That's Jacinto City over there. But that Cloverleaf - I've heard stories."
"Cloverleaf?"
"Yeah. See, you're in Denver Harbor right here. It's pretty bad over here too, but I've heard stories about Cloverleaf. If I was you I'd probly just write the phone off and forget about it."
"Yeah, well, I know what you're saying. I mean I'm not willing to risk my life for my phone or anything, but I'd really like to have it back. It's got every number of every person I know in it and I don't have those numbers anywhere else."
The cop realized that I wasn't going to give up that easy. I was passively demanding that he give me some sort of assistance. He muttered something about trying to find a number to the sheriff's office. While he fumbled with papers and stuff in his car I started thinking about just how dangerous this situation could be. I mean, it wasn't that big of a stretch to think that this woman was snowing me and that this was a plot to lure me over there and then rob me. Or worse. Maybe they were pissed about the fact that there wasn't a laptop in my bag and they were going to try to squeeze whatever they could out of the situation. No doubt they looked all through the bag and had seen my business cards that say "Ojo Rojo, Attorney at Law" on them. Everybody knows that all lawyers are rich. And gullible. I'm sure to them I seemed like an ideal target. I could see this situation spiraling down - with me gagged, hands tied behind my back and lying in a pool of my own blood from the bullet hole in the back of my head. I resolved at that moment that there was no fucking way that I was going to this house by myself.

I looked over and the HISD cop was on his phone. He talked to someone, hung up, dialed again. He must've done this four or five times. Finally, he wrote down some phone numbers on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

"Here's the number to the constable's office who has jurisdiction over there. You're going to take I-10 east and exit Uvalde. There'll be a convenient store there where you can use the phone to call them to meet you. If you don't get a hold of anybody I wouldn't go it alone. I've heard stories about Cloverleaf."

I took the paper and looked at it. "Okay. Yeah, I'm not going to get killed over a phone. Thanks a lot for your help." I shook his hand, got back in my truck and pulled out of the parking lot.

I was going to Cloverleaf.

To be continued...

Ojo's Latest Unbelievable Story Part II

I took the phone from the manager. I was shaking.

"Hello?"
"Yes."
"I'm the owner of the phone you're calling from."
"Yes."
"Who are you?"
"Gracie Galindo."
"How did you get this phone?"
"I found it at the Wal Mart at I-10 and Freeport."
"You found it?"
"Yes. I saw a black man and a black woman put it down and then they went away and I got it."
"Where?"
"At the Wal Mart at I-10 and Freeport."
"I-10 and Freeport?"
"Yes."

I held my hand over the receiver and asked the Academy manager if he knew where that was. His eyes widened. "Yeah. That's way over east. Toward Beaumont and that."

I took my hand away from the receiver and spoke back into the phone.

"Do you know that that phone was stolen earlier tonight?"
"Yeah. That's what the man said."
"The man who answered the phone here?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'd like to come and get the phone from you. Are you still at the Wal Mart?"
"No. I'm at my house. I was at the Wal Mart with my son and I seen those people put this phone down and I thought that was weird. My son told me people would think I stole it if I picked it up, but I know that if it was me I would want somebody to pick it up and try to give it back. I work hard for my things and I'd want the same done for me."
"Well I appreciate that."

I got my pen out and the paper I'd been writing on.

"Can you tell me your name again?"
"Gracie Galindo."
"What's your phone number?"
"XXX-XXX-XXXX."
"And what's your address?"
"14309 Victoria Street. I work at the Whataburger right there at I-10 and Uvalde; real close to the Wal Mart."
"Okay. I'd like to come and get my phone from you. I know it's getting late, but I'd really like to get my phone back. Can I come to your house and pick it up?"
"Yeah. Yeah. That's no problem. I'm here. You said that the phone was stolen?"
"Yeah. I was at the Academy on 59 near Shepherd and somebody broke out my window."
"Did they take anything else?"
"Yeah. They took a black bag. It's like a laptop bag, but there wasn't a laptop in there. Just some papers, a day planner, some other stuff."
"A day planner?"
"Yeah. It's like a leather book to write appointments in and things like that."
"Oh. What's the bag look like?"
"It's a black Victorinox bag. It's like canvas and it's got the Victorinox emblem on it."
"Victorinox?"
"Yeah. It's like a brand. Like Nike."
"Oh. And it's got what on it?"
"An emblem."
Silence.
"An emblem -- like a logo. It's red and it has like a cross on it. You know how Nike has the swoosh? Well Victorinox has their own. It's red and it has a cross on it."
"Oh. Well do you want me to go back to the Wal Mart and look around to see if I can find it?"
"Oh no. You've done enough already. I might go to the Wal Mart myself to see if I can find anything else."
"I don't mind. It's close by."
"Well...no. Really. I don't want to put you through that. It's not necessary. I'll just go look myself."
"Okay. Well I might go back and look. There's dumpsters all around there. Maybe they threw your bag in there. I could go look in there. I don't mind."
"No, no, really. That's okay. I don't want to ask you to go looking in dumpsters. I'll just come and get my phone from you and I might go look at the Wal Mart. Maybe you could go with me and show me where you found the phone."
"Okay."
"Okay, so I'm waiting for the police here but I might not wait much longer. I'll come by shortly, say, within the hour. Would that be allright?"
"Sure. Sure. I'll be up. I'm just here with my son."
"Okay. I'll be there shortly. Thank you. Thank you so much."
"No problem. No problem. I wouldn't give you my numbers and tell you where I work and where I live if I took your stuff."
"No. No. Of course not. You sound like your being straight with me."
"Yeah. Like I said, I saw this black man and this black woman and then I just went and picked it up."
"Yeah, no, I believe you. Okay. Thanks again. I'll see you shortly."
"Okay. Bye."
"Bye."

I handed the phone back to the Academy manager. "Some woman found my phone at a Wal Mart. She says a black couple just set it down there and left. I'm going to wait for the police for a little while longer then I'm going to go pick it up." The manager nodded. I had written everything down on my paper.

The manager let me wait inside the store for the cops and he and I talked for a while. I fished for a little more info. He gave me the name of a glass company and told me a story about how the window on his truck had been broken. I asked him about the location of the Wal Mart and the address the woman had given me. He knew roughly where it was. He was shocked at how far away it was - twenty miles or so from the Academy. These people who ripped my off had made tracks in a big hurry and had gotten pretty far away before ditching my stuff. Or so the story was.

I waited for another fifteen minutes or so for the police. They never showed. I was anxious to get my phone back to salvage whatever I could from this ordeal. At that point I was happy with just that. I thanked the manager for his help and set off for I-10 and East Houston. The wind blew cold through the opening where my window used to be. It was just before 11pm.

To be continued...

Ojo's Latest Unbelievable Story Part I

I left my office on Tuesday night at about 8pm.  I wanted to run a couple of errands before the stores closed.  My first stop was Hobby Lobby to drop off my law license to be framed; finally.  That done, I went to the Galleria to try to find a JC Penney because I needed to exchange a Christmas gift.  I discovered that there is no JC Penney in the Galleria.  I was about to go to Whole Earth to exchange another Christmas present when I saw the Academy at 59 and Shepherd.  One of the things on my errand list was to get new running shoes.  A couple of my friends and my girlfriend recently bought new running shoes at Academy and raved about the deals, so I had decided that was where I was going to get mine.  It was about 8:40.  Academy closes at 9 so I had 20 minutes.

I went in and started my typical OCD routine when it comes to purchases like this.  The internal dialogue goes something like this:  "I like the color scheme on this pair.  It matches most of my workout clothes.  But no, I can't buy shoes based on color scheme.  Performance.  Comfort.  Durability.  Those are more important.  But still, I really like the colors on this pair.  Hey, I haven't seen this pair yet..."   One of the salespeople made the mistake of telling me that the store wouldn't close until the last customer left.  This right after I apologized for asking him to pull a ladder around to get a box down off the high shelf five minutes after 9.  Of course, I didn't settle on a pair of shoes.  I did decide to stop off in the workout clothes section to see if I could find a jacket I could wear running.  I quickly parsed through what they had when I saw a Nike jacket, exactly like what I was looking for, with a price tag on it for $2.88.  I thought to myself that it simply couldn't be right, but I decided to take it up to the register anyway.  All they could do is tell me no.  Mind you, it's 9:15, fifteen minutes after closing time, I'm the last or second to last customer in the store and I'm opening up this can of worms.  Sure enough, the cashier saw the price, made a face and called for a manager.  This led to a lot of hemming and hawing, searching for the same product on the sales floor etc.  At that point I just wanted to tell them to forget about it.  Finally, the manager found the correct price and offered me 20% off for the misunderstanding.  I said, "Thanks but no thanks" and left the store.  As I walked to my truck I actually felt bad about keeping the Academy employees late and trying to skate by on the jacket when I knew the price had to be wrong.  I mentally accosted myself.  Then I got to my truck and saw that my passenger side window had been smashed out.

At first I just stood there dumbly looking at all of the glass scattered everywhere inside the cab of my truck.  I wasn't sure what had happened.  I felt like Charlie Sheen in that scene in Platoon where he wakes up on the ambush and sees the silhouette of a VC but covers his face to regroup and look again, finally realizing the horror that he actually is seeing what he thinks he's seeing.  ("Take the safety off!  Take the safety off!"  "I guaran-goddamn-tee you a trip out of the bush -- in a body bag!")  I took a fast mental inventory of everything that had been in my truck - a couple of boxes with gifts to return, a gift bag with a gift to return, CD's, flashlights, sunglasses.  I looked around and nothing appeared to be missing.  Then it hit me - MY LAPTOP BAG!!  They saw the fucking laptop bag on the front seat!!  I looked all through the center console and the glove compartment.  Nothing else was missing.  It was just a smash-n-grab.  I quickly thought, "Okay.  What was in the bag?"  Day planner, pens and shit, draft of uncle's will, umbrella...my phone!!  Oh fuck!  My goddamn phone!  Shit!  There was no laptop in the bag, thank goodness, but I was pissed about the phone, the day planner and the bag itself.  I really liked that bag.  It was a black Victorinox laptop bag that I'd gotten a really good deal on.  I had also just spent like fifty bucks on inserts for my day planner.  The phone had every number of everyone I knew in it - numbers I had in no other location.

While I calculated the damage in my head, I walked back up to the store to try and use their phone.  My first move was going to be to call the police.  I knew the futility of that action as far as getting my stuff back, but I was already thinking in terms of creating a record in case I would be able to make an insurance claim or if I sued Academy for maintaining unsafe premises.  (Okay, fuck off - I'm a lawyer, okay?  This is the way I think now.)  I got up to the doors to the store, which were locked, and tried to get the attention of the workers inside.  Even though there were five of them standing within twenty feet of the door, they all ignored me masterfully.  I started banging lightly on the door to get their attention.  The five played that game popular in American businesses catering to consumers where they all try to keep ignoring me for as long as they can before one of them finally caves and acknowledges me - that person is the game's loser.  So Tameka finally comes over to the interior door and mouths that the store is closed.  "Yeah, no shit," I think to myself.  I try to tell her in a calm, normal voice that I know the store is closed but my car just got broken into and I need to use the phone.  She pretends not to be able to hear me.  So I raise my voice a little and repeat myself.  She pauses for a second, trying to think of a way to get out of helping me, then says to hold on a minute so she can get the manager.  A couple of minutes later the manager comes up to the front and unlocks the doors.  I explain to him what happened and he comes out to my truck to inspect.  He takes out a little pad of paper and starts writing down my license plate number and asking me some questions.  Then he asks me if I want him to call the police.  I tell him yes.  As he's making the call, I poke around my truck - looking for clues.  A couple minutes later the manager says that the police are on their way.  He offers to let me wait inside the store since it's cold outside.  I tell him thanks, but I want to wait outside and chain smoke.  The manager goes back inside the store and I start thinking about what has happened.  "I'm sure they were after a laptop.  That's an obvious target of thieves.  It's compact and valuable and they're everywhere.  My bag is a laptop bag.  They thought one was in there."  I wondered how long it would take them to figure out that there was no laptop in the bag.  I thought maybe they'd known immediately; once they felt the weight of the bag.  Maybe they threw the bag out just as quickly as they'd taken it.  Maybe they stopped nearby to examine their take and tossed it there.  With these thoughts swirling around in my head, I began to criss cross the Academy parking lot, looking under every bush and in every unlit corner.  I was just about to go around to the back of the store when I started thinking to myself that it wasn't very smart to be walking around alone like this.  What if the thieves were still there?  What if I stumbled upon some junkie vagrant or a group of teenagers on speed looking to fuck somebody up?  Those are the kinds of thoughts you have as a recent crime victim, which might actually be the worst part.  I decided to stop my search.  I'd wait for the police and ask them to sweep the property with me.

I headed back to my truck to look around once more for any kind of clues.  There was nothing except shattered glass.  About thirty minutes had passed since the cops had been called.  The wheels started turning in my head and I thought about what I should do while I waited.  I knew the prospect of ever seeing my stuff again was one in a billion, but I wanted to take any positive steps I could at that point.  I decided to go back inside the store and get some information from the store manager.  I knocked on the glass doors again, got ignored again and eventually the manager came and let me in.  I asked him if I could use the phone so that I could call my girlfriend.  I told her what had happened and that I was without my phone so I didn't know when I'd be able to call her again.  She was sympathetice and I told her I'd call her as soon as I could.  We hung up and I called my cell phone next, hoping that the thief would answer.  No one did so I just left a message saying that if anyone found my phone that there was a reward for its return.  Next I told the manager that I wanted to get some information from him and asked for something to write on.  I got the phone number for the store, address, his name, loss prevention manager's name and number etc.  Then I asked him if there were any cameras pointed at the parking lot.  He said there was one, but it was pointed in a direction away from where my truck was.  I was parked in the center row about ten spaces out from the front of the store, so I was puzzled as to where exactly the camera was pointing.  He pointed to an area at the very front of the lot, off to one side.  The only cars in the lot at that time were parked in that area and there were about twenty of them - all of the employees' cars.  Not only were they hogging every single one of the front spaces, they were all clustered in the field of view of the security camera!!  I pointed this out to the manager, but made no comment about it.  I don't think he realized what I was getting at.  I made a mental note to bring this up to the loss prevention manager.  I thought to ask for the employee schedule for that night, since there were a bunch of employees still at the store when I was leaving and virtually no other customers.  Thought being that it was an Academy employee who had ripped me off.  I didn't ask for the schedule because I didn't think he'd give it to me.  Besides, if it came down to it, I could force them to give it to me later.  Plus, I didn't want to tip him off that I was fishing for information and have him clam up.  I asked the manager how often car break-ins happenened at the store.  He said, "Oh, it happens all the time.  More often during the lunch hour than at night.  But they mostly go after laptops."  If I could ever get past the hearsay exception (statement against interest?) that statement would go a long way in my premises liability case.

Over an hour had passed since the police had been called and the manager said that everyone would be leaving the store around 11.  It was already after 10:30.  I asked to use the phone again and called the police to get an ETA.  The dispatcher had no record of the previous call, so no one was on the way.  I was back to square one with the police.  I logged the call again and was told there was no way to know how long it would be before anyone showed up.  I was thrilled.  I gave the phone back to the manager and went back outside to smoke and wait for the cops.

Twenty minutes or so passed.  I stood outside in the cold, smoking and thinking about my next moves.  "I know the cops aren't going to want to fuck with this so I'm going to have to politely insist that they be thorough."  "I wonder if my cell phone signal can be tracked like those dudes who were trapped on that mountain in Oregon?"  "Getting the police to jump through those hoops for this penny-ante shit isn't going to be easy."  "I wonder who the fuckers were who stole my shit and broke my window?"  "If I ever caught them I'd tie them up, find some abandoned building, feed them shit loads of acid, wear a fucked up evil costume, play death metal and burn them with cigarettes.  For starters.  Then I'd..."  Right then the manager appeared at the front door holding his phone.  "Sir?  Sir?"  "Yeah?" I said.  "What is your phone number?"  "XXX-XXX-XXXX"  He looked at the caller ID screen, looked up at me and said, "There's someone on the line who's calling from your number."

To be continued...

Ojo Rojo, Zen Master

I was in Austin last weekend for the twofold purpose of visiting the GF and extending the job hunt war to two fronts.  I went for a long run on Sunday on the trails around Town Lake.  I was finishing up my run and cresting the final short hill before I got to my truck when I heard my truck's alarm go off.  I was already nervous about leaving my truck there because I had left my wallet, keys (other than the truck key) and my iPod in the center console.  Normally I would have been running with the iPod, but the battery had died so I stowed it.  I strained to see my truck from 75 yards away.  I couldn't see anyone around it but I started running faster anyway.  When I got a little closer I could see a car pulling out of a parking space behind my truck.  I bolted for the car, which was turning in the middle of the street and heading for the major thoroughfare nearby.  I sprinted the final 40 yards and scanned my truck for broken windows or damage.  Right about that time a woman two cars behind mine poked her head out of her window and hollered, "Hey!  That guy just hit your car!"  The guy who'd hit me wasn't actually running off.  He was turning around to get another parking spot on the other side of the street.  His window was down so I looked straight at him and asked loudly, "Did you just hit my truck?"  "Yeah, I hit it," he said, "But I didn't do any damage."  He turned off his car and got out.  I'll be the judge of that I thought as I went around to the rear of my truck.  I looked at the tailgate and the bumper.  I know every dent and scratch on my truck.  A few months ago I backed into a steel guardrail at the dry cleaners', so the bumper and part of the fender were already dinged.  But I could plainly see a new dent, thin and not very deep, but there.  It ran about six inches and longways.  "There's a new dent here on my bumper," I told the guy as he stood by his car.  He appeared to be about 5'6 and early 50's.  He was dressed in jogging clothes.  He wasn't belligerent or anything, but he clearly didn't think he had damaged my car.  He kept saying that he'd only hit the trailer hitch, which extends out from the bumper several inches.  And I kept responding that there was a new dent in my bumper.  A dent that appeared at roughly the same time as the alarm on my truck sounded, a woman cried out that he'd hit me and right after he had admitting to hitting me.  I asked him as sarcastically as I could if he thought this was a coincidence.  We then went over to his car where he claimed he would be able to prove that he didn't cause the new dent.  His car was some mid-90's model Ford Tempo or something that had at least half a dozen dents and scuffs across the front bumper.  He pointed out, "This dent was already here and so was this one."  I looked at him and then pointed to his bumper, "Well what about this?  Was this already here?  Or this one?"  "Well, um..." was all he could muster before I cut him off again.  "Look man, you are asking me to take your word the same as I'm asking you to take my word that I've got a new dent on my bumper.  Given the circumstances I'm just not willing to do that."  He knew I had the upper hand but I wasn't ready to let it go just yet because the guy was still trying to dismiss this situation and I wanted him to acknowledge that he had just fucked me over in a small way.  We went back and forth a couple more times before I told him, "Look, I don't know what we can do about this.  I am convinced that you just damaged my vehicle and you say you didn't."  "Well," he says, "I could give you my information and everything..."  I was now satisfied.  He'd made a concession.  So I told him, "Well, the damage is pretty slight and the bumper was damaged already and I'm not going to call the cops or make an insurance claim or anything over something this small so I'm just going to drop it."  He said okay and we both stood there dumbly looking at each other not sure what to do next.  So I just got in my truck and drove away and he started jogging toward the head of the trail.

I thought a lot about the whole episode on the drive home.  I felt bad because I'd been pretty harsh with the guy and he obviously had meant no harm and seemed like an otherwise nice guy.  I basically backed him down and forced him to admit that I had him over a barrel before I would concede.  The more I thought about it the more I realized that the reason I reacted that way was because I feel victimized on a day to day basis.  If it's not Wells Fargo trying to fuck me out of my money by charging $250 in overdraft fees for being $7.89 overdrawn after they don't post my paycheck for four days but do post drafts immediately, then it's Sprint disguising their rate plans so that if you go for what appears to be the cheapest option you really end up paying twice as much.  If it's not them it's a tow truck company or the government.  Two potential employers are trying to get me to accept jobs at well below the market rate.  It costs me fifty fucking dollars to fill up my goddamned truck while Exxon publishes $8 billion dollar profits for the quarter.  I had subconsciously arrived at the fact that the whole fucking world is full of predators and parasites and in order to survive I've got to become one too.

This got me to thinking that everyone in the world isn't a predator or a parasite so there must be two kinds of people in the world:  givers and takers.  All sexual inferences aside, what this means is that some people give more to the world than they take and others take more than they give.  Ideally there would be more givers than takers.

What I should've done in the car-bump situation is chuckle and joke with an exaggerated and playful, "Ooooopps!"  He might've said, "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."  To which I should've replied, "Don't worry about it man, my bumper was already messed up.  Have a good run."

Give more than you take.  Don't allow your first reaction to be anger.  You are only a victim if you think you are.  Be nice.  Be friendly.  Be kind.  Laugh about things.

And if none of this shit works, I hear opium is pretty cool.

Jeffie's 21st Birthday

About four years ago my cousin Jeff turned 21.  I'm nine years older than he is and have always been sort of a mentor to him because his parents were divorced and he didn't see his dad much.  Plus too, he only had older sisters.  We've always been pretty close.  He was like another little brother.  In anthropological terms, we are bilateral cross cousins, which means that our fathers are brothers.  The theory is that you will be closer to your father's brother's kids and your mother's sister's kids.  So that might explain why we were so close.  Jeff's mom sort of doted on him since he was the only boy and the youngest child in their family.  She still calls him Jeffie, as do some of our cousins.  I did what I could to help the kid feel manly - buying him beer, talking to him about sex and girls, inviting him to UT football games and watch parties when he was in high school.

Anyway, since Jeff was turning 21 we were going to take him to a strip club for the first time.  We rounded up seven or eight guys, including my brothers, one of our other cousins and some of his buddies who had already turned 21 (Jeff was one of the youngest kids in his class).  We had a pretty wild night planned.  This was going to be Jeffie's coming out party.  We even rented a limo for the night.

We had a hard time deciding where to go, but we eventually settled on this new place called Mermaids that we had heard rumors about.  We showed up there around 10 after pre-drinking at our house and while driving around in the limo.  First, a word about this place Mermaids.  The focal point was this HUGE aquarium that actually had strippers dressed as mermaids swimming around in it.  The costumes were so realistic - they really did look like mermaids.  By far the best strip club I've ever been to.  I'd have to say that if I were to ever own a strip club, I'd want it to be just like that.

Anyway, we got a table and ordered drinks.  We had been there maybe fifteen minutes when I found the hottest stripper there and went up to her and asked her if she would give my cousin Jeff a lap dance.  I told her it was his 21st birthday.  She came over to our table and segregated Jeff from the rest of us so she could have room to do her thing.  By this time some of the other guys in our party had also ordered lap dances so all of the guys at the table were distracted by that and weren't really paying attention to Jeff and his girl.  I have to admit, I didn't really watch Jeff's lap dance that much either.  Plus too, it was kind of dark in there and not easy to see.  After the song was over I paid Jeff's stripper, thanked her and she walked off.  I leaned over and tousled Jeff's hair and asked him what he thought about the lap dance.  He sort of quipped that it was good and then said he needed to go to the bathroom.  I thought that was kind of weird but I dismissed it.  When he got back his shirt was untucked.  He came over to me and said, "I need to go home."  "Home?" I asked, "We just got here."  "I know," he said, "but I really need to."  I asked him, "Why?  What happened?  What's wrong?"  So then he tells me, "When the stripper was dancing for me, I, uh, came."  "You mean you came in your pants?!" I couldn't believe this.  I mean, I'd heard stories about it happening but I never believed it.  Poor Jeffie was totally embarrassed.  I asked him, "Why don't you just go to the bathroom and clean yourself up?"  "I tried," he said, "it didn't work.  It was a lot."  "Damn man, I can't believe you actually creamed in your pants," I told him.  He pleaded with me, "Please don't tell the other guys."  "All right, all right," I told him.  I stood up and addressed our friends, "Hey, guys - Jeffie just got a nut during a lap dance, so I'm taking him home to clean himself up."  Our friends were shocked speechless at first but slowly the snickers turned into writhe-on-the-ground laughter.  Jeffie was totally humiliated but I kept telling him not to worry about it.  I called a cab and Jeff and I went back to our house so he could change.  We met the rest of the guys at a different bar later. 

The guys still give him a hard time about it to this day.

*Unlike all of my other stories, this one is absolute fiction.  I don't have a cousin named Jeff and the strip club called Mermaids does not exist.  Yet.

Fuck You Jabba the Hutt

When I was a kid we lived in the country on a dead end road. My dad bought this property, built a road on it and tried to sell off in pieces as a subdivision. He hoped to make enough of a profit on the land that he could pay for our house. The street was named after my grandfather, who fronted the money for the land purchase. The idea was a good one except that some of the lots ended up being on a flood plain and the real estate market wasn't very good, so it didn't exactly work out. But anyway, we lived on a street that had our last name, which was pretty cool. Cool like if your last name was Johnson and you lived on Johnson Street.

There were about seven other houses on our street, mostly other families who almost all had kids who were the same ages as me and my brothers. We all played together. Next door to our house lived the Haswell family. Cricket Haswell (no shit, her name was "Cricket") weighed about 300 lbs. and was the butt of many jokes among the families on our street. My family actually got along fine with Cricket and the rest of the Haswells, although we didn't really have a lot of contact with them. I suppose they were dysfunctional. The father was an alcoholic, the daughter, who was my age, was pretty normal and the son, who was my brother's age, was a typically annoying kid but otherwise okay. But I think they had problems. (The daughter ended up being a raging slut and got knocked up by an African American boy named Curtis and the son ended up being a criminal. He actually burglarized our house as a teenager. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he's in prison right now.) Mrs. Haswell used to have my brothers and I over and would give us cookies and kool-aid and we would play with her kids. Others in the neighborhood did not have such a great relationship with them. My brothers and I went to Catholic school but all of the other kids in the neighborhood went to school with the Haswell children and there were fights and disagreements between them on the bus to school and at school that my brothers and I weren't a part of. The other kids on our street teased the Haswells ruthlessly about this or that, but mostly about their mother being so fat. That probably explains why we had such a better relationship with them - we weren't around to participate in any of that. Keith and Jeff from down the street were always antagonizing the Haswell kids and making fun of Cricket for being obese. There was open hostility between the Haswells and another family on the street too. (This other family actually taught its parakeet to say, "Fat Cricket!! Fat Cricket!!") I had no sense of it then, but the Haswells were pitiful and it makes me sad today to think of how mean everyone was to them and how unhappy they were.

Well, one day Keith and Jeff, who hated the Haswells and especially Cricket, were over playing at our house. They came up with the brilliant idea of writing a dirty letter to Mrs. Haswell. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I never thought we'd get caught and it seemed like fun, so I joined in on the act. We decided to get a piece of paper and write it out like a greeting card. This is what it said:

I wrote all of the text and actually came up with the "Jabba the Hutt" thing. Keith drew the hand shooting the bird. We ran over the note with our bikes to make it look like we just found this anonymous letter in the road. Our story was going to be that we innocently found this terrible note in the road and that we had no idea who could have done such a reprehensible thing. We gave the note to my little brother to deliver to Cricket. Cricket was out on her riding lawnmower, which was sagging under her weight. My brother started to run across the yard carrying the note while all of the rest of us were hiding around a corner of my house watching. Right before my brother reached the Haswell's I started having second thoughts. I realized how stupid this was and that I would certainly be caught and that I was going to be in deep shit. I panicked. I immediately started screaming at my brother to come back. Now I don't know if he heard me and ignored me because he knew I was going to get into trouble and this pleased him, or, if the sound of Cricket's lawnmower drowned out my voice, but I was screaming at the top of my lungs for him to come back and not to give the card to her. The daughter saw my brother coming and met him at the edge of their yard. He gave the note to her first. She opened it and read it and her face contorted with shock and horror. She ran to her mother on the lawnmower and handed her the note. Cricket read it and a deep, angry frown appeared on her face as she turned off the mower and lumbered off of it. She started stomping straight for our house!! "Oh shit!" I thought. I freaked out. All of the other kids scattered, leaving me alone to face this humongous woman's fury. I thought she was going to squash me. I ran inside where my mom was and told her, "Mom!! Mrs. Haswell is coming over and she's going to tell you that I did something that I didn't do!" My mom very calmly asked, "What was it?" "Somebody wrote her a dirty letter! I don't know who it was," I stammered, barely able to get all of the words out from the plan we'd developed earlier. "Well, if it was you I'll know it because I would recognize your handwriting."

Oh fuck!! Handwriting!!! I hadn't even thought about that!

I knew I was doomed and Mrs. Haswell was almost at our house. I had to think quickly so I threw myself on my mother's mercy and I confessed. "Mom! I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! Please!" I cried. My mom went outside to meet Mrs. Haswell. I stayed inside, still worried that Cricket was going to sit on me. I didn't think my mom would be able to protect me because she was so much smaller than Mrs. Haswell.

I couldn't hear or don't remember exactly what was said but I do know that Cricket was very pissed off. My mom remained calm and apologized to her. As soon as Cricket showed my mom the note she recognized my handiwork. I was totally busted. I do remember hearing my mother assure Mrs. Haswell, "Christopher will be punished for this." When she came back inside she simply told me to go to my room and wait until my dad got home, which, of course, was about the worst thing she could have done.

I sat in my room and looked out my window anxiously watching for my dad's car to pull onto our street. When I finally saw his car I started jumping around my room like a caged animal. There was nowhere to go; nowhere to hide. When my father walked in the house I pressed my ear under the door to my room to try and hear what my mom told my dad about the note in the hopes that I might get some clue about what I could say or some excuse I could give. I saw my dad's shadow approaching from under my door.

Now, my parents subscribed to the "Spare the rod, spoil the child" philosophy of child rearing. I fully expected to get the beating of my life. So I was incredibly shocked when my dad opened the door to my room (holding the "Fuck You Jabba the Hutt" card by the way), sat down on my bed and said in a very calm voice, "Son, there are three things wrong with this letter."

All he did was talk to me. I was so shocked that I really wasn't listening to what he said. Something about what the word fuck meant and how I should never use it and about how insulting and hurtful it was to Mrs. Haswell. I don't even remember what the third thing was - maybe something about shooting the bird. After all of that, the main lesson I learned was that your handwriting can give you away.

Withdrawal

So just got back from the grocery store. Needed a few staples, breakfast food. At the Kroger I go to there's a little stand set up by the deli where this Japanese couple makes sushi to go. I've been in the habit of picking some up for dinner fairly often. It's a fairly healthy option, not too expensive and I've developed a taste for it. Plus too, it makes me feel sophisticated when I eat it. Anyway, tonight when I got there the sushi stand was unmanned. They keep the day's prepared trays in the cooler in front of the stand so I picked out what I wanted. Normally there are a couple of cannisters next to the cooler with chopsticks in them but tonight the cannisters were empty. This was later than I usually go so I figured the people who make the sushi just packed up the chopsticks and put them in a cabinet behind the cooler for the night. I looked around for a minute or so to make sure I just wasn't missing the chopsticks before I noticed a woman intently stocking the bread shelves nearby. She had a Kroger uniform on. I stepped toward her and said, "Excuse me. Do you know if y'all have any more chopsticks?" She replied, "Oh, the sushi stand closes at 9." "Oh," I said, "I didn't know that. They normally keep chopsticks out here. Do you know if they have any more?" She says, "The people who work the sushi stand are gone for the night. That's like a totally separate thing." Hmmm, I thought. If it's so separate then why the fuck are there Kroger price tags on the shit? I sized this woman up. She was birdlike - tall and awkward. She had a beak for a nose and an overbite. I decided to let it go while I began searching again all around the sushi stand for chopsticks. I even looked on the ground and in nooks and crannies where some might have fallen. There were none. I really wanted the sushi. I had my mind set on it. And you can't eat that shit with a fork. You just can't. I went back to the bird woman. "Excuse me. I know it's like not your job to mess with the sushi, but there's nobody around and I was wondering if you could look in the cabinets to see if maybe they keep some extras back there." She stands straight up and looks at me. "They keep all the chopsticks they have out in the open. I guess they're out of them. The people who do the sushi are gone. It's like a totally separate thing." At this point I've had it. "Listen you storky bitch. I don't give a damn that the people who do the sushi are gone or that the sushi stand closes at nine or that you just want to stock the fucking bread. I want some sushi and I need some fucking chopsticks. You can't eat sushi with a fork. So you either look in these fucking cabinets where I'm sure there are extra chopsticks or you call a manager so I can explain to him how you're either too lazy or too stupid to help a customer!" She gets in this defiant stance and says, "Well I'm not going to do anything with you talking to me like that." "Fine!" I say. I walked around the sushi cooler and opened the first cabinet door on the end. The cabinet was literally FULL of chopsticks. I pulled one set out, closed the cabinet door and whirled around to show the bird lady. She was looking at the ground and I could tell she was about to cry. I instantly felt a powerful wave of guilt. I dropped the asshole tone and said to her, "Look, I'm sorry. I haven't had a cigarette in a couple of days so I'm sure that nicotine withdrawal has made me irritable. That's not an excuse to treat people like that.... But you know, I'm also frustrated by the 'take as much as you can and give as little as you can' attitude of every employee of every business I go to. I didn't mean to take it out on you. It's not your fault. I mean, everybody's just got to do a little bit more than what they think is being asked of them. You, me, everybody. You know?" She didn't answer. She just turned around and started stocking the rest of the bread.

Toilet Boat

When we were in college (or if not technically IN college then at least college age and living a college lifestyle) MathJames got hungry one night. He was either broke or really didn't feel like going out to get something to eat. Instead he scavenged the apartment looking for something edible. He rummaged around in the freezer and found an off-brand Hot Pocket type of thing in a box that was covered with ice. The thing probably had been in there for over a year and before that had probably been in another freezer for a long time before that. I imagine that it got thawed out during a move from one crappy apartment to the next, maybe more than once. But it was still there.

So MathJames took it out of the freezer and knocked off some of the ice to see what it was and expose the heating instructions. He took it out of the box and popped it in the microwave. After a couple of minutes he took the steaming "pastry" out and let it cool. Pleased with himself for being so resourceful, he ambled into the living room cradling his dinner in a paper towel. He sat down, took a look at the Hot Pocket thing and took a bite. He chewed at normal speed at first, then slowed. He frowned and forced a painful looking swallow. After swallowing he sat there scowling at the Hot Pocket thing. He almost had a puzzled look on his face and was deep in thought, no doubt trying to decide what to do next.

I had been watching so I asked him, "Is it not any good?" To which he replied, "It tastes like a.......like a.......toilet boat."

The Spirit of Fortune

Between May and October of 1997 I lived in Nevada and worked in a gold mine. This is true. Most all of my close friends and family have heard me tell this story at on time or another. Some of them have probably heard it more than they would care to. It's a grand story. A real epic. Well, maybe not an epic, but a damned good story nonetheless. Many times I've considered writing the story in novel form. Maybe even making an attempt at getting it published. I've even got a snappy title for the book: The Spirit of Fortune. But of course, my life is consumed with other pursuits.

Even though I've never even begun writing I often fantasize about what it would be like to be the author of a successful novel. I've even imagined being a guest on NPR's Fresh Air with Terry Gross. The interview would go something like this:

Terry Gross: "My guest today is the author of The Spirit of Fortune, the winner of the Ivan Sandrof Award for Contribution to American Arts and Letters. The Spirit of Fortune spent an astonishing 32 weeks atop the New York Times Bestseller List. The book is a work of nonfiction, which chronicles the misadventures of the author and a crew of men who set out to mine for gold in the Sierra Madre in western Nevada. It is a coming of age story and takes place in the late 90's when the author was only twenty three years old. Paramount Studios acquired the rights to the book and the film of the same title is expected to debut in May of this year. Ojo Rojo, welcome."

Ojo Rojo: "It's a pleasure to be here."

TG: "Now, set the stage for us. The book starts out with you working in a hardware store and you meet someone."

OR: "Yes. I worked in a hardware store/lumber yard type of place during college. Well, actually, at the time this took place I was taking a semester off from school. But anyway, I worked at this place. My prospects were pretty grim. I had no idea what I was doing in college. I had no direction. I drank a lot and started smoking. I also played darts quite often. I got to be pretty good. One day while I was at work, this very interesting old gentleman came into the store. It was apparent that there was something different, something unique about this fellow. His name was Ted Ostas. I sort of liked to approach interesting people who came into the store and offer to help them. It was interesting to see different people's quirks. Sometimes they would tell me funny stories or give me little bits of wisdom. Ted was no exception. I walked up to him and asked him if I could help him. He stood there for a moment and looked me up and down before saying anything at all. The first words out of his mouth were, 'Did you know that there are piles of cannon balls at the Civil War Memorial in Jefferson, Texas?"

TG: "You knew you were on to something right away."

OR: "I certainly did. I worked with Ted when he would come in to the store for a couple of weeks trying to find bits of hardware or different machinery. Eventually he invited me to his home. Said he wanted to talk to me about a job prospect. I had nothing to lose so I went. Turns out, the guy' had a mining claim somewhere in Nevada, he had all of the papers. He claimed that there was a lot of gold on his claim and he had papers that backed up what he was saying. He told me all kinds of tall tales and adventure stories about all of his trips out west to look for mines and minerals. He was a geologist and really seemed to know what he was talking about. I must have been at his house for over four hours. At the end of our visit he told me about his plans to go to Nevada and work his mine during the summer season. He asked me if I'd like to come along."

TG: "Obviously you did go along and had some wild adventures along the way. What does your book say about the experience of youth and the passing of that time?"

OR: "It says that it's okay to take chances when you're young. It also says that sometimes those chances pay off and sometimes they don't. I didn't get rich, but in my case I came out of the experience unscathed - nothing really bad happened. That's not always the case. There were enough near-misses in the book that people should understand the kinds of dangers you can put yourself into. But no, it's important to take chances and get outside of your comfort area when you are young. It gets harder to do those kinds of things when you get older. You've got to test yourself and learn about yourself as part of the maturation process."

TG: "You are married now to Elena Marakova, the former Victoria Secret model and you have two children. Your son recently won the gold medal in the decathlon at the Cairo Olympics and your daughter is a scholar of virginal studies at the Notre Dame de Paix et de Tranquillité convent in southern France."

OR: "That's right."

TG: "It seems things are going very well for you."

OR: "Well, this is MY fantasy after all."