My Little Slut

Since my mid to late-teens, I've come to terms with the fact that as far as looks go, I am something of an acquired taste. There are no hordes of women knocking down my door because I am ridiculously handsome, but there have been a few women over the years that have hit on me while "out in the wild," something that I fear I may never get used to.

Aside #1: Secretly, I actually hope I never get used to this.

One time for instance, I was riding my bicycle somewhere to get lunch, when I heard someone wolf-whistle in my general direction. Assuming the catcall wasn't meant for me, I ignored it, and locked my bike up before going into a restaurant and eating. When I had come back out, there was a note left on my bike that read:

You're really cute...text me...for a good time.
Signed, girl who whistled at you earlier
(phone number)

Now, normally I wouldn't have paid any mind to something like this, because to me, this note sounded incredibly promiscuous, verging on skanky. But I'd actually noticed the girl who had whistled, before she had done so. She was definitely attractive, and I was definitely single at the time.

Aside #2: Plus, she'd actually used the correct form of "you're," and that alone is something to marry someone over nowadays.

I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Smoothly, I waited about an hour before I sent her a text message introducing myself and asking her what her name was. "Valerie," she said in her response, before telling me that she'd like to get to know me better. A little too smugly, I sent her a text that read "That can be arranged."

Aside #3: If you haven't noticed by now, my most commonly used method of flirting with members of the opposite sex involves being really awkward and direct, verging on serial killer-esque, intermingled with infrequent moments of smoothness and charm. That really works for some women, I guess.

So two days later, after talking/texting nonstop about whatever it is you talk about with someone you've never officially met, we weirdly met up for lunch at a Taco Bell near my apartment. She was red-headed and quite a bit skinnier than I'd originally thought she was, verging on almost being too skinny, but still managed to have a sort of larger, more intimidating attitude about everything, something that I naturally find irresistible. Her voice was also slightly raspy, but in the pleasant way that isn't quite like like the way a throat cancer patient's is.

Reciprocating my unspoken attraction, she invited me over to her house after we'd finished eating, telling me she wanted to "watch a funny movie" with me. Coyly thinking I was reading between the lines, I accepted her offer, and we departed.

Not long later, we arrived at the house Valerie shared with her father, a small two-bedroom with the darkness of a bachelor pad but the stereotypical tidiness of somewhere a woman lives. Her father was out of town for the week, she explained as we looked over her movie collection, stillness of the house only interrupted by our movements.

Looking over the movies she and her father had collected over the years, I was slightly disappointed. There were half-decent action movies mixed in with the usual comedy fodder; movies like Bad Boys and Die Hard were alongside such "comedy classics" as Black Sheep and Anchorman. Given that she wanted to watch something "funny," it was slim pickings for someone like me, who had seen every chuckle-worthy film they owned too many times to count (on cable, no less).

Aside #4: Because of this story, I am now guilty of writing and consciously publishing a really whiny first-world problem. I don't feel great about myself.

After a rough inner-struggle followed by seconds of tedious decision-making, I decided on Adam Sandler's classic fish-out-of-water story, Billy Madison. If we were to ever be married, we would tell tales at our wedding of the first time we ever laid eyes on a television screen simultaneously, watching the original manchild himself work his way through academia. We'd be that couple.

Nothing unexpected happened over the course of the next two hours. We watched the movie, smoked a little bit of weed, and made out during the parts we'd both seen a million times (read: during most of the movie). There was something very high school about it all, and that was comforting to me.

At least, comforting until things became slightly more adult when Valerie took her shirt off mid-kiss. Not really knowing how to react, I just continued kissing her, until she finally gave up on waiting for me to be progressive and straddled me before she began taking my shirt off.

Aside #5: I am made of 100% pure certified playa. Don't even try to deny it.

Uncomfortable because being shirtless in the middle of her living room made me feel exposed, I asked Valerie if she wanted to go to her bedroom. Nodding, she hopped off of my lap, gathered up her shirt and mine, and lead the way.

The "hooking up," for lack of a better term, continued as soon as we crossed the threshold into her bedroom. We shockingly wound up on her massive, ridiculously fluffy and comfortable bed, with huge sheets that felt like they were stuffed with the finest softboiled cloud fetuses. It was ridiculous.

Apparently, it was a little too ridiculous, as mid-makeout the both of us began to feel incredibly sleepy despite the fact that it was only around four in the afternoon. Realizing that we'd potentially have the rest of the week to do whatever we wanted to each other, we hopped off the Love Train at Sleepytime Station, and decided to take a quick nap before continuing our journey.

Aside #6: That last one is definitely a contender for my favorite sentence I've ever written.

Our "quick nap" however, turned into the both of us sleeping until nearly 9 'o clock that night, the both of us only being awoken when her phone vibrated with a call from her father. Picking it up, she motioned for me to be quiet while she spoke with him. After she'd hung up, she straddled me once more (still shirtless), implying that she wanted to pick up where we'd left off. And needless to say, that's exactly what happened.

Now, I've never been one to go into explicit detail when it comes to the intricacies of my own sex life, but something curious happened during Valerie and I's...passionate lovemaking. At one point, when I was lying on my back with her on top of me, she leaned down and whispered something into my ear. At first, I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly, and asked her to repeat herself. Speaking louder, she confirmed that I had, in fact, heard her correctly.

"Tell me I'm your little slut," she pleaded, hips grinding into mine. "Please, tell me I'm your little slut."

Aside #7: That first sentence right there is probably a contender for my favorite as well, though for an entirely different reason.

I had no idea how to react to this, as I'd never been asked to say something like this during sex before. My sexual history's Weirdest Member's Club only consisted of one girl who liked it really, really rough and that girl that insisted we watch Saw IV during the act, never someone that got off on dirty talk like this. So I did what any self-respecting male would do in the situation. I totally went with it.

"You're my little slut," I said softly, the end of the sentence trailing off like a question. To my surprise, this seemed to work some kind of magic on Valerie, as she went at it more vigorously than before. Slightly more confident, I repeated myself. "You're my little slut!" I half-yelled, producing another burst of energy from her.

"Yeah, I'm your little slut!" she yelled in my face, pulling my hair a little too hard and breathing heavily.

I'd call her my little slut two more times before we finished, and each time I said it, it was as if I had said some sort of sexual hypnotism trigger phrase that was she was conditioned to be turned on by. It was one of the most bizarre things I'd ever experienced, and my internal wonder at this phenomena and the odd urge to test it against other derogatory phrases made it really difficult for me to concentrate when it came to my role in the wrapping-up of our sexy time.

Aside #8: What I really mean to say is, the fact that this effected her so much almost killed my boner.

But as I said, we finished, and then engaged in the usual post-coital cuddling that is required of every guy when they want to impress a female. Something was wrong though, and I could tell Valerie could feel it too.

I don't know what happened between the two of us after we had sex, but I have a theory. We didn't talk directly about her preference in pet names, but I think the both of us felt awkward about it (and she insulted or embarrassed) because of my initial hesitation. For the rest of the evening, our conversation felt stilted and forced, and when I slept over we didn't sleep near one another like we had earlier when we'd taken that nap.

The next morning we woke up relatively early, and she drove me home in near-silence. Naturally, we said we'd see each other again soon, but neither of us really meant it. We kept in touch a little bit afterwards, and less than two months later she was engaged. He seemed like a pretty good guy, from what little she told me about him.

I just can't help but wonder if she's his little slut, too.

My Friend the Millionaire

A few summers ago, I found myself stranded in downtown Los Angeles after a moving trip from Phoenix to Seattle went awry (which, I promise, will be a story told in a future post). Opting to take a bus from LA to my hometown of Dallas to live there instead of finishing my trip as planned, I bought a ticket for a one-way ride and packed my belongings that I couldn't afford to ship into three differently-styled, overstuffed bags: one messenger bag, one tweed suitcase, and one ten-raquet tennis bag.

Unable to afford a cab from where I was staying to the bus station, a friend of a friend named Joshua that had shown me around the city a few days previously told me he'd show me how to get there on foot. Seeing this as my only option to get to the station on time, I accepted his offer and we departed from my hotel room three hours before my bus was to begin boarding, me carrying my messenger bag and tennis bag, Joshua carrying my tweed suitcase.

For those of you that have never actually been, there are a few small parts of Los Angeles that look like what you'd expect Los Angeles to look like: beaches to walk on, plenty of stores to shop in and attractive people to gawk at. But for the most part, Los Angeles looks like what I imagine downtown Baghdad looked like during wartime if Baghdad was populated primarily by hipsters and hookers. There are injured people lying in the street moaning for help, homeless people or mangy dogs on every corner, and everyone seems like they want to stab you for having an opinion different than theirs. I hate to generalize Baghdad like that (and to a lesser extent, Los Angeles), but it's the truth.

Despite this imbalance, we managed to make it to the bus depot on time and without being mugged, passing by many interesting things on the way.

Aside #1: We passed by the red carpet event for The Expendables, a filming of an episode of iCarly, the biggest Inception banner I've ever seen, and an original Banksy piece, amongst plenty of other things. I know people that live in LA see that sort of thing daily, but shut up. It was neat.

After thanking Joshua and saying our goodbyes, checking my bags in and waiting in the terminal for a few minutes, I stepped onto the large grey bus marked "DALLAS" and unknowingly sat down next to one of the most interesting people I've ever met in my life.

His name was Bruce, and he looked like a short-haired, 50-something Iggy Pop impersonator. Staring at me with his wild eyes, offering up one leathery baseball-mitt of a hand, he introduced himself to me shortly after I occupied the space next to him. Over the next few hours, we would end up talking about everything from our personal lives to literature to current news, and Bruce would tell me the following five things about himself:

1. He is a construction company business owner and millionaire who is deathly afraid of flying, hence him riding the bus. When I asked him why he didn't just buy his own personal bus and hire a driver himself, he scoffed loudly. Apparently, he "really loves" the people he meets on the rides he takes a few times a year.

2. He was visiting his daughter in Waco, Texas, who is a mildly successful blonde-haired, big-breasted supermodel. He showed me many, many pictures of her, and even pulled his shirt down at one point to show me a portrait of her he'd had tattooed on his shoulder.

Aside #2: Before you wonder if it was terrible or not, it was. Sorry, Bruce.

3. In the 90's, he was addicted to cocaine. He told me that he'd been clean from coke for a few years, but still smokes pot regularly to deal with the arthritis he has in his legs from when he used to build houses. We really bonded over this in particular, because that's half the reason I smoke.

4. He's been married three times, and only has the single daughter from his first (from when he was "dumb and young"). He admitted that his last two wives had taken a lot of money from him, though he didn't disclose how much, exactly.

5. He's a born-again Christian. Go figure.

Right around as the sun was setting, Bruce asked me if I'd like to smoke with him the next time the bus stopped to refuel. I gladly obliged, and we did so, shortly after night had fallen behind a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Aside #3: If you've never smoked marijuana regularly or been a part of the subculture, you probably don't understand how "normal" this is. Just know that his request wasn't weird or creepy at all, and that it was actually sort of a relief.

After putting my smoking supplies away, and making sure they were well-secured on my person before re-entering the bus, Bruce tapped me on the shoulder, staring at me with his big, wide eyes. Stuttering as he did so, he asked me if it would be possible for me to give him a small bit of weed, so he had some when he arrived in Waco. Being the ever-giving person I am (and having quite a bit on me at the time), I happily obliged, giving him a decent-sized nugget that should have more than satisfied him until he was able to find more. This is where things started to get a little weird.

Aside #4: Yeah, things only started getting weird after I gave an ex-coke addict millionaire a gram or so of weed for free.

Immediately after I dropped the pot into his hand, he looked me straight in the face and asked for a "little more." Not wanting to anger the person I'd be sitting next to for the next 15 hours or so, I gave him a little bit more, hoping that it would be enough. Apparently it was, because he immediately removed an Altoids tin from his pocket, turned around so I couldn't see its contents, and dropped both pieces into it. Thanking me, he promised that he would pay me back as soon as we arrived at his destination, telling me that he'd planned to give me a little money anyways for "entertaining" him on the trip. Feeling better about my decision to be a nice person, we both headed back towards the bus and got on.

Night had fallen at this point, so most of our co-passengers had fallen asleep in their seats. Bruce, however, decided to stay awake and keep me up with him. I didn't really mind, because I'm terrible at sleeping in moving vehicles, so all was well.

About midway through the night, during a lull in Bruce and I's enchanting conversation, he stood up and announced to me that he had to go to the bathroom (as if there was anywhere else to go). He stepped to the back of the bus, and remained there for about ten minutes. Right around the time I started to become worried for his safety, he emerged, eyes wider than before, grinning wildly.

"I just did some coke in the bathroom," he whispered to me quietly, an odd, child-like eagerness in his voice. "Do you want some, buddy?"

Aside #5: A detail that I forgot to mention in the list up there is that he always referred to me as "buddy," "pal," or any variation of the word "friend" (without actually calling me his friend). It was very odd.

"No thanks," I nervously smiled, synapses in my head popping. He'd explicitly told me earlier in the trip that he hadn't touched coke "in years," and it made me curious as to the validity of the rest of the claims he had laid earlier in our trip. Needless to say, from this point on, I began taking everything he did and said with a grain of salt.

Of course, this became harder and harder to do as his claims of riches and willingness to share them became more and more extravagant, and I began to wonder if he'd just lied to me about the state of his addiction because he didn't want to scare me off. After all, aside from that and the fact that he asked for more weed after I so graciously gave him some for free, he had been nothing but kind and ridiculously interesting the entire time. He was even offering to let me stay at his beach house in Florida, because he claimed to never use it. I was torn.

By the time we'd made it to Waco, a few stops before mine in Dallas, my mind hadn't been made up about Bruce. I wasn't sure if he was just a crazy, drug-addicted con man that had duped me into giving him free weed, or if he really was just an eccentric, lonely millionaire that needed someone to talk to on a trip to visit his daughter.

My question was answered shortly after we disembarked. Telling me he was going to get his bags from underneath the bus, Bruce quickly disappeared into the crowd at the station after we had stepped off of the bus, his average features and build camouflaging him from me. Assuming he'd meet me somewhere near the bus after he'd gathered his things, I went inside the station to use the restroom and buy food.

Fifteen minutes passed as I sat on a bench next to the bus we'd both stepped off of and ate my food, my belief in the man I'd sat next to waning with every passing moment. I had all but given up on trusting that he would come back, when a familiar, catcher's mitt-like hand tapped me on the shoulder. Bruce had come back. Smiling brightly, he reached for his wallet.

"Miss me?" he grinned, unfolding the old leather fishing a few bills out. Folding them in half, he handed them to me. "Don't spend it all on yourself, okay?" pleaded, sincerity in his voice.

"Okay, I won't," I said, smiling back at him. "Thanks, Bruce."

"No problem kiddo," he winked, and turned around, once again disappearing into the crowd.

I didn't check to see how much money he had given me until I was sure he wasn't looking at me, but when I did, I almost fell over. He'd handed me ten twenty-dollar bills, wrapped up with a small note written on a torn-off piece of paper. It read "Thanks for the conversation + weed."

And that's all it needed to say.

The Arts & Crafts Story

For the better part of three months now, I've been telling the dedicated three or four-dozen of you that read this blog stories from my childhood, teenage years, and adulthood. Thanks to feedback I receive on a weekly basis (keep it coming, by the way), I know what sort of stories will be successes before I even post them. I don't want to say this has made me want to go out and seek things that are post-worthy, but I've definitely had an ear to the ground as far as my more-recent shenanigans go. That being said, I'd like to mention before I weave this tale that this is something that has happened very recently (I'm going to be intentionally vague and say in the last two months), and is probably the closest post to near-live-blogging that I'll ever do.

I am, by nature, an observer. I can't help it. I don't want to say I'm quick to judge, because that would be misleading, but unfortunately, that is a sort of residual side-effect of my personality type. Since I've obsessively been doing this for most of my life, I've become quite good at reading people, something that has (overall) likely hindered me more than helped.

But sometimes, my judgments are wrong. Such was the case a few weeks ago when my friend Lydia and I attended a sort of mini-arts & crafts party thrown by her artist fauxncle, Wayne.

Aside #1: "Fauxncle" is a word I just made up to describe Lydia and Wayne's relationship. Though not related, Lydia referred to Wayne as her uncle. So he is her "faux uncle," or "fauxncle" (pronounced "funkle"). I know that isn't linguistically sound (HA!), but it sure is fun to say.

Held in a seedy-looking building in an even seedier-looking area of downtown Dallas, it was hard to know exactly what I was getting myself into. Despite being derelict, and feeling the type of place you would go if you wanted to purchase some of the more serious drugs, there were at least five freshly-printed and posted signs in the vicinity of the front door warning visitors to not feed the wild cats that roamed the area, because the owners of the buildings did so already. This amount of effort and care put forth more than mixed my expectations of what we may find inside.

But my opinion on the building and its inhabitants changed as soon as the door opened, and we were greeted by a welcoming, hairy-legged girl that looked like the physical manifestation of the term "modern hippie." Stepping inside, she directed Lydia and I to a large room filled with a dozen other people, surrounded by various crafts projects in different stages of completion.

After walking around the building for a few minutes, admiring the decades-old architecture, Lydia and I each took a beer from a cooler at the end of a wall lined with communal snack food, and sat down at one of the tables in the crafts room.

Since the entire following exchange felt like it belonged in a movie, I am going to present it to you, the reader, entirely in screenplay format (slightly abridged).

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

TY: Our protagonist. Neurotic. Doesn't do well in social situations, usually seeming reserved and quiet in interactions with strangers. Is not working on an art project during exchange, because he is uncomfortable with doing so in front of other people.

LYDIA: Friend of protagonist and guest to party. Faux-related to WAYNE. Smiles a lot. Can be seen pushing art supplies in TY's general direction when not speaking to group. Is working on a colored pencil drawing during exchange. Fun fact: Shares exact birth date with protagonist.

WAYNE: Host of party. Fauxncle of LYDIA. Has known LYDIA's mother for many years. Is a professional artist, but obviously humble. Can be seen bustling about in the background of scene, worrying about whether or not the inoffensive Indian music playing in the background is offending anyone.

LINDA: Guest to party. Old friend of LYDIA's mother and WAYNE. Larger woman with glasses and a ponytail. Talks in odd voices a lot. Very, very good-natured. Is working on a cut-and-paste construction paper scene during exchange.

OLIVIA: Guest to party. Friend of WAYNE. Young woman with hippie qualities and a beaded bracelet that makes a lot of noise when she shakes her wrist "like this." Is also working on a colored pencil drawing during exchange.

SAMANTHA: Guest to party. Friend of WAYNE. Despite being in her mid to late-forties, has the lined face of a woman that has been through a lot in her life. Is also working on a cut-and-paste construction paper scene during exchange.

CLAIRE: Guest to party. Young daughter of SAMANTHA (aged around 9). Seems intelligent for her age. Is working on coloring a page torn from a coloring book during exchange.

SCENE 2 - INT. SEEDY BUILDING, DOWNTOWN - DUSK

A table at an arts & crafts party. Everyone is sitting around, listening to music and working on various art projects (save for TY). We join a conversation already in progress.

LINDA

(to LYDIA)

Yeah, I've known your mom for years, but I don't think I've ever met you besides when you were a little kid! How old are you now?

LYDIA

(to LINDA, while taking a sip of beer)

I'm twenty. I'll be twenty-one in a few months.

LINDA

(to TY)

What about you?

TY

(to LINDA, motioning to LYDIA)

It's funny, she and I actually have the same birthday. Same year, everything.

LINDA

(to LYDIA and TY, then to entire table)

Well isn't that neat! They have the same birthday!

OLIVIA and SAMANTHA

(in unison)

Ooooh!

SAMANTHA

(to TY)

Can I say something sort of weird? (TY nods) You look just like a guy that was in my art class in high school.

TY

(to SAMANTHA, awkwardly)

Oh...um. Thanks, I guess?

LYDIA

(to TY/table)

Damn, I can't find my phone.

LINDA

(to LYDIA)

I never lose mine. I have my little squirrel pocket.

LINDA reaches into her shirt through the neck and fishes out a small cell phone.

TY

(to LINDA)

I wish I had something like that. You should invent a bra that has a squirrel pocket built in, if there isn't such a thing already.

LINDA

(to TY, then to entire table)

That would be so neat! Guys, I should invent a bra that has a squirrel pocket built in!

OLIVIA

(to LINDA)

That would be so neat!

Shot cuts over to SAMANTHA, who is telling CLAIRE that yes, she may go over to a different part of the room. CLAIRE runs off, enjoying herself.

LYDIA

(to SAMANTHA)

How old is she?

SAMANTHA

(to LYDIA, gazing at CLAIRE lovingly)

She's nine. She's the light of my life. (voice becomes watery) I love her so much.

Aside #2: Based on her sentiments towards her daughter and the way she acted and looked, I formulated an entire fictional storyline in my head for this woman minutes after I met her. Either I am the least imaginative and most observant person in the world, or am the most imaginative and least observant person in the world.

TY

(to SAMANTHA)

What was her name again? I'm terrible with names.

SAMANTHA

(to TY, smiling)

Her name is Claire.

LINDA

(to TY)

I never have trouble remembering names. I learned a trick a while back, where I would make up a song to remember names. Like mine when I met you was (in singsong voice) "Nice to meet you, Ty! Nice to meet you, Ty! Nice to meet you, Ty!"

TY

(to LINDA, laughing)

I'll have to try that sometime.

WAYNE

(walking up to table, to TY and LYDIA, then to OLIVIA)

Do you guys want to come upstairs to my studio with me for a bit? You can come too.

TY and LYDIA

(to WAYNE, nodding)

Sure.

TY, LYDIA and OLIVIA stand up from their seats, bidding the rest of the table goodbye (for the time being).

END SCENE

After this session of banter, the four of us walked over to an old freight elevator located behind the room we'd been in, where Wayne asked the three of us if we'd like to take it, rather than the stairs, to the second floor. Never wanting to pass up a chance to ride a rickety elevator that is older than the oldest living member of my family, I gladly accepted, as did Lydia and Olivia, and we stepped onto it as Wayne ran upstairs to turn it on.

After thirty seconds that were filled with me pontificating to the two women about how old I thought a dolley we'd found on the elevator was, we stepped off of the elevator and followed Wayne down a hallway to his studio.

Aside #3: Yes, I talked about the markings and "tells" of old dolleys for a full thirty seconds, and I could have gone on for much longer. I watch a lot of antiques shows.

There are cliches about artists being messy for a reason, as it turns out. Scraps of wood, finished and half-finished artwork and a rogue glow-in-the-dark dinosaur toy were just some of the things that littered the shelves, floor and every other available surface around the room. It was very endearing.

Then Wayne did something that will make the little stoner in anybody squeal with joy: he pulled out an old aluminum lunchbox.

Aside #4: Totally just implied that all pot smokers store their stash in aluminum lunchboxes. Funny thing is, I'm okay with it, because the world would probably be a slightly better place if that were the truth. Also, if there is ever a drinking/smoking game meant to be played while reading my work someday, all I ask is that right now be a time you take a shot/hit.

While talking to we three guests about various things (cats, sandwiches, beer, etc.) Wayne began putting his pungently-odored weed into a small pipe, packing it down perfectly like a seasoned pro. Soon it was being passed around from person-to-person, as the four of us joked about how one in four people has herpes.

Twenty minutes later, we returned (via freight elevator) downstairs, all occupying our previous seats and positions within the room, as if nothing had happened. As I sat there, stoned and observing the interactions between the motley crew of complete strangers that surrounded me, I had an epiphany and thought to myself:

"Arts & Crafts are pretty cool."

My First Offense

Someone close to me once said that I'm "always doing the right thing, the wrong way." A truer sentiment about my character has never been spoken, especially when you consider a project I tried to start last November.

This "project," if it can be called that, involved me going to large corporate stores during the busy holiday season, stealing toys, and donating them to charities that help children in need. I called it "Retail Robin Hood," and while I won't give the details of my previous escapades for fear of what could possibly happen if they fell into the wrong hands, I do feel safe talking about the time I was caught.

Aside #1: I can't tell people to do what I did, but if you do try it, let me know how it goes.

It was late in November, and on a whim one morning, I'd decided to go to a Wal-Mart not far from the apartment I was living in to see what I could get away with getting away with. Like an idiot, I deviated from my usual fool-proof methods (avoiding cameras and people and quickly putting things in the messanger bag I'd brought in), and decided to try something new. Walking by the electronics department, I picked up a discarded shopping bag and put it in the cart I was pushing. After that, it was more of the usual, with me filling up the shopping bag with the items I'd planned to steal.

But apparently, around this time, I'd caught the attention of an plainclothes loss prevention employee. Just as I was walking out, he approached me, and asked me for proof that I'd bought the items in the bag.

Naturally, I had none, and started freaking out, telling him to "get away from me," and that he had "no right" to approach me like that, never stopping walking.

Aside #2: Totally grasping at straws, here. I wish I could say that I was calm and collected, but I was nowhere near it. I panic easy.

I suppose me not having a car threw him for a loop, because he eventually stopped following me, and I started running. Hiding in an adjecent parking lot, I put the bag of goods in my messanger bag, filling it up completely. After this, I took my sweatshirt off (because I knew he'd submit a description of me to the police, whom he'd said he was going to call), and hung it from my bag since it wouldn't fit inside.

Bad idea. Almost immediately after I'd left the parking lot, two police cars pulled up next to me, telling me that my sweatshirt matched a descrption given by the man at Wal-Mart as someone that had stolen a bag-full of things.

At this point, I realized all hope of escape was lost, admitted my theft, and was immediately put in handcuffs and read my rights. I was then put into the back of a police SUV, which took me back to Wal-Mart to tally up how much the stuff I'd stolen was worth.

Aside #3: You have not experienced embarrassment until you're caught stealing a bunch of little kid's toys from Wal-Mart. It was impossible to explain and not look like either a weirdo or an idiot.

After plenty of sitting and waiting, I was informed that everything I'd gotten away with was worth $155.60, after taxes, meaning that in the state of Texas, I'd committed a misdemeanor offense (which is over $50, less than $500).

So naturally, we went to the police station where I was fingerprinted, photographed, and essentially treated as if I was a murder suspect. I was put into a cell, where I would remain for the next few hours, sitting around with four other people whose offenses had been considerably more serious than mine and trying to sleep.

Aside #4: I take back what I said in aside #3. It's far more embarrassing to admit that you stole $150 worth of toys to a hardened criminal that is in jail for shooting someone.

Then, around midnight, we were informed that we were all going to be moved to an actual jail rather than a holding cell. We were handcuffed, legcuffed, and all waddled into the back of a transport van in the freezing weather.

One particularly bumpy ride later, we arrived at the facility, where we were split up in relation to the offense we'd committed. One of the people that had been with me since the police station, a twentysomething guy named Manuel who was in for drug possession.

Aside #5: I find it necessary to note that he was wearing a Led Zepplin shirt and had violet-tinted (prescription) glasses. He also was not talkative. At all.

The two of us were ushered into a waiting room, where we met up with another pair of offenders that had apparently been waiting for a while. Sitting down next to them (far away from Manuel, who took it upon himself to sit as far away from us as possible), they started talking to me.

This is what I learned about the both of them:

Criminal #1: Brandon

Age: 19

Appearance: Black, handsome, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Job: Worked at a gym teaching kids gymnastics.

Hobbies: Gymnastics, smoking weed.

Reason for being in jail: Punched a guy in the sternum for getting "all up in his face." Nothing else happened past this, he assured me. The person called the police on him and they came to his house and arrested him.

Criminal #2: Juan

Age: 43

Appearance: Hispanic with a lot of tattoos, most religious. Wearing khakis and a polo shirt.

Job: Cleaning pools.

Hobbies: Raising his three kids, smoking weed.

Reason for being in jail: Breaking probation by smoking weed.

The three of us sat there, whispering back and forth to one-another for a few hours while we were waiting to be processed. At one point, a kind-looking female woman in scrubs came out of an office, wrapped Manuel in a thick woolen blanket, and whisked him off to places unknown. We didn't know why.

Eventually, the three of us that remained were ushered into a small bathroom with a half-dozen individual showers. After undressing, rinsing off, and redressing in our one-piece dark blue prison jumpsuits, we each underwent physicals before being lead into a glass-walled holding cell where we had "breakfast" waiting for us.

After finishing our meal (which consisted of terrible oatmeal, a few chunks of syrup-soaked fruit, a roll and a small carton of milk with some burned coffee), Brandon became bored and decided that he wanted to practice doing backflips in our confined cell, much to Juan and I's amusement. He did three before a guard posted outside threatened to come in and "make him stop."

Luckily, before Brandon could find another apparently rule-infringing way to entertain himself, we were removed from the holding cell and taken to a small room with a televison where we were locked in and forced to watch a 15-minute long, decades-old video four times in a row before someone outside the room realized it.

Aside #6: Making fun of that video with the two of them was one of the funniest things I've ever experienced. Brandon's silly, naive sense of humor meshed with Juan's dry, bitter sense of humor perfectly. They made a good comedic duo.

We were then lead into a series of rooms to get our cots, pillows, toothbrushes and other such things before being taken to the block and having a cell assigned to us. Splitting up for the first time in hours, we entered our respective rooms to set up our living areas.

Upon entering mine, I introduced myself to my cellmate (who was covered in gang tattoos and named "Eddie"), and we began talking about what had brought him there. He explained that he'd been cut a deal in a nonviolent robbery case, and was currently on his second day of a six-month stint he'd be serving.

This admission opened a lot of doors for us, conversationally speaking. The two of us sat side-by-side on the bottom cot for an hour, talking about the road that had brought him here and the things he had done wrong in life. He said that he'd promised his girlfriend (by whom he'd had a daughter) that he wouldn't be breaking the law anymore, and that he promised to be a better man after he got out. She'd agreed to stay with him, as long as he kept that promise. It was touching, in its own weird way.

Aside #7: Sometime during this discussion, I brought up the fact that I'd seen Manuel wrapped in a blanket and taken somewhere else. Eddie informed me that this was standard procedure for people that were at risk of harming themselves.

The two of us left the cell after our discussion, and mingled with our "neighbors." After sitting down at a table with Brandon, Juan, and a few people they'd made friends with for a little while, I noticed a small bookshelf tucked away in a corner, and decided I'd walk over and see what sorts of reading material they had in store.

To my absolute shock, I found a copy of one of my favorite books, by my all-time favorite author: "The Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul" by Douglas Adams. Elated, I took it back to my cell and began reading it immediately.

Two hours later, Eddie entered our cell, saying that that I'd "disappeared," and that he was "afraid someone had made [me] their bitch." Laughing, I told him that no, I'd just been excited because I'd found the book, that it was one of my favorites, and that I was sorry to have worried him like that.

Suddenly, a voice came over our cell's intercom.

"Walters, your bail's been posted by your father. Walk up to the front desk with your things," it said, before crackling into silence.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye," I said to Eddie, taking the blankets off of my cot. "Good luck over the next six months. I think you'll be fine."

"I hope so, man," he replied. "I really do."

"Here," I said, offering the book I'd been reading to him. "Read this, it'll blow your mind into a million pieces. You can thank me later."

"Oh, thanks! I was gonna check it out after you'd finished, but I guess I don't have to wait anymore," he grinned.

"Promise you'll read it?" I asked.

"Yeah, I promise," he said, still smiling.

"Alright, because if you don't, I'll come back here and kick your ass. You don't know the things I'm capable of," I joked, keeping my face as straight as possible.

He stared back at me, completely serious, before erupting in laughter and reaching out to shake my hand.

"Nice meeting you, man."

"You too, Eddie. Again, good luck out there in the real world. Don't be an idiot anymore."

And with that, I left the cell. After saying goodbye to Brandon and Juan, I left the building hoping I'd made an impact on at the people I'd met during my 24-hour stay. Because they definitely made an impact on me.

The Stolen Bike Story

I've never driven a car for more than ten minutes in my entire life. My phobia of getting behind the wheel of an automobile has made life very difficult for me, and has made me dependent on either public transportation or biking to get where I need to be. This has instilled a love of riding bikes in me that wasn't there before, and I try to get out and ride as often as possible, just for fun.

Such was the case early last January. Returning to my dad's apartment complex after riding around the area and listening to music for a little while, I rode past a tall, thuggish-looking black guy that said something to me as I coasted past him.

Being the naive idiot I sometimes am, I stopped, took my headphones off, and had the following conversation with him (code-named "John"):

Me: "What?"

John: "Man, that's a nice bike. Where you get it?"

Me: "Uh. Wal-Mart."

John: "How much it cost?"

Me: "Around $100, I think. I don't know."

At this point, there was a second guy walking up behind the first. Latino but equally as thuggish-looking, he joined our conversation (code-named "Ralph"). At this point, I was growing uncomfortable as they stood on either side of me, preventing me from going anywhere.

Ralph: You smoke weed?

Aside #1: I've decided that this is the fucking craziest way anyone has ever introduced themselves to me.

Me: Uh. Sometimes, yeah.

Ralph: You need some?

Me: No, I have plenty, thanks.

John: You got that kush? That kush is dope. Sheeeeeyut.

Aside #2: Yes, he seriously said that.

Me: ...yeah. Dope.

Ralph: You do bars? Bars are the fuckin' shit.

John: Yeah, fuckin' bars man, try 'em.

Aside #3: Bars are Xanax, for those of you not well-versed in drug lingo.

Me: No thanks, I don't mess with pills.

At this point, I put my headphones back on and turned around to ride away. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Ralph punches me in the temple, disorienting me and knocking my glasses off.

Aside #4: "Beat the hell out of anyone that doesn't buy from you" is a pretty flawless drug-selling technique, I have to admit.

Still standing and holding onto my bike, the following was said:

Me: Fucking owwwwwww!

Ralph: You best get off that bike! I'm gonna hit you again!

Me: Fuck off.

So he hit me on the side of the head again. And again. And again. Until I finally let go of my bike. John then stepped in and pulled it away, getting on it and doing what I can only describe as a small victory lap around Ralph and I as we continued to tussle.

He was in the middle of trying to rip my bag away from me, when I decided to yell for help as loud as I possibly could. No one in the dozens of apartments surrounding us did anything, but it successfully scared them into running away.

Still in a daze, I half-ran back to my dad's apartment to tell him what had happened. We immediately jumped into his truck and drove around the complex to try and find them, but were unable to. A theft report was then filed with the police along with descriptions of both of them, with promises to keep an eye on local pawn shops to see if they would try and sell it.

The story should end there. But the next morning, my dad stepped outside to get the newspaper only to find my bike sitting in a parking space across the street from his apartment, as if someone had known it was mine and had left it there for me to find. Aside from missing a few screws and the chain guard, it was in the same condition I'd left it in.

Here's the kicker, though: I don't know anyone in this apartment complex or the surrounding area, the guys that stole it didn't see where I lived (or even the area of the complex that I lived in), and the police assured me that they hadn't put it there. To this day, I still have no idea how it happened. I just take it as affirmation that superheroes do exist.

True Tales of Terror and Trippin'

*Originally written on November 28, 2009.

Last night, I had what was, in retrospect, one of the most bizarre conversations I have ever had in my life.I left work around ten PM, and was in a snack-ish mood, so I decided to go to the gas station across the street for a bag of chips for when I got home. I walk in, and after a few minutes of deliberation, I decide to get ranch-flavored chips. Now, I never get ranch-flavored chips, because I know the effect they have on peoples' breath and overall odor. It smells fucking horrible. I get this, hence I don't eat ranch-flavored chips around anyone, ever. Anyways, the half-retarded, socially awkward part of me felt the need to explain this scenario to the man at the counter. This is, essentially, our conversation:

Man: Hey, how's it going?

Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)

Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)

Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)

Note: Clearly the gas jockey wasn't this well-read. I'm paraphrasing.

Now, let me show you the exact same conversation, this time with my thoughts added in bold and italics text after each exchange:

Man: Hey, how's it going?

Huh. He seems nice for looking like such a tool.

Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)

Now I look like a goddamn crazy person. Oh well.

Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)

Wait, what?

Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)

What? What the fuck? What the fuuuuuuuck? What about my demeanor or appearance made him think that it was even a little okay to tell me about some crazy shit that I don't care about? What the fuck do ranch fucking chips and bad breath have to do with acid and bars and sudden open-ness? Did I give him some secret fucking signal? What the fuck?!

I think it all works best if you think of me having a neurotic, semi-high-pitched voice. But that's just me.

And now, I would like to take a stab at what he was thinking during this conversation:

Man: Hey, how's it going?

I don't know how I know this, but this guy "gets" me, man.

Me: Well, thanks. (a beat of silence) I'm getting these because I'm home alone, and usually worry about how my breath smells after I eat them. But not tonight! (nervous laughter)

He seems to have a dilemma. Let me make him feel better by introducing a dilemma of my own.

Man: Yeah, my girlfriend is waiting at a bar for me right now with three hits of acid. I was supposed to be off at ten and meet her there at ten-thirty, but the guy that was supposed to work after me called in. I have no way of contacting her to explain this issue, so she probably has already taken one of the hits of acid, hoping that I would be there on time and she would be stoned upon my arrival. (does a complete 180-degree turn in his bulletproof glass-guarded cubicle, kicks an empty box, grunting as he does so, turns back around, and grins at me)

I bet he totally felt my angst when I turned around and kicked that box. High-five, self!

Me: ...I know how that is! (more nervous laughter)

See? I knew he "got" me!

I really, really, don't understand how or why this happened. But it did. And I hope gas station acid guy got what he deserved: Some LSD-addled sex in the bathroom of a dirty bar.