Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting

I almost got into a fight this weekend. I say almost with just a hint of sadness.

To put it more accurately, the fight almost got into me.

On Saturday, Annie and I drove out to Kewanee, Illinois to have dinner and drinks with our friends Brian and Kimi. The town of Kewanee is not more than a blip on the radar, known for a monstrous furniture store that encompasses close to half of the downtown. It also has the only remaining Pabst Blue Ribbon franchised bar in the United States. So when we want something cool to drink, we go to Cerno's.

Walking into Cerno's, there is a frosted filigree with the letters PBR ornately emblazoned on the door of glass and heavy, dark wood. To your left is an old bank tellers booth where, in the early days of its existence, the tavern offered a check cashing service to its thirsty patrons. The floor below is a mosaic of stone squares and fifteen feet above it is a baroque display of tin and dusty chandeliers.

The bar is guarded by massive mahogany pillars, each bearing a carved angel. The cherubim wield trumpets, heralding the cold, refreshing beer that won the blue ribbon at the 1893 Worlds Fair. Back lit logos depicting the Pabst hop leaf remind you of the beer you should be drinking.

Things Were Going So Well

The night was going swimmingly, with vigorous chatter about weddings, school, work, and various other endeavors. Annie and Kimi were on one side of the booth, Brian and I on the other, shouting above the din that enveloped our ears. The bar was not full, but it had a half dozen imbibing patrons.

Brian was recounting a story he'd recently heard of Kurt Cobain's early years when Annie grabbed my arm from across the table.

“Chris. Chris! CHRIS!” Her voice escalated as her eyes widened, looking over my shoulder at some unknown danger. As I turned to see what had riled her, a tornado of women came plowing through the narrow bar, aimed directly at our booth.

The four women were drunkenly attempting to exact vengeance for some undisclosed insult by pulling hair, shoving bodies, and slapping whatever they could make contact with. They bounced through the aisle like a pinball of human destruction, inadvertently dragging others into their fray. By the time the brawl reached our unassuming location, there were four or five other people involved.

As I laid eyes on this mess of arms, hair, and insults, I realized that while these men and women were passionately defending themselves and their loved ones, they were not willing to put down their beverages. This made for a messy component of the quarrel that had found itself to our doorstep. Bottles of domestic beer spewed forth like dark amber volcanoes. Their golden, foamy magma erupted across the tumultuous terrain of the bar, falling to rest on our table, our pizza, and yes, on all of us. Unsure of how to proceed, Brian and I stood there, passively ensuring that no physical presence enter our little corner of the bar.

With the beer bottles emptied on our table, someone decided that the only use left for these glass carafes was for bludgeoning. In a high, overarm swing, we saw a man slam the base of a beer bottle into the back of another man's skull. With such force, I'd imagine that one or the other would have caved, but neither object seemed phased. Another bottle flew through the air, landing at my feet in tiny pieces. Imagining the damage that could be done with the dagger-like shards that remained, I slid the broken pieces under the booth and hoped no one would notice. The storm of drunken emotion seemed stalled in front of our table when the Kewanee police force arrived.

That's Our Cue, Exit Stage Left

Judging by the size of the town, I would argue that the majority of the police officers of the self appointed “Hog Capital of the World” were present. They began breaking up the fight, questioning people, and issuing citations. At that point, we decided to take our leave of our beloved Cerno's.

As we walked out, Brian leaned over and said,

“You always say you want to get into a fight. That was your chance.” A true statement, but I think I made the right choice. There were only a few probable outcomes to me joining that fray, and none looked promising:

1. I beat up a girl. I look like a jackass who hits women because he can't take on a real man. Some beefcake seeks retribution and I end up dying in the hog capital of the world.
2. I get my cranium crushed by a bottle of crappy, St. Louis brewed beer. At least if I am going to die at the hands of a beer, I want it to be a good one.
3. I survive the fray, only to be arrested for disturbing the peace, assault, or improper use of beer bottles. I spend a night in the Kewanee clink, next to a man charged with defacing a giant swine statue.

No matter how you cut it, this was not the fight I wanted to partake in. Not that I can really determine what an ideal fight would look like. I'd probably have ten of my biggest and closest friends with me, and I'd be hiding behind them yelling things like,

“Yeah, kick his ass!”

“Take that, punk!”

“That'll teach you!”

Until that day, I'll continue standing strong, ready to defend my family and friends from assault, but none-to-eager to dive into fisticuffs.

Skating, Unscathed

My wife is the eldest of thirty cousins. They range in age from 26 (my wife) to 10 months old – 10 boys, 20 girls. The day after Christmas, as a gift to both the cousins and their parents, the older cousins took all the rug-rats rollerskating. Five of us above the age of 20, corralling upwards of 25 pipsqueaks on wheels. If this sounds like the recipe for disaster, you're probably right. But if you've ever met my wife, you know she's crazy enough to handle it.

As we entered the sheet metaled warehouse that was the roller rink, I was bombarded by early 90's decor – space scenes muraled across the walls, jagged graffiti-esque lines scralling around the rink with chasing lights causing seizures among the faint of heart. An overwhelming odor of shoe spray and floor wax flooded my nostrils. The din of children laughing, wheels rolling on hard wood, and teen pop Bieber trash overwhelmed my ear drums. As my senses adjusted to this new reality, I began to acclimate myself to the new surroundings. I laced up my tan skates, tottered to the edge of the rink like an unsteady child on newly discovered legs, and circumnavigated a few tentative laps.

As I gained confidence in my wheeled abilities, I began to notice the other skaters around me. Although I hadn't seen these people before, I realized that at every roller skating event I'd been to in the last decade, I'd seen the same archetypal skating entities:

Roller Derby Girl

Jet black skates with canary yellow wheels. Striped stockings that end just below the knee, covering her muscular calves. Black hot pants that read,

“SLAMMAHGIRL”. Black jersey and matching wrist-guards. Braided brown hair tied neatly behind her head, and a determined grimace that makes my nervous to be skating on the same hemisphere as the determined amazon.

She skates with a force that commands any novice roller to be wary of he elbows and hip checks.

Grandpa Glider

Do you remember the days when a teenaged couple would go out for sodas at the local diner after a rousing skate at the local rink? White-walled tires and Brilcreem were the standard in the 50's and, for some, it hasn't changed. There is something endearing about the 60 year old couples who are still using the skates from their courting days.

Besides the gray hair and arthritic hands, you can spot these soda shop skaters by their classic skating style. They dreamily glide 'round the rink, kicking their heels back while neatly tucking one hand behind their back. An heir of propriety exudes from a geriatric skater – evidence that they were taught to skate in an age when skating was an art form akin to dancing a waltz or a polka, and it is their sole duty to perpetuate this graceful sport with all their might.


Hockey Star

This guy is the masculine foil to the Roller derby Girl. He's in workout pants and a hoodie, brought his own roller blades, and means business. If the rink would let him, he would bring his hockey stick on the floor to let everyone know he means business.

Although this Gretzky skater is more comfortable on the ice, he can skill cream any amateur on wheels that dares to stumble in his path. As rink rules frown on the practice of flattening children during an open skate, he generally prefers to leap over fallen munchkins, which is preferable, although still frightening for all parties involved.

The speed skate is Mr. NHL's forte. He barrels round the wood floor with the tenacity of a bull, trying desperately to prove the masculinity of his wheels against the more effeminate skaters who might defame his blades.

Homo-Erotic Inline Speed Skaters

As a bi-annual, recreational skater, you are bound to get lapped. It is just something to come to terms with. When you are passed by a skater, you think little of it. But when you are passed by two skaters, crouched for speed and wind resistance, the latter awkwardly grasping the gluteus of the former, you cannot help but feel emasculated.

Completely in-sync, these men share the intense love of skating with the Hockey Star and Roller Derby Girl, but do so in a more graceful manner. Each is in-tune with the movements of the other, arms and legs swinging in unison, focused on navigating the screaming teens and ancient lovers to beat their last time trial. Even their breathing is in-sync as they stream through the masses with balletic grace.

They are so focused on their craft that not even the scathing disdain that comes from the Hockey hooligans can break their composure.

Solo Skater Savant

His custom skates are freshly polished. His wrist-guards are monogrammed. He skates to the beat of a very different drum.

Objectively this man is an incredibly talented skater. Throughout the skate he practices tricks and gyrations that would make figure skaters cringe, seemingly for his own amusement. I would dare say that he was completely unaware of any other presence on the wood that day.

Contorting your legs into bizarre, cartoonish poses while on wheels may be a sign of virility and Casanova-ism in some cultures, but I do not believe that is the case in my own. It was sometimes painful to watch this character groove, slightly off-tempo, to the top 40 musical stylings that blared throughout the rink. I can only imagine that this was a cardio regimen prescribed by some new aged yogi, as he at times resembled Shiva the Destroyer, his arms and legs undulating in a meditative fury.

Passive-Aggressive Teen Bieber Freaks

One of these teenie boppers was having a birthday and, to her chagrin, her mom picked Orbitz Skating Emporium as the destination for her party. Mortified, she refuses to show that she is having fun. With her cadre of screaming airheads, she screams the immortal lyrics of Ke$ha and Justin Bieber at the top of her off-key lungs.

The unfortunate side affect of these squealing ladies, beyond my loss of hearing, was that, in the throes of musical ecstasy, they lost all ability to navigate. These pre-teens morphed from shrill 90 pound drama factories to a herd of moaning water buffalo, incapable of breaking away from the pop-drunk group think that drove them around the rink with ferocious blindness. Woe to the unaware skater who happens in front of this all-consuming ball of prepubescent power.


Uber-Serious Skate Ref

Every sport has rules. Every rule needs enforced. Every enforcer needs a weapon. Give a 22 year old a whistle, striped shirt, and a pair of used skates, and watch them turn from Playstation addict to keystone cop in two seconds flat.

It doesn't matter if you are wearing plastic Playskool skates or professional skate stars, you will receive equal wrath from these skating sheriffs. Do not stop. Do not push. Do not have fun on this roller rink.

There is a certain level of animosity that exudes from these enforcers towards any of the more proficient skaters in the rink. It is as if the ref's are once great remnants of Derby teams, Hockey squads, or speed skating duo's that, due to injury, have become washed up and are forced to relive their glory days as haggard sentries of the rink. They look down their noses at those of us who just skate for fun, and envy the wheeler who can still stand among the pro's. They are trapped in a purgatory of failure and disdain, bearing the scarlet letter of a referee's stripe. The whistle is a badge of honor. Their wheels will forever spin to serve.

Skate On, Sundance

I left that roller rink shorter, sorer, and more aware of a bizarre niche of American culture: the 21^st century roller rink. I will still enjoy a good skate now-and-again, but will exercise caution the next time I venture onto that wooden floor. It's a vicious world that shows no mercy on the faint of heart.

Skate with caution.

Junior McGinniss

I've always thought of myself as German. The name Walljasper comes from a region in Western Germany known as Westphalia. The story that has been told to me is that the Walljaspers came to America in the mid 1800's by way of the port of New Orleans, traveled up the Mississippi and finally landed on what is current day Southeast Iowa. A family of five - mother, father, and three brothers, from which the three clusters of Walljasper that currently reside in the various regions of Eastern Iowa hail.

But this weekend I heard a story of a less prevalent, if not just as spirited ethnicity that flows through my blood. The Irish.

My grandfather, Leroy Joseph Walljasper is the source for our families' Irish lineage. His mother, Maiden name McGinniss, was 100% emerald Isle. While visiting my own homeland (Donnellson, IA), Grandpa, sipping his whiskey, told me a story that reveals an interesting aspect of our family tree. This is a story about Junior McGinniss.

Junior, as my grandfather remembers it, was a man of considerable size. He was a farmer, as most of our family has been, so had a leathery toughness that one gets from long hours and extreme conditions. Junior worked hard, but like his work ethic, Junior knew how to have fun as well.

One of his favorite means of entertainment would be to play guitar at a family owned bar in New London, Iowa – The Farmers Tap. He and a pal named Buddy Jones would play almost every weekend at The Tap, which meant, as a boy in the 1940's, Leroy would be allowed to accompany his parents into town for the evening. The Alamo, a movie theater sat across the street from the tavern, so all the kids would dart across the two lane thoroughfare, pay their 25 cents, and be content for a few hours as they escaped the realities of their prepubescent lives. After the films, they'd return to the The Farmers Tap.

The band would still be rocking when they returned, but the owner let them sit along the wall and watch until the night was over. As grandpa recounts, this could be more entertaining than the features they watched at The Alamo.

They'd watch the people dancing, flirting, and drinking. They'd see their parents, affectionately carousing. And sometimes, they'd see a few folks get a little too lit, get into a disagreement, and then they'd watch as the whole thing dissolved into fisticuffs.

When fights broke out, Junior and Buddy stepped in. They served not only as the entertainment, but also as the security muscle. Grandpa remembers six concrete steps that led up to the front door of The Farmers Tap, and when Junior McGinniss and Buddy got a hold of you, you missed everyone of them as you sailed out the front door and landed squarely on your keister.

By midnight, most of the domestic types had indulged their fill. They paid their tabs, collected their coats and children, and made their way home. For Junior and Buddy however, the night was still young. They'd proceeded an additional twenty five miles through back country roads to Burlington, then across the bridge, into Gulfport, Illinois. Gulfport, to this day, is synonymous with one thing in Southeast Iowa. Strip clubs.

That is where my Grandfathers story ends, but I'm sure that there are many more anecdotes about Junior, Buddy, and all the rest of my Irish forebears.

As I listened to his story unfold, I couldn't help but be drawn into his tale. My grandfather, farmer by trade, has a way of telling a story that catches your attention, makes you lean in close to catch every detail, and lands the punchline at just the right moment, every time. It's something about the cadence of his voice, the word play that is a part of the rural vernacular of Southeast Iowa, or the pure joy that comes from Grandpa as he tells these stories, but I could listen to them for hours. Maybe they're not near as interesting to people who don't know Leroy Walljasper, but I find them as enthralling as any I've ever heard.

My friend Brian Wilcoxon, upon hearing this story, was so inspired that he wrote a song about old Junior McGinniss. In my opinion, it perfectly captures the essence of the story.


Junior McGinniss

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Now sit ye' right down

And I’ll tell ye' a tale 

Of young Junior McGinniss 

That I knew so well 

Young men came to hear  

From miles around 

The boy’s sweet guitar 

and its curious sound 

He’d play for the lads

And he’d play for the lasses

At every song’s end 

He’d drink down two glasses 

And toast to the dancers 

Who’d cheer him by name 

And say “Junior McGinniss 

So glad that you came!” 

He’d sing about future

He’d sing about past 

And he’d play on til dawn and the 

Sunday’s first mass 

And the priest during prayer

Would give quite a yawn 

From drinking the dear blood  

Of Christ all night long 

Young Junior he really  

Could be quite a cuss 

A pain in the arse 

He could be when he must 

All the rounders who came in

To spoil his fun  

He’d throw down seven steps 

without touching a-one

When the dancin’ wore down

He’d pull out a jug

Of the good ole white gin

That he made in his tub

And we’d sing him a song

And young Junior’d get down

And go dancin’ and dancin

All over the town

 

Young Junior McGinniss

Is “young Junior” no more

He’s old and he’s grown

And moved on past the shore

But i know that no days

Will no happier be

Than with Junior McGinniss’

Time here with me

Traffic Patterns & Non Conformists

Standing outside the Harrison Hilltop Theatre tonight, I saw as entertaining a performance from the traffic that passed by on the busy one way street as I did at the production of which I'd just walked out.

We were milling about after the show, discussing politics as they related to the farce on the evenings playbill, The Complete History of America, Abridged. During our conversation a car cruised down the street, pulled out into the intersection, and realizing that he was halfway through the red light, froze, not sure whether to back up into oncoming traffic, or run the light.

I attempted to help him with that decision by beckoning him to simply drive on. At that point, he'd already violated the cease and desist order that the overhead signal had commanded. He shrugged and took my advice. We chuckled and then went back to our conversation.

A few moments later, a peculiar looking car came by. It was bedecked in what appeared to be Post-it-notes. As the car fluttered by, we all did a double take, then agreed that, yes, it must have been Post-its. It should be noted that we cannot verify that they were Post-it-notes, but if they were, that man will never forget where he's going.

We resumed our conversation.

Three minutes later, at the same stoplight, another car pulled into the intersection, then suffered an attack of indecision. Again, I waved the befuddled driver on, and they slowly rolled through the intersection, relieved to make it through unscathed and unarrested. We comment on how odd the traffic has been. Little did we know, it was about to get worse.

Not five minutes later, a woman turns onto Harrison from a side street, and commences to careen up the four lanes of the one way street, against the impending traffic. She must have reached 30 M.P.H before realizing that the massive flood of headlights bearing down on her was an indicator of the grave mistake she'd made. She veered off the by-way, but having no side street to relieve her, she instead opted for the grassy lawn of an elementary school. She sat there for a while, waiting for traffic to slow so she could integrate herself into the proper flow of cars and trucks. A few moments later, a police car pulled up along side her vehicle and blocked traffic, allowing her to sheepishly crawl back into traffic – this time traveling downstream.

This is where the story could have ended, if these two characters hadn't gotten stuck at the now infamous traffic signal directly north of our vantage point. As the woman and the police officer sat at the red light, we stood there and blatantly stared at the two parties. Was the officer going to pull her over for her inability to determine the flow of traffic? Was he going to let her off with the shame of her own malfeasance? The red light stretched on for hours as we discussed the possibilities, not trying to hide our vicarious engagement in this precarious event.

Finally the light changed and the woman timidly wheeled past us and attempted to turn off the main thoroughfare. Her eyes were locked on the road, arguably to avoid eye contact with the group of gawking on-lookers. She crawled onto the side street, careful not to make even the tiniest of mistakes.

Two seconds after she had passed, the officer meandered through the intersection in lukewarm pursuit. He glanced as us and, with a nod and a grin, flipped his lights on and rounded the corner, stopping the woman dead in her tracks.

The roar of laughter from our small contingency rivaled the guffaws of the show, but were so much heartier because the source of the humor was so real. It was so asinine, you can't make this stuff up.

So if you're ever on the corner of 16^th street and Harrison street, and are looking for something to do, just look at the traffic. Countless hours of entertainment, and you'll never want to drive down Harrison Street again.

The Only Thing to Fear...

Annie and I helped pass out candy at a friends house this Halloween. This family has one of the most elaborate front yard horror displays of any I've seen. A graveyard with an unearthed coffin, a butcher shop resplendent with various dismembered appendages, A body hanging from a noose that, when activated, will jerk and kick for its lack of life. It is thorough, to say the least. I agreed to play a part in their terror filled production, along with a few of their other friends. One man was the butcher, carving up arms, legs, and heads. There were people portraying all the horror favorites – Jason, Freddie Krueger, and Michael Myers. I was given a generic goblin mask and told to mill about, jumping out when candy grabbers passed my way. I begrudgingly tried this for a while, but after feeling very awkward and completely not scary, I eventually opted for a more subtle approach. I sat myself down against a hay bale and did my best dummy impersonation. Sitting as motionless as possible, I waited for a group of ghouls to pass my way, then I slowly turned my head, following them with my rubbery eyes. I didn't make a sound. I didn't move any other muscle. I just watched. What I saw was very interesting.

Pre-teens resembling rejects from the Insane Clown Posse came up to the display and shouted,

“Hey! Gimme some candy!”

Sitting next to the candy cauldron, I turned to the terse carnies and clarified,

“Excuse me? What did you just say?”

“You heard me. Gimme some candy man!”

I was having some trouble wrapping my brain around the brazenness of the young mans demand. I pushed him for a more appropriate request,

“I would argue that you've known what to say in this situation since you were old enough to form full sentences. You make the proper request, and I'll give you some candy. That's the way it works.”

The punk shifted his weight, obviously annoyed. He finally muttered those three key words, and I graced him with a packet of sweet tarts and a sucker. As he swaggered down the driveway, I contemplated chucking a jawbreaker at the upstarts head. Maybe the candy would live up to its name. I restrained myself.

A little later, A man bedecked in a white dress shirt, tall socks and a kilt came by with his son who, in a miniature ninja suit, could not have been over two years old. They stopped at the bottom of the driveway and the dad gave his son a nudge toward the house. The karate kid took one look at the labyrinth of horror that lay between him and the candy at the top of the hill and became petrified. At first, he simply turned and began to move on to the next house. When his father insisted he make this trek, alone, he began a more adamant denial. As he begged his dad to let him pass this house by, the father finally proposed a compromise – they would go up together. The virile Scotsman took his sons hand and began the ascent. But the son was not interested, even with his father at his side. He dug his heels into the driveway and began wailing his disapproval. That is when I grabbed some candy and started down the driveway. My intent was to give this poor child the candy he deserved after all the trepidation he was experiencing. As I approached, his face turned from discomfort to sheer terror. Realizing my misstep, I quickly removed my mask and crouched down to assure him that there was nothing for him to fear. I gave him the chocolate peace offering and bid the nervous ninja farewell.

A while later, a mother and her daughter came by. The girl was dressed as a nondescript witch, and the woman was masquerading as a worn out mother. This child was probably around eight years old, and at the sight of the butcher shop, she was very nervous. When Freddie stepped out of the shadows, she jumped and clung to her mothers leg. But she successfully reached the candy cauldron, treated, and began her way back down the driveway. She was still uneasy as she navigated the frights, but when her mother commented on the scariness of the house, the little girl just turned to her mother and reassured her,

“It's not REAL, Mom!”

After the trick-or-treating was over, we all went inside for an amazing smorgasbord of chili, cornbread, pumpkin seeds, popcorn, and cake. The inside of the house was almost as meticulously decorated as the front yard. Garlands, little Halloween cityscapes, candles, and rubber bats. In the corner was an old witch in a rocking chair which, if you got too close, would start rocking on its own. The witch would cackle, her eyes would glow, and finally her head would lift up from her shoulders. One of our friends' brothers was at the party with his two eighteen month old twins. These two children were incredibly inquisitive, unafraid to talk to any of the other party goers, and as rambunctious as can be. Toward the end of the night, the father decided he should get a picture of the two children on the lap of the hideous animatronic witch. As he sat the little boy on her lap, the child began wailing and squirming for his life. He gave up on his son and attempted to get the little girl into the witches maws. Same result. They quickly retired the photo opportunity and released the children back into the fray of the other kids. Watching this exchange left me with some thoughts.

Are we afraid of goblins and ghouls from inception? Is there something inherently scary about the mask that Michael Myers wears, or the Freddie Krueger ensemble? Why were the twins so afraid of the witch? At less than two years of age, had they been exposed to enough to identify a witch, let alone correlate one with fear? When does a child learn to step back and separate the fiction from the fact, and say,

“It's not REAL, Mom!”

And when is it fair to expect your child to strike out on their own and face their fears? When can we expect a healthy amount of rationale to guide us through life? I would argue that it never fully works for some, afraid to face any amount of uncertainty or risk. And for others, the fear reaction is still dormant, causing uninhibited carousing and risk taking, almost to a fault. I think that the majority of us fall somewhere in between. Hopefully we can help guide the next generations through the labyrinths of their own fears, shaping them into cautious, yet bold individuals.

The Ballad of Three Chilean Hearts

This song was born out of a story I heard during coverage of the Chilean mining incident earlier this year. Upon hearing of the mine collapse, locals came in droves to hold vigil for their trapped countrymen. Friends, co-workers, children, wives, and even mistresses. That is where the story gets interesting.

Miner Celebrating Rescue

One of the miners had both a bride and a mistress, and the subterranean catastrophe brought them together in a way no one had anticipated. I can only imagine the conversation they must have had while waiting for their shared love to return. That is where the song picks up.

The Ballad of Three Chilean Hearts

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I came to work today like any other day

Digging coal to earn my bread, turning dirt into my pay

But then the walls came crashing down

Trapping me a mile under ground

Tell me wife I'm doing fine

Stuck down here in this mine

Send food and send some wine

Until then I'll bide my time

I lay these flowers down for my man underground

Our lady pray for us, bring him home safe and sound

Oh god bring my husband back to me

Back to the surface where he's s'posed to be

Tell my husband that I'm here

Tell him there's nothing to fear

I will hold this vigil dear

I will not leave till he's appeared

My love so soft and sweet again when shall we meet

I miss your loving touch In that soft and sweet retreat

My darling soon I'll be above

Hold on tight and do not fret my dove

The darkness of this cave

The secret love we made

Your scarlet passion of saves

Gives me strength and keeps me brave

I heard the new's today my lovers trapped down there

In mourning I will wait until he's in my care

Who are you waiting for my dear

Why does that picture look familiar

My man's been at your door

Senorita tell me more

although you are a whore

Right now I hate him more

Show me the light of day endlessly I fervent pray

Unite me with the one I love and above ground I'll always stay

Is that the rescue team up there

Tell my flower God will soon answer her prayer

As we ascend this hell

My good fortune will tell

Dios me you've served me well

I avoid the death toll bell

Upon the blinding light here I meet a frightening sight

One I'm wed and one I might on a desperate lust filled night

Never were the twain supposed to meet

Suddenly the cavern seems a sweet retreat

Both of you I can explain

No need to be profane

Oh god they wish me pain

Deliver me just once again

Feel free to share your thoughts, comments, and suggestions. Please realize that this is an extremely rough cut of this piece – an early draft. stay tuned for harmonization, as well as the possible addition of some accordion accompaniment.
 

Mousetrapping

My old apartment had a great deal of...character. By character I mean quirks that, in retrospect, I see as charming, but during my tenure at 124 w. 13th street, were traumatizing.

There was the old claw-foot bathtub that groaned every time I turned the handles and required I purchase three shower curtains to create a polyvinyl barrier between the iron rich water and the rest of the bathroom. No matter how I tried to position the curtains, water would inevitably cascade out of the tub, thanks mostly to the shower head that was positioned around my shoulders, causing the majority of the water to ricochet off my body and onto the walls, ceiling, floor, then eventually the ceiling of the apartment below.

And there was the weird hallway to nowhere that ran parallel to my apartment and acted as a storage unit for all the stuff I didn't know what to do with, confusing all my guests as they thought they'd entered my closet.

“Just climb over the golf clubs, sidle past the bike, and come on in!”

The cavernous gaps between the baseboards and the scuffed hard wood floor didn't seem to be a problem when I first moved in. But as the temperature began to cool and autumn set in, these shards of open space looming at my toes became welcome entrance for some unsavory visitors.

The first record of these skittering house guests was while I was away at work. I received a call from Annie, who'd been hanging out at my apartment awaiting my return.

“Get home...NOW!”

Evidently she'd been confronted by the verminous presence in my apartment, and the altercation forced her to retreat onto the futon, where she remained marooned until my return home. The monstrous rodent had shown itself, chased her onto the couch, and held her hostage the whole night through. Something had to be done.

I called the landlord, who after a week, finally left a stack of sticky traps at my doorstep.

I am not a complete pacifist. I eat meat, although not in great amounts. I've been hunting. I am saddened, but not heartbroken when I run over a squirrel in the street. I attempt to alleviate unnecessary suffering in the world.

I am ardently opposed to sticky traps.

The thought of a little rodent struggling to remove its flesh from the gooey surface of that sickeningly pale yellow card is unbearable. Like a miniature wooly mammoth, wallowing in the sticky tar pits, the little furry creature would contort its body, vainly attempting to loose his paws from the adhesive prison. And I'd be the responsible party. I was the one who cast him into the slow, painful death that would inevitably follow.

I discarded the Guantanamo torture traps, and opted for the more traditional, guillotine of pest control, the Victor Mouse trap. Quick, simple, effective. And then I remember something that my mother had once told me.

She lived on a farm as a girl, where mice were everywhere, and crafty. If you put a trap out, with a morsel of cheese or peanut butter, the mice will slyly sneak around to the bait and, with their intricate little paws, remove your ruse and make off with the goods. The key to outsmarting the vermin is in the use of the cereal box.

So, placing an old cereal box on its side, I slid the snap trap into the box, making the only path to the glob of goober pea butter directly over the trap. I then slid the box behind the stove, a high traffic zone for the little interlopers, and headed for bed.

The next morning I arose and groggily stumbled into the kitchen, searching for clarity in my still slumbering brain. As I walked in, I was met with the crunch of an empty cardboard box flattening beneath my foot. The cereal death box I'd contrived the night before lay at my feet, at least 36 inches from its original post. I glanced about uneasily. In the middle of the room was the trap I'd meticulously placed not twenty four hours prior. And clasped in its maw, the creature I'd been attempting to quell.

While rendered immobile, the mouse was anything but dead. I have never heard a rodent spray such a vile torrent of hisses and wails. It seemed that the animal had attempted to pick his way through the gauntlet I'd laid down, resulting in his hind quarters becoming securely fastened to the trap. Refusing to admit defeat, he dragged himself and, evidently the cereal box, across the room, until he could crawl no longer. There he proceeded to thrash against the wood and metal kept him hostage, cursing Victor with all the energy left in his little carcass.

My first inclination was to return to bed and hope that the little beast die during the ensuing REM cycle, but I knew that he would not allow that. The gnashing of teeth would be too much to block from my ears. I knew I had to do the only humane thing left. To rectify the suffering I had brought into this world, I had to finish the job I started.

I looked around for some device suited to bludgeoning small mammals. My options were and old broom, a baseball bat, and a shoe. The broom, I decided, would be too flimsy to terminate the rodent. The baseball bat seemed to be a good option, but the surface area was so small, and I was a bad hitter when I was in my prime, let alone at 7:30 in the morning. It may sound effeminate, but I liked my shoes to much to consider soiling them on an unavoidable mouse slaughter. That's when I spied a metal dust pan. It had a broad face, it was hard enough to provide the crushing blow I needed, and it could be washed fairly easily.

I used the dust pan to nudge the mouse onto a newspaper, so as to avoid bloodying the floor. As he squealed with pain and terror, I bent down, taking care not to get too close to the enraged captive, and let loose a salvo of downward blows in the general direction of the newspaper. Without looking at the carnage, I listened for movement. Hearing none, I delivered a few more slams, then peered over the dust pan I so timidly wielded.

It was done. Laying at my feet was the dilapidated carcass of an innocent little mouse, almost indiscernible amid the blood and newspaper that had co-mingled in the prior destruction.

Dropping my dust pan of death and destruction, I gave up on trying to salvage the rest of that morning. I returned to bed, blocking out the tiny screams that still echoed in my ears.

Those wails must have warded off any other trespassers, as from that morning on, I saw no evidence of rodents in my apartment. That poor animal died so that other scavengers might live. His death rattle served as a warning to all other mice, rats, chipmunks, squirrels, and even beavers. For that reason, this mouse did not die in vain.

And for that, I owe him my eternal gratitude.