Episode VI - On Belay for Pizza!

I wasn’t always the erudite English speaker that I am today. My vernacular consisted of more type of odd jargon catchphrases and grammatical foibles than a herd of saltating sand grains. I had the bad patois of a Southern California teenager, a fact that was blown into my face by an overlarge customs officer as I entered the United Kingdom. In a plain, polite, obvious and typical cockney accent he made it clear to his ears, and his ears alone, that my dialect was atrocious and that I should accompany my dialogue with hand written cue cards so that others would hopefully glean that I was indeed speaking English during my stay in the United Kingdom.

At this juncture, one may wonder how I escaped my home country after such initial vile transgressions and many other sundry details about my private incarceration. It is easy to say that these details are of such a mind-numbing nature that they were repressed and omitted from this narrative. I did receive an early parole for good behavior. I was released to travel abroad to Oxford, in the hopes that further education might reform my foolish nature.

Oxford is a glorious town, steeped in every imaginable facet of human life. Americans view Oxford as a singular entity like a reputable Ivy League school. In reality, Oxford is an amalgamation of a myriad of colleges each formed in the crucible of time. Once through customs, I took up residence on the rear of the third floor at the back of my college; unnamed here, but eminently famous for one individual’s speed and the college’s combined aptitude at darts. My room was accessible through a steep, narrow staircase; it had iron bound windows that opened to a perilous drop to the street below, and it smelt strongly of musty attic. It was also quite large, spacious, and four stories from the bathrooms which were in the basement, below the ground level where just outside the doors, manicured quadrangles glistened with perfect, even grass.

The first objects I found in my room were billiard balls in the desk and posters demanding a tuition reduction. I later learned that my room had been the bastion of student demonstrators the last term, protesting the injustice of higher tuition, just before the police had dragged their billiard ball throwing non-passive protests and ribald chants off to someplace that was most likely not the Tower of London. Lumpy bed and all, my room and I were a perfect fit.

And despite whatever flaws my dialect possessed, I soon had a ready circle of friends at the college for that summer term. Like Biscuit and Cracker, their names are not important – there was the other Californian, the Canadian, the Texan, Ms. Illinois, and Ms. Western Canada. In short order, our society had but one name that fit our salon of sophistication – “The Dudes Club.” Dude is such a coarse word – for example, one would never write a haiku inspired by or featuring such a collection of letters. The word evokes images of city slickers from tall Eastern cities venturing out to the old manifest destiny frontier of early America, among other things, but “Dude” conveyed the solidarity and mutual affection that we viewed each other with.

The disparate members of our faction had been drawn together by the discourse the other Californian and I had started one night at dinner. The others had been enthralled by our disjunctive noun and verb splitting that horrified true linguists. Bad dialect, it turned out, was charming. Like flecks of light captivated by a black hole, they had eased closer on old wooden benches listening to the true origins of the English language disappear in omnivorous everlasting adjectives and jargon. Once in earshot, they had no chance to turn back, and decided to become our friends in the hope that the rambling stream of words would not consume their previously diagrammed and structured minds.

It was more of a junta then a club as there was no definitive head and no hierarchy, no dues, and no rules. There were lofty aspirations and trouble-making, rumor-mongering and joke-telling. Our first exploit was to seat ourselves at the High Table at dinner on a supposedly random night. The High Table was the usual mainstay of actual luminaries, who on that night were all most likely away on holiday. From that moment on, it was set in firm cobble-stones that we were indeed, rabble-rousers.

Like any good junta, we had a nightly routine. We would sally forth from our college gate, because a majority of most Oxford colleges had actual mock castle gates designed to keep the corrupt influences of the town away from the students, and vice versa, and head to our favorite pub. At the pub we would pass the night in a sober, rational manner, and never engage in any activity that was undignified. As we were on foot to and from our local dispenser of alcoholic products, there was no need for a designated driver. What we had instead was a designated timekeeper. We had need of such a position because at midnight, our small castle doors would swing closed; and despite whatever cajoling comments we would make to the gatekeeper the doors would be barred fast from the night. Always, always, at 11:58, 11:59, and sometimes 11:59.32, we would scoot through the doors on rasping hinges, cackling at our own fortitude and luck.

From there, we would retire to my lofty roost, because it was the largest and most isolated of all of our rooms. Invariably, at ten minutes, or some nights, five minutes after we had successfully avoided being trapped outside, and were safely in my room, the grumbling of stomachs would commence. The gates that were now closed and protected us also prevented us from any late night snacking. It would have been a simple matter to either eat before returning, or store food for such occasions, but not surprisingly; such common sense passed by the wayside.

It was the windows of my room that attracted our attention as a solution. The building overhung a popular street corner, from which we had harangued members of our cabal and total strangers as well. If we could devise a method of reaching the corner three stories below, we could, in theory, gain late night sustenance. One night as we staggered back the other Californian and I happened to spy one of many student-made fliers that papered the town advertising used mountaineering rope. Grasping at it, we managed to secure it and several other interesting offers as we swayed through the gate. The next day, in a more coherent condition, we contacted the owners of the aforementioned rope. We had almost consummated the purchase with them for a very reasonable price after much serious haggling when the issue of what College we were from bubbled to the surface of the conversation.

Collegiate rivalries in Oxford are a serious business – as they are in the states, only in a more intense and gentlemanly fashion. After all, rowing, darts, and billiards, are all gentleman’s activities, along with the occasional competition in other matters. Adroitly, we managed to bend the truth of our true educational loyalties, procure the rope and continue to verbally diagram our plan for that evening. The rope was easily long enough to reach the ground with plenty of slack. We had two options. We could first call for delivery, then, tie the rope to a box, place our money and a note in the box, and lower the box and wait for the delivery person to leave the food in the box whilst taking the money.

While prudent, this plan had many flaws. Would the delivery person be perceptive enough to check a box? Would they simply take our cash and leave? Would the box overturn with food on its upward ascent? A second, more dangerous plan was then devised between us. As both of us were novice climbers, we quickly ruminated that a person could easily be belayed down to the street with the rope, and then raised back up with the food. Granted, as there was no harness, and the remaining tensile strength of the used rope was unknown, the plan called for a greater assumption of risk. Like all irrational ideas, it took root in the light of day, and began to germinate over the next week. Eventually, we, and the members of the society were determined to pluck the fruit that we had sown.

In this manner, I found myself tying all types of Gordian knots and every other knot known to my mind from the Boy Scouts in order to secure my fundamentally unsafe rope harness around my waist. I had been chosen to be lowered to bring back the pizza as I was the lightest, and I had the most climbing experience. Once I was as satisfied as I could be by the knots, I stepped to the ledge of my window, and surveyed my friends, bracing the loose lengths of rope next to their bodies, legs braced against a solid nearby wall. There was nothing fitting that I could say to such people, who along with me were willing to place a life at risk in favor of a large, hot pizza. I nodded, and simply stated that I wanted some slack, and calmly stepped out of the window.

The initial jolt seared my very being, as my legs caught nothing but air after that slight step, and my whole body cascaded down the three story drop irreversibly, until the rope caught and snapped taught. Once my breath had subsided lower than the rope’s creaks, I gave the prearranged signal, and planted my feet against the exterior wall and began to belay down to the street. My feet whispered over ancient sleeping stones on the side wall, and I was beginning to enjoy the cool night air, when with a gradual bump, I had reached the ground. Then, I looked up at my distant window, and the beaming faces of the fellow Dudes, and tried not to let my body shake completely with the terror and relief that cascaded through it. Minutes later, the delivery man appeared, and commented not on our odd meeting spot on a corner, nor the tangles of rope I had around me. Pizza in hand, I resigned myself to the rough, chafing, and bone-chilling jerks of being hoisted back to my room. The sweet taste of having cheated death provided the pizza with an extra savory topping as all of us basked in our mutual glory of having defied curfew.

With success in hand, it was a given that we could attempt the same technique for other late night take-outs. Seven days had gone by since the initial attempt, and I was becoming habituated to the adrenaline that coursed through my veins on each ascent and descent. On the eighth night, our group was vigorously discussing who to call for food, when uncouth sounds sprang from the now not so distant street below. As I was closest to the sill, I looked down to see two total strangers. While this was not surprising, the fact that one was brandishing a pipe was quite odd. The dialogue that followed made it particularly clear that the non-pipe holding personage was in fact, being mugged. The icy thud of a pipe breaking bone in the victim’s left leg cleared any doubts from our mind. As I was already outfitted in my harness, our course of action was clear. As the victim’s cry of agony reached our ears, I was waiving at the other Dudes to assume rope positions, and with one foot out the window, hissed frantically “Belay on!”

Darkened windows sped by my feet as I rushed toward the street. With easy effort, I was able to channel a primal scream at the attacker as gravity dragged me down. I didn’t see him flee, but I could hear the quick and definite patter of feet running down the street away from the corner. By the time I hit the street, pipe and mugger were long gone, leaving the victim moaning. Just as I was about to render medical assistance to the victim, the telltale wail of sirens rasped in my ears. Eyes wide, I grabbed on the rope which was now ascending frantically. Ignorant of blisters or any other slight pains, I clambered back up the rope as the others pulled. Once inside, we quickly doused the lights and peeped quietly out the window as the police and ambulances helped the victim. The next morning the rope was in the trash, and for the rest of our term, we had to bear our hunger pains until breakfast was served. Fortunately for us, I doubt the victim ever noticed me because of the pipe wounds, else we would have had some very elaborate explaining to do. However, the next time we usurped the Head Table at supper, we had no doubt of our qualifications to be there.

Episode V - What's a Miranda?

The handcuffs clinked and tightened around my wrists, crushing my spirit. My head bowed, I shuffled after my comrades Biscuit and Cracker into the waiting cruiser. The door to freedom slammed shut behind me as I took my seat in the car. We had been arrested. I wish I could state that this is the only story that will feature me being led off in the silver bracelets, but unfortunately, that would be untrue. More importantly, five minutes prior to our arrest, we had made our second fatal stupid criminal mistake (Also known in technical terms as a “SCM”). Our first SCM was probably agreeing to this enterprise to begin with, or stopping for the Volunteer Patrol – in which case this SCM was our third, if you were really counting. Let me attest that one – and only one SCM is plenty to get you in a lot of trouble; so in that respect, we were angling for some sort of SCM record with two or three.

Our fatal SCM, was simple and incredibly boneheaded. We waived our Miranda rights. In case you have been living on the moon, and never viewed a television show, or movie, or heard a radio program, or read a newspaper, the Miranda rights begin in this manner: “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…” and on from there. They protect your constitutional Fifth and Sixth Amendment rights against self incrimination. In essence, they provide a check upon the police from compelling a confession from you should you be in custody and actually innocent. In plain English, they mean that under the law, you don’t have to say anything – anything at all until you see an attorney.

Now, at this juncture, I feel it is appropriate to state something about the fuzz, or the po-po – otherwise known as the police. Starting with this incident, I’ve had various experiences with them. Later in life, surprisingly enough, I was on the other side of the baton, so to speak, in a law enforcement role in later jobs. I think the police do an excellent job overall, for which I am grateful for; however; I also think there is room for improvement, as there is in any field. But, I also imagine that one can easily formulate their own opinion about the officers that were involved in our arrest as I now continue my narrative about Miranda.

Now, as naïve – or as blockheaded as it may sound, none of us in the band had any idea what Miranda really meant, because we had never done anything bad. And I’m not so much going to say that the officers on scene tricked us, because it makes us look even more pathetic. But what they did say was this: “We just want to get to the bottom of this easily. Now if you want to make things more difficult, you can wait and talk to a lawyer (and then they read the Miranda rights) – but, I’m sure if we all talk now, we can resolve this, and you can be on your way – what do you say?”

Being the enormous saps we were, we fell for it. We signed up, and gave our version of events right there on the spot. The next thing we knew was that Biscuit, Cracker, and I were being patted down and fitted with new jewelry. This was not the simple resolution that we had signed up for. One may be curious what had happened to the Doctor and Mr. Hush at this point. The concern between the Doctor and I had been that since he had no license on his person, and since he had been driving, he was going to be in a lot of trouble. This turned out to be an utterly foolhardy concern, because the Volunteer Patrol had not noticed which one of us had been driving the truck. Or they had forgotten. Either way, it provided a little bit of an evidentiary poser for the police. Since no one had seen the Doctor driving, they couldn’t prove that he had driven without his license. On the other hand, the truck didn’t spontaneously move with us in it. Their solution in this case was quite just: they told the Doctor and Mr. Hush to come in and make a statement, but as long as they had not thrown a balloon, they couldn’t charge them with anything.

For Biscuit, Cracker and I, they had plenty of proof. They had us. They had our foolish preliminary statements. They had the Ogre’s demented ravings. They had the hazy memories of the Volunteer Patrol. And they had the hard evidence of the oodles of full water balloons and the unused water balloon launcher. The evidence, and all of us were taken to the station, where from the car we were transferred into the booking area and plopped on a bench. Our neighbors on the bench were three other guys who were so bombed out of their minds that they noticed our arrival not at all. Unless you can call increased drooling a sign of awareness.

The booking Sergeant immediately took a shine to our case. He proceeded to get the report from the patrol officers, and immediately began to examine the corporeal evidence. Soon his face was beaming with glee. In a matter of minutes he was regaling us with the fact that in California at that time, possession of a water balloon launcher was a felony. He also noted that as there were three of us, we had obviously “conspired” to wreak “mayhem”, and that “conspiracy” was also a felony. He also talked copiously about our vandalism, and our destruction of private property, and then laughed a great deal and told us in no short amount of words that we were going to jail; i.e. juvenile hall for a long time because, as he put it, “You little bastards need to be taught a lesson.” The gist of his rant was that because of riding in the bed of a pickup truck, and throwing at most, six water balloons, we were public enemy number one, and as such, had been charged with two felonies, and three misdemeanor counts. In essence, he threw the book at us. It was at this time, that aside from a whispered agreement to stick together, we decided that we should most likely stop talking.

We were then booked. Mug shots were taken, fingers were printed, and the ink was not removed. Then our earlier mistake came back to haunt us, just as the tell-tale heart drove Poe’s murderer mad. One by one, the police took each of us off to be interrogated, as we had said we didn’t want a lawyer initially. Later, I learned that we should have been re-warned of our rights. But at the time, I guess the information we possessed was so compelling to the public good, even though all of the “deadly weapons” had been confiscated that immediate interrogation was necessary and imperative. Finally, it was my turn. I’m not going to tell you that the cops roughed me up, or played good-cop/bad-cop. It was none of that. It all seemed plain vanilla at the time, as I told, what I thought, was a fair – but mitigating version of our culpability.

Then, we were released to our parents. I considered asking the police for remand at that moment when I saw the enraged visages of my parents, wondering if I would actually be safer in a cell. I will skip the bitter scorn and furious wrath that emanated from my parents, and the justifiably harsh familial punishments that were handed down. I will focus on the aftermath. Mostly, my parents had been frustrated that I had so idiotically waived my constitutional rights. Once it had been fully explained to me, I began to feel dumb. But when my father and the other parents obtained the transcripts of our interrogations, that was when the absolute idiocy of my mistake seeped into my being.

I received the transcripts first. My father hurled them at me in my room – well, at my bed and mentioned something about my intelligence in not so flattering tones, and then mentioned that finally, I would fully understand how dumb I was. He left, and I picked them up. Our names had been blacked out, but I could tell who was who. After all, there were only five of us. Three people in the bed, and two in the cab – because the Doctor and Hush had given statements too – albeit with their parents present. Soon I found my statement. And then it hit me. I might not have remembered the exact words I had said, but I knew that the words on the page were mine – with the exception of several others. Those others were phrases like “Yeah, we wanted to go out and you know, severely hurt innocents…maybe maim some people.” Quickly, I flipped to Biscuit’s and Cracker’s narrations. And again, similar odd words popped up like mine. With growing frustration, I realized that we were screwed, as we had no way to prove we hadn’t said those things – even though we hadn’t.

And then the final betrayal came. Sullenly, I flipped through the Doctor’s account, which was more accurate than ours, portraying us as foolish, but not malicious. I almost didn’t read Hush’s. Idly, I opened it. I was about to close it when I saw it. It said: “I wanted to go home, but they told me to get in the car or they’d beat me up.” Mystified, I kept reading. Hush hadn’t been charged with anything, because he hadn’t done anything. And yet, scared out of his mind, with his parents, and in front of the police, even allowing for misprints or exaggerations, he had concocted an outrageous tale of violence that we had wanted to perpetrate, labeling us the darkest souls to walk the face of the earth in no uncertain tones.

Gradually, my shock waned, and I was able to speak, and then comprehend that Hush’s account was of no matter. It was like any misstatements in any of our accounts – impossible to disprove. And if we had any reprisals against Hush, that would make us look like the paradigms of evil he had described. Fortunately, while I was learning such lessons the hard way, cooler heads were brokering deals for us miscreants. The felony charges were dropped off the record in the deal, and we were offered restitution and community service in exchange for the misdemeanors. Plus, since we were all minors, our records would be expunged on our eighteenth birthday, which later happened. So, in reality, all of these events are just a story, because nothing remains but memories to corroborate it; so, it is equally likely that perhaps, it never happened at all.

If it had just been our memories, that contention could be a possibility. On the other hand, the incident spread through our school like wildfire the next week, negating any chance that it was just a story. The Gardener’s party was suddenly an amazing fete, for spawning such antics. Our actual arrest was a mystery, with accounts ranging from the truth, to high-speed chases, gang fights, and other tawdry events. The fact that the police, despite their word, pulled us out of class one day for no real reason only added to our notoriety. And Hush? Those of us involved never forgot. We covertly passed the word of his deeds, and equally as silently, his circle of friends withered and diminished. And that was where my infamy began to change me. And, as my first adventure, it will always be something that I will never forget – just as I will never forget about my Miranda rights!

Next Week – On belay for Pizza!

Episode IV - The Unsuccessful Escape

As I mentioned, there are certain rare moments where one knows exactly – with all certainty, beyond a shadow of a doubt – due to eternal recurrence or déjà vu or whatever you want to call it what is going to happen or what a person was meant to do. Like I said about the Doctor earlier – all of us knew that he would be Doctor no matter what, because he was our once and future Doctor. But even in that moment, when everyone is so certain, there’s always that seed of doubt about that intuition. A butterfly could flap its wings in Brazil; a second could be missed in an odd spot; all of which could change that person’s life irrevocably.

That moment never happened with the Doctor as you can see by his moniker here. But if it had, it was equally clear what his second vocation in life would be. He would be the best getaway driver for any criminal action, second only to one. That person he would be second to would be me, but that’s another story for another day. I place such superlative praise at the Doctor’s feet, because as we were escaping in every literal sense of the word, he was driving in such an innate and fantastic manner to place all other criminal getaway drivers to shame.

You may think at this point that I boast needlessly of his skills. I, however, have my reasons. The first is simple. The Doctor was driving his light pickup with Biscuit, Cracker, and I in the back. We were being pursued most ruthlessly by a pseudo-brute in his own pickup. The reason should therefore be apparent. The Doctor did not kill; nor throw any of us from the bed while we squealed and caromed around surface street corners; we were as safe in the bed of the truck as if we were being operated on; not any easy task, as the laws of physics constantly wanted to maim and destroy our very fickle lives. Second reason: the Doctor did not cause any accidents, nor grossly endanger any other lives in this reckless chase; instead he threaded through intersections and traffic deftly. And these were the reasons that he would have been a great getaway driver, should his life have changed.

The chase is thus described easily. We darted across empty streets; skulked in parking lots; swerved between cars, and short of discharging chaff, took every evasive tactic available within the bounds of reason. We could not lose our pursuer. He was a perverse ogre that tracked our moves through the area uncannily. Every time we seemed to have lost him, he would appear evilly, blowing his horn and waiving his fist. In desperation, the Doctor drove us up a residential neighborhood by my house. From my supine position in the back, arms gripping paint like Atlas grips the earth, the trees whipping by looked familiar.

I dared to raise my head. Unfortunately, I should have looked sooner. I saw the street sign of a known dead end vanishing behind us. I pounded on the cab for the Doctor to turn us around. It was futile. Our intrepid and enraged enemy had followed us yet again, as if we had left a trail of blood. And this is why, despite all of his other abilities; the Doctor would always be the second best getaway driver. With wheels screaming, the ogre turned his car sideways to block our egress. The Doctor had unwittingly trapped us like rats.

There was a slight pause. It seemed that we couldn’t pass our pursuer’s truck, a red truck. At least without ramming it, I mused. This slight pause was soon broken. The ogre in the truck leaped out, slamming the door, and screaming such a hideous flood of oaths that my ears burned. Granted, we had injured him – albeit slightly by hitting his windshield with a water balloon. In retrospect – all five of us – the Doctor, Mr. Hush, Biscuit, Cracker, and I could easily have taken him. It would have been an ugly fight, with limbs and bodies being cast about like leaves, but in the end, we would have won.

It was his raw primal wrath that frightened us as he approached. That and his freakishly keen pursuit of us even though we had barely injured him. As his oaths ceased as he neared the door of the Doctor, I looked at him. He was wearing the uniform of a kid’s little league umpire. He was just an ordinary guy. I began to wonder if we might just be able to smooth things over with a contrite apology. As he saw the Doctor and the rest of us, it became clear that his silence was just him catching his breath.

His anger roiled at us again. I’m not going to repeat what he said, because it was unflattering. It was slanderous. It was some of the worst language I’ve ever heard. Suffice to say, he started with “Goddamn punks!” and went on from there to question our parentage, heritage, and everything else with chest heaving and spittle flying. We were cowed by this display – remember – none of us had ever; and I mean ever been in any sort of trouble. We apologized brokenly over, as if he would leave like a bad dream.

His torrent of fury had just begun, because he began to pace frantically around the car, which none of us had left. Finally, he reached at the Doctor through the car window, as if he would drag him out. The critical mass had been reached. I didn’t know what he would do with the Doctor if he dragged him out, but I knew that it would be bad. I made as if to step out of the bed with Biscuit and Cracker, and he backed off. Then inspiration struck his Neanderthal features. He howled that one of these houses on the dead end must be our residences. We watched stunned as he ran to a door and began accosting people about us. Fortunately, no one had any idea who we were.

It was at this point that we seized our opportunity. We had apologized – and at that point we really were very regretful for our actions. All of us prevailed upon the Doctor to make haste with the automobile, to go up and over the nearest curb, and around the impediments in our path, and leave the distracted ogre while we could. It was brilliant. He watched us, slack-jawed on a lawn as we navigated around his truck. Then the roar erupted as he ran, in a lumbering fashion after us, not menacing in any way, and then, he was gone.

Cheers rang out in the bed between the three of us, until we glanced up and saw the Doctor’s panicked expression, and noticed that we were pulling over mere blocks away from the Ogre. I looked up to see the relentless ticking of police lights behind us. Mechanically, we heard the amplified voice state to us to turn off the truck and exit the car. Woodenly, we all walked over to the curb next to the truck. Minutes passed. Finally, I had the nerve to look and see why the Police hadn’t approached us. The “cruiser” that was attached to the lights was painted all white. The hood had the words “V.P.” stenciled on it. And behind the windshield, two very old men sat staring at us.

“You pulled over for the Volunteer Patrol?” I hissed at the Doctor. He merely shrugged. The others insisted that we leave, since the “VP” were not real cops. The Doctor pointed out in calm, unflinching logic that they now had his plates and further flight was ludicrous to say the least. So we waited. We waited the longest time, on the side of the road, sitting on a curb in a quiet suburban neighborhood on a Sunday morning. We waited for the real Police to come and arrest us. It was ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, the Police eventually came much later – conservatively, I’d say half an hour later. Before that, the Ogre had found us – we hadn’t exactly made it far from him on our last escape, and was berating the VP with his howls, which had brought some of the citizenry out to watch the situation. The Police arrived, in a real cruiser, and first dispersed the crowd, such as it was. After having a muted conversation with the Senior Citizens, they began to walk toward the five of us. I muttered to the Doctor under my breath that the situation was very bad, the first words any of us had stated for a long time. His reply made any confidence I had left flee like a real fugitive: “Yeah, this is bad. And you know what? I just realized five minutes ago that I don’t have my license on me.”

Episode III - The Dumbest Plan Ever

By the time the sun had crested the horizon; a plan had taken root in the mind of someone close the Gardener, and was beginning to spread around the remaining revelers. To suggest that everyone had fallen asleep, and then, promptly and productively risen at those early hours would be an utter fallacy. No one had slept, and all of us were reacting to the lack of sleep in our own unique ways. Myself, I was lounging in the kitchen, watching the time pass – slowly – on a large clock, much as a lizard in a sluggish torpor waits for the sun to warm his body.

I’m not sure who suggested the plan; it doesn’t really matter who authored the plan. In fact, I’m sure of one thing: based on the innate stupidity of the plan, I am sure he is glad that time has forgotten his role. If I had to guess, it was probably the Slacker who suggested it. There isn’t much to say about the Slacker, except he was a year older than the Gardener, the Doctor and I, and he was a friend of my connection, Mr. Sarcastro. Sarcastro, on the other hand, was quite a character. He was about my height, with brown wavy hair, a quick and keen wit, and piercing eyes. At least that was what the ladies told me. It was always, “Oh, Sarcastro has such beautiful eyes” and so on, and so on in a similar vein that ultimately, I found quite boring. It wasn’t that I was jealous, mind you, it was more the fact that I had accepted it and moved on. I didn’t want to date Sarcastro, so it was really immaterial to me in the end. Besides, since I had known Sarcastro since Cub Scouts, and spent many a day in a tent with him, I could tell a few stories about certain unsavory habits of his as well. All in all, however, he was a good guy – a good guy who, sometimes, did manage to get himself and his friends in small amounts of trouble.

In any case, the Slacker had probably made the suggestion about the plan that was breathlessly relayed to me in the kitchen by the Gardener soon after he had heard about it, and had been easily influenced to do it, because the sad truth was that you could talk the Gardener into doing just about anything. The Gardener had not dealt with the lack of sleep well. Not everyone does. He was pastier than usual, with dark bags under his eyes, and his manic tendencies were evident as he raced around the kitchen, trying to expound the plan to me while at the same time preparing for the plan. Or maybe with the Gardener, it wasn’t the lack of sleep that was the problem at that moment, but the fact that someone had given him coffee; he didn’t deal well with strong stimulants either.

As he raced around, he laid the plan out for me. It went something like this: “Wouldn’t it be really cool if we filled up a bunch of water balloons, and then drove them over to a park, and either – well, we could throw them at each other, but then we’d get wet, and – or we could use the water balloon launcher to throw them at rocks – or cars – but that’s dangerous – but it’d be exciting; anyhow…”. To this statement I had several responses. First, no, that it would not be cool; and second; that it was actually a really stupid idea. However, my responses were not met by a reasoning powerhouse from the Gardener, and the preparations for the plan – namely, filling lots and lots of water balloons continued unabated. As the plan was embraced to a lesser extent by most other people than the Gardener and the Slacker, most people took the preparation time as their cue to leave, as in their opinion, the party had definitely hit rock bottom.

I’m not sure why I didn’t leave – I think that I was waiting for a ride, or something – but its also possible that I had a gut feeling that everything was going to end badly, and I wanted to see it. In any case, I ended up outside next to the Doctor’s white pickup listening to the plan proponents argue with the Doctor and the remaining logical thinkers about how the plethora of balloons would be transported. Somehow, the Doctor was convinced that he would transport four people plus himself and the balloons to our destination.

This was surprising, because in order to transport four people plus himself, the Doctor would have to let three people ride in the bed of his truck to the destination. Surprising, because in California, it is illegal to have passengers in the bed of a pickup truck. And also surprising because in California at the time, a driver under the age of seventeen could not allow other minors to be in the vehicle without a supervising driver over the age of twenty-one. Therefore, by even loading up the truck, the Doctor was committing several crimes of pure evilness, which was very unlike his normally cautious and rational personality. I chalked up his dashing risk-taking persona to lack of sleep, and volunteered to drive with him, out of a sense of solidarity, even though I could have ridden safely in another car, say with the Gardener, the Slacker, or even Mr. Sarcastro.

As I sidled up to the Doctor while the others were bickering about the remaining seat assignments, I whispered, “This is going to end badly” to him. To which he could only look at me and nod. In the end, the other occupants of the truck are not important to the story, so we’ll call them this: Biscuit, Cracker, and Mr. Hush. I didn’t know Hush well; he was more of a friend of a friend to the others, and he seemed awfully jumpy to me about the whole event. Biscuit and Cracker I knew well; but they were a little boring, and their role in this story is akin to that of a place-holder: they merely were in the back of the truck with me, while Hush rode in the cab with the Doctor.

The plan was for the truck driven by the Doctor to rendezvous with the others at a location that I had never heard of. I, Biscuit and Cracker were told to do two things during this trip. One, to lie down in the bed, so as not to be seen by the general public and as an added benefit, would be thrown from the truck easier in the event of an accident. The second commandment was to not throw any balloons from the bed of the truck on the trip to our destination. The Doctor admonished us quite severely about the latter.

Finally, the truck started, we were concealed lying down, and we were off to fulfill the plan. Once on the road, an intoxicating cocktail of danger, testosterone, lack of sleep and much more overwhelmed our senses in the back of the truck. In a stealthy manner, I saw Biscuit reach into the bin of balloons, and lob one over the side of the truck. All three of us laughed and laughed. The Doctor then immediately pulled the truck over and was quite wroth with all of us. Despite our ministrations, we had to promise not to do anything like that again.

Which, of course meant that once he started the truck again, we were quiet at first; but then, as we noticed an approaching car, we lobbed balloons at it. Now, as we were traveling in one direction, the balloons traveled with our momentum – and as the opposing car was traveling in the other, the balloons, while easily lobbed, had quite a bit of force – enough for a good problem on any physics test. Us reprobates in the bed immediately saw the car pull over and laughed at our own foolishness. This led the Doctor to speed up and once at the next stop sign, start to chastise us, but the fever of danger was on us, and we would brook no interference. As the Doctor and Hush were yelling at us from the cab, another truck pulled up behind us. We promptly festooned his hood with water balloons; a feat not nearly as bad as the prior incident, as both cars were at a stop. Unlike the first car, the truck’s driver was a young, mid-twentyish male who now had his dander up. As he rolled down his window to yell at us to pull over in not so pleasant tones, we pounded on the cab to signal the Doctor to drive as fast as the wind, no matter the consequences. The Doctor, although quite sore about the turn of the events quickly made the only good decision of the day – and hit the gas, leaving our irate second victim quickly behind us.

Episode II – The Ill-Fated Beginning

My best friend is named Bismarck. One may think that a funny name, as it evokes an old man in a pointy hat with a ridiculous moustache. But it suits him well, and he doesn’t have a pointy hat – at least that I know of! It suits him because he is ever so clever at strategy and diplomacy. Besides, he also likes to eat, much as the real Bismarck liked pate ever so much. He’s roughly my height, somewhere around six feet – the exact number is really immaterial, stocky, and with piercing blue eyes and a ready smile. Both of us shared the same middle name, along with our other friend – Senor Inteligente.

At this point, everyone – savvy or not has noted my not so clever use of pseudonyms for myself and my characters. Clearly, I have a variety of reasons for this deception – the only one I will intentionally engage in during this narrative. The most important one is that despite being my good friends, I would not wish to tar them with the same disreputable brush as I will paint myself with, and as such, will keep them anonymous.

In any case, Bismarck is always of the opinion that my troublesome past began quite early. It’s his opinion that it all began one day in the sixth grade. Now, for reasons that my lawyer knows best, I’m not going to divulge my age here, but I will assure you that I was in the sixth grade quite a long time ago. Bismarck loves this story; he never hesitates to tell it, well, just about anywhere. Me, I’m impartial to it. I think I’ve heard his version so many times; it has sort of lost its meaning. In any case, he thinks that it all began when we were in the Sixth Grade, one day when after class, I was annoyed with him, so I tried to kick him. Not using my head, I tried to kick him through the large plastic case that held his saxophone, thus spraining my foot and causing him hours of hilarity.

Several days later, I was nursing my sore foot at home under the tyrannical oppression of my parents, meaning that I was being lazy by playing computer games. Bismarck is of the opinion – even though he wasn’t there – that my mother had come in six to seven times to tell me to do some yard work, when I snapped. In reality, it was twice, but I suppose the result is the same. My mother had wanted me to trim our rosebushes down for the winter. The stems of a rosebush need to be drastically cut down for the winter season. In any case, the exact repartee that went between my mother and I being immaterial, I stomped off outside in a rage – because eleven year olds in America have so much to be angry about – and this is where Bismarck’s story and mine coincide.

I could have trimmed the stalks down; I had the loppers; it would have been quite easy – all too easy, one could say. Instead, being in a towering rage for no real reason other than parental nagging, I cut everything down. I cut the plants all the way down to the ground. And then, if you prefer Bismarck’s version of the story, I went inside, and said something like “The damn plants are trimmed” or “How’s that for yard work” or something equally snappy. In reality, I went inside and went about my business like nothing had happened – until the screams began from my mother. The result was the same, as Bismarck gleefully likes to relate: I was grounded for a very, very, long time. And that, according to him, is where I really went wrong.

Personally, I find the anecdote non-probative of anything; well, maybe a innate loathing of roses because of all the yard work I had to do with them. Where I think I went off the tracks was at a birthday party of a friend much later. I was newly sixteen, and had an invitation to a party for a friend of mine, the Gardener. I labeled him the Gardener because he later supposedly worked at the Playboy Mansion as a Gardener. But at that time, he was not nearly that cool. Bismarck and Sr. Inteligente had declined to even attend the party, which left me with one close friend there – the Doctor. The Doctor was at that time, gangly and tall, with a mop of brown hair and a light pickup truck. Even though he didn’t become a Doctor until a long time after, it was one of those career conclusions that everyone knew, even back then. It was his destiny – he couldn’t escape it even if he wanted to.

The Doctor and I went way back, to Junior High, where he and I would ride bikes, walk, and taunt each other mercilessly on the way to and from school. Once we turned sixteen, the taunting took a moronic turn, as we both would quasi-race our respective jalopies on the way to school. With crude hand-written signs pressed up against the windows, we would trash-talk back and forth at the stoplights. His assessment of the Gardener’s party, however, was the same as mine. It stunk. Unfortunately, we were there all night, and for most of the next day. As dawn rose, the conclusion had slipped into all of the revelers minds that the party was a failure, and the Gardener – as well as everyone else wracked their sleep deprived brains for a plan to do something fun.

Episode I – Retrospectus

My life wasn’t always extraordinary. In fact, like most people’s lives, it started as a paradigm of normalcy. There was no traumatic moment, no mark of destiny to foretell that at some point my otherwise normal life would leave the standard path. I’m not sure when the experiences began to take over my personality and shape my life. Perhaps it was when the experiences were told and became stories; once told in oral form, they gained different aspects, reaching out into different parts of my psyche and obscuring my common sense from the rationality of the age. The stories changed me – as I sit here, old but yet young, the physical changes they wrought are easily apparent in the rough healed perforations of old wounds.

As for changes in my mental state, that is a quandary that is best left for late nights. When I look back on the stories, it is as if my life is represented as a bunch of slides in a box, each moment representing a fragment of my identity. Each slide has a story and each slide is me. I can remember a time without stories; and yet I cannot, as they have become so firmly rooted. It might have all began when I was a small child. I lived on books and my imagination in a Don Quixote mindset. These beginnings would easily explain why I would tilt at windmills as I grew.

It is entertaining to look back at that boy and smile at what he became. However, time changes all easily; now, I find myself as a throwback to an earlier time. My credos are simple, yet numerous. I believe in coming to grips with my enemies, one on one tangible action. I believe in Machiavelli and sublime philosophical musings that make my head spin. I try to exemplify the classical virtues of wit and charm, and use my education at etiquette school to be as chivalrous as possible. Music enthralls me; fine art can send my neurons into flights of fancy. Discovery lurks around every corner, from science, to random alleyway exploration. Adventure is a fact of life, not some black and white word that was printed on a page – just as life was meant to be lived, not watched. Invariably, no matter the odds, a risk is always worth taking.

With such lofty ideals, it should come as no surprise that I’ve undertaken many diverse activities with assorted equipment. In such, I’ve tried to abide most of all by what would be considered an existential mantra – that I could take any action as long as I could bear the consequences fully and completely. While practical, this mantra does not track exactly with the laws of many – or all jurisdictions. Moreover, it is a mantra that may not be effectively applied by all. After all, taking full responsibility is a concept that staggers the mind. While I am not the sort who regrets my life, I do sometimes realize that my choices at times could have been more judicious. Suffice to say, that one should not seek to emulate my actions as they were most likely quite foolish.

With background and warnings in hand, this then brings us to the central theme of this discussion: the stories. There are tales that require imagination. There are tales that require calculation. There are tales that require a dry wit. There are tales that require disbelief and acceptance. And there are many more tales and many more categories. I will not categorize my stories, but leave you to judge where they fall. To some, they may be righteous truth; to others, utter balderdash and rubbish; and to others still, some description in between the two. I think my friend; Oso Blanco summed it up best after talking with me one day. In short, he stated, “With your stories, I’m not sure if you’re a man – or you’re setting yourself up to be a legend. But in the end, I don’t think it matters.” But that is all conjecture – and I will leave conjecture and venture forth, where the fog of memory covers all in a distant past, where the last adventure is the story.