Gary – Page 5 – Deep Dark Thoughts

A Workout at Home

Many years ago, we bought a recumbent, stationary bicycle so we could exercise without ever having to leave the house. At the time we made the purchase, I had no idea that “stationary” would be the key word in that description. The bicycle has sat untouched in the upstairs loft almost from the day we brought it home.

It isn’t completely useless. It has turned out to be a wonderful place to hang clothing, towels, and coats. The cup holder is also quite functional, and I find myself frequently taking advantage of the little plastic attachment whenever I am upstairs with a drink and suddenly find myself in need of free hands. I do feel that two thousand dollars was a bit of an extreme investment for a cup holder, however.

As the bicycle has gathered dust, waiting patiently for someone to actually use it as something other than a chair from which to watch television, my wife apparently decided to take pity on it and buy it a friend.

She told me, “I want to buy a treadmill for upstairs.”

“We already have a bicycle that nobody uses,” I pointed out.

“No, I don’t like the bike. I want something I can walk on.”

“Go outside. There are all kinds of streets out there you can walk on.”

“What about when it rains?” she asked.

“We have a bike upstairs.”

“I don’t like the bike.”

That circular discussion went on for about three months. I foolishly thought that’s all it was: a discussion. Then one day, my wife announced that she had purchased a treadmill and it would be delivered in the next week.

“It will get here Thursday,” she said. “Will you be home for the delivery?”

I tactfully pointed out that I have no job to go to, no friends, and no reason to ever leave the house.

“So, you’ll be home?” she asked again.

I sighed and assured her that I would be home on Thursday.

My wife told me that she had paid extra money on the delivery so that the treadmill would be placed in our garage rather than simply pushed off the truck in the middle of the street. I, however, was going to have to figure out a way to get it from the garage, into the house, and upstairs.

“The delivery notes say it weighs three hundred pounds. Is that okay?”

“Okay for what?” I asked, honestly not sure what she was asking.

“Can we carry it upstairs together?”

I admit I probably laughed a little too long and a lot too loud. I think I might have hurt her feelings a bit. To make her feel better, I patted her shoulder and said, “There’s no f***ing way you and I are going to be able to carry that upstairs.”

Unfortunately, it was too late to cancel the delivery, and I was stuck with a three-hundred-pound item that was going to be dropped in my garage in a few days.

Thursday arrived, and a large truck pulled into our driveway. A gentleman got out of the truck and told me that he was dropping off our treadmill and asked where he should put it. I pointed toward the garage since my wife had paid extra for the drop off service.

This gentleman was in his 60’s and might have weighed 120 pounds if he was soaking wet. I looked in the truck for the other people that were going to help him carry a 300-pound crate but didn’t find anyone else. It was just him.

He opened the back of the truck and revealed a single box, bigger than the both of us put together. He scratched his head, then asked me, “Do you mind giving me a hand?”

Sure, why not? My wife had paid good money for garage delivery, and she should get garage delivery. She had just failed to realize that she was paying the wrong guy, since I would be the one dragging it into the garage.

With Phase I (delivery) completed, I moved on to Phase II, getting it upstairs. In a flash of brilliance, I opened the box and pulled out all the smaller, loose pieces and carried them upstairs separately to reduce some of the weight. After about a dozen trips up and down the stairs, I had emptied the box of everything except the treadmill track and base assembly. I estimated I had reduced the overall weight to a paltry 280 pounds.

Piece of cake.

The next thing I picked up was a phone, because that treadmill was not going anywhere without some real help. I called a friend of mine and asked him to come over. My friend (I’ll call him Scott, because his name is Scott and I’m too tired to think of a fake name) was foolish enough to pick up the phone and admit he was home.

To make a long story short, the treadmill is now upstairs, and I owe Scott a massive favor in return for his assistance getting it there. If he calls me next week and asks me to spend the night hiding in his garbage can and shooing away raccoons with a stick, then that is what I will be doing. Whatever painful or humiliating task he asks me to do in the future, I will have to agree to it. After he helped me lug 300 pounds of metal up a flight of stairs, I can’t say no to anything he might ask in return.

Until that day comes, I can only sit back and wait until he decides to call in that favor.

It will probably involve lifting or dragging something heavy. It seems only fair. I should probably start exercising and getting in shape for whatever it is, so I’m ready when it’s my turn. Fortunately, I’m in luck.

I have a treadmill upstairs.

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A Trip to the Store

My wife and I recently took a trip to the grocery store. That’s nothing new. We do that every now and again so we can continue to keep the children alive despite the fact they show absolutely no gratitude for our efforts.

We were going to buy some fresh fruits and vegetables in order to have healthy snacks around the house.

Okay, that was a lie. We went for chips, canned goods, cheese, and sodas. We also stopped for burgers on the way home and ate them in the car so we wouldn’t have to share with the kids. Fruits and vegetables? What am I, a goat? That stuff just ends up going bad at the bottom of our crisper drawer and has to be mopped out with a sponge and a handful of paper towels at the end of every month.

Anyway, back to my initial point: we were going to the store.

Our shopping trips lately have fallen into a routine. Or rather, I should say, they’ve fallen into a rut. This week was no different.

My wife and I arrived at the store, looked at all the cars in the parking lot, and said the exact same thing we say every week.

Wife: “Crowded today.”

Me: “Yup. Why do we keep coming on Saturdays?”

Wife: “We could just go home and try again tomorrow.”

Me: (heavy sigh) “No. We’re here. I’m not driving all the way back here tomorrow. We should just get this over with.”

With the mandatory “It’s crowded” speech out of the way, we climbed out of the car.

We were immediately bombarded by the sound of accordion music in the parking lot. This has been a regular occurrence for many weeks now. Accordion players are like cats. They make a lot of noise nobody wants to hear, they’re difficult to shoo away, and if you make the mistake of feeding them once, they will keep coming back.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman putting money in the accordion player’s music case.

“Dammit,” I muttered. “Now he’s going to be here again next week.”

My wife said, “Leave him alone. He’s not that bad.”

I warned her, “He’s a stray, and we’re not taking him home with us.”

I selected a cart, and we wandered into the store. The first stop on the weekly journey is always the deli counter. The same woman is usually working the counter, so I always wave politely and say hi. She has worked at this particular store in the deli department for at least the last two years and she still has no idea how to do her job. My wife and I have started taking bets as to how she is going to screw up my order each week. We have a bingo card of things she has done, and we pick a new square before each trip just to keep things interesting.

This week, I asked her for one pound of the smoked ham, cut thin for sandwiches. She nodded, told me “okay,” then pulled out a sleeve of meat from a pile on the refrigerated counter. I watched her as she fired up the slicer and shaved off one pound. I was pleasantly surprised when I saw how thin she was cutting the ham. I usually have to tell her three of four times to make it thinner than the three-inch slabs she normally cuts.

She weighed the ham, bagged it, and handed it to me.

“There you go. One pound, honey ham.”

“I asked for smoked ham,”

She smiled and nodded again. “Right, we ran out, so I gave you honey ham.”

I took my incorrect meat, said thank you, and walked away.

You may be wondering why I didn’t discuss the order change with her, but I have tried fixing her mistakes in the past and the discussion never goes well. She doesn’t seem to understand why people care so much about getting what they ask for.

Besides, I had just won five dollars from my wife. I picked winning square #6 in the “what’s the deli lady going to botch up this week,” lottery. I chose “wrong order.” My wife foolishly went with square #7, “breaks the scales,” even though the deli lady had done that the previous week and rarely repeated the same mistake twice in a row.

I tossed my winning honey ham into the cart, and we continued our stroll through the store. The rest of the trip went smoothly, except for a rather long wait at the cashier line at the end. Hence our initial “why do we keep coming on Saturday,” discussion in the parking lot. We left the store about an hour after we arrived, with $200 less in our bank account.

We ran through the parking lot to the car, trying not to make eye contact with the accordion player. Sometimes they try to follow, and when that happens, the only way to get rid of them is throw out a can of tuna or something; then when they stop to pick it up, you can escape while they’re distracted.

This time, we got away without drawing any unwanted attention.

Next week, who knows? It’s always a crap shoot.

When next we go shopping, we will probably go on a Saturday again. The odds are pretty high. Especially since my wife and I never learn from our mistakes.

Speaking of odds and never learning from mistakes, I wonder what the woman at the deli counter is going to do next week. She hasn’t overcharged me in a while, so I think I’ll bet on square number 3.

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Pursuing that Healthy Lifestyle

I need to start eating healthier. I know, everybody says that. But I really mean it this time.

Yeah, everybody says that, too.

My doctor said most people eat too many processed foods, things packed with preservatives or made with sugar or flour that has been bleached beyond having any nutritional value. He recommended eating more nuts, seeds and raw grains for digestion and health.

I asked if that meant I should be consuming more barley and hops. He shook his finger at me and said, “I see what you’re suggesting there, but no. That is absolutely not what I’m saying.”

It was worth a try.

I know I should also be eating more fruits and vegetables, but it’s difficult to eat those things when I’m already full from pasta and garlic bread. There is only so much room in the human stomach. I have tried to add more french fries and potato chips to my diet to cover the extra vegetables requirement. I think that effort has thus far been a success. And since I recently discovered that tomatoes are fruits, I have started requesting extra sauce on my pizza.

Baby steps. But I think I’m heading in the right direction.

At least my diet is still better than my dad’s ever was. All I saw him eat was red meat and the occasional chicken, then he would wash it all down with a couple pots of coffee. I’m pretty sure the only thing that grew out of the ground that my dad ever put in his mouth was tobacco.

Despite his deplorable eating habits, he lived to be 77 years old. I would consider that a good run if I lasted that long. My kids, however, for some odd reason, seem to want me to stick around a little bit longer (even though most of the time it’s my kids that make me think that an early death wouldn’t be so terrible).

So, what is keeping me from changing my eating habits and consuming more nutritious foods? Mostly, it’s that I don’t want to. I like fast food, and junk food, and processed foods. There is a cardboard box in my refrigerator right now with half a pepperoni pizza in it, and there are a couple bags of chips waiting in the pantry for me to bust open a bottle of salsa and go to town on them.

I know a few of you are thinking, “But Gary, there are healthy alternatives to those things. You don’t have to give up the foods, they just need to be made with better ingredients.” To those people, I say, I’ve tried most of that “alternative” stuff, and frankly, it tastes like crap. If you honestly believe that a mashed cauliflower is a reasonable alternative for potatoes, then you’ve never eaten a proper potato mash with garlic, cream, and three pounds of butter. Try it. Your stomach will thank you for it.

Your heart might slow down a little in your chest, but that’s the price of enjoying really good food.

Recently, EM2 wanted to make me a pizza using almond flour in the crust. After a few weeks of pestering me, I agreed to let her do it. She cares about my health and she wanted to do something nice for me. Because of that I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but the truth is, the pizza was awful. It tasted like I was eating the cardboard box that real pizza gets delivered in.

Her next project is she wants to make me a vegan macaroni and cheese, with wheat pasta and cheese substitute made with raw cashews. I don’t fully understand the witchcraft behind these particular ingredients, and I don’t really want to. I’m pretty sure that using cashews to make cheese is how you summon the devil out of hell and into the real world.

I’m going to start eating better. I promise. I just need to pick a day to start. It can’t be today. Like I said earlier, I have pizza in the fridge and chips in the pantry. I don’t like to waste food, so I need to eat those things before I start the diet. That’s just common sense.

I found a couple pouches of instant stuffing mix and instant mashed potatoes in the pantry, too, so those need to be eaten. That means I can’t start tomorrow, either. Maybe next week?

Although, I just noticed there is also an entire box of brownie mix that should probably be used before it expires. Two boxes of yellow cake mix, as well. I can’t let those go to waste.

April. Definitely April.

I will definitely try again in April.

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Beer Run

As a teenager growing up in the suburbs of San Jose, I fully understand the importance of that right of passage known as the “beer run.” I have experienced the thrill of hanging out with that one older-looking kid who could actually grow a beard and had promised that he could buy everyone beer. Fake ID cards could only get you so far, and they were completely useless if the person using them looked like he was twelve and sounded like he had been huffing helium right before he walked into the liquor store.

Parties thrived or died on the strength of the “beer run guy.” Everybody wanted to be his friend simply because of what he could deliver that nobody else could, and everyone wanted to go to the store with him just for the bragging rights, the shared glory, and the ability to say,

“Yeah, I was with Mike when he bought the beer. He even got some condoms while we were there.”

It’s fun. It’s exciting. And it’s also as illegal as hell.

So, when I got hired as a police officer, and it suddenly became my job to catch the “beer run guy,” I admit that I performed my duties with a mixture of professional pride and great ennui. I was happy to keep alcohol away from the underaged kids, but I also realized that I was now that narc responsible for trashing truly epic parties.

The beerus interruptus event in my career that stands out most in my mind, happened at about six o’clock in the evening on a Friday night. I believe the party I destroyed was going to truly be one to remember. I suppose it still was, just not for the reasons the kids had hoped.

I was cruising along a residential street and happened to notice a windowless van driving at five miles per hour below the speed limit in front of me. The van reached a stop sign controlled intersection and came to a complete stop, pausing almost a full ten seconds before proceeding through the intersection. If you know anything about law enforcement – or teenagers – then you understand that such pristine driving habits are highly suspicious.

Someone desperately did not want to get pulled over.

Unfortunately for the driver of this van, despite their careful maneuvering of the vehicle, there was nothing they could do about the burned-out brake light they had neglected to fix. I activated my emergency lights and pulled the vehicle over to have a peek at what they didn’t want me to see.

I contacted the driver who immediately handed me his driver’s license. The license showed that he was eighteen years old. I could see a passenger in the seat beside the driver and I could hear other people moving around in the rear of the van. As I looked inside, I also noticed a case of beer sitting on the floorboards of the van between the driver and his passenger.

With an underaged driver and visible alcohol, I asked the driver to open up the side of his van. For my safety, I wanted to know how many people were back there and if I should call for additional officers to assist me while I dealt with the alcohol violation.

With the van open, I found four other teenagers, and several more cases of beer stacked throughout the van from floor to ceiling. There was more booze in the vehicle than you would find in most Budweiser delivery trucks. There was a party about to happen somewhere, I could tell.

The startled group of wide-eyed high school students were all trying to smile and act casual, as if six kids delivering three tons of beer was a normal everyday occurrence. I smiled back. Then I asked,

“Is anyone in the car twenty-one years old? And before you answer, let me assure you that I will be checking your ID. If it’s fake, someone is going to jail.”

Nobody moved. I think they were too scared to even blink when I mentioned jail.

“No one?” I asked. “Okay, let’s try another question. Whose beer is this?”

Again, there was no response. Only the sound of the van’s suspension complaining about all the weight it was carrying broke the silence.

“Well, if the beer doesn’t belong to any of you guys, I guess I can’t write anyone a ticket for underage possession of alcohol. I also can’t let a bunch of minors drive away with all that booze. That wouldn’t be safe.”

The kids started looking at each other, the expressions on their faces a mixture of relief that they weren’t in trouble and panic that I was going to take their beer.

“I think the best solution here is to dump out all of this alcohol before you drive away. Any objections?”

One kid raised his hand. “Um, sir? You’re going to dump out all our… I mean, all the beer?”

“No, son,” I told him. “All of you are going to pull the beer out of the van and dump it yourselves. And when you’re done, you’re going to put all the empty cans back in the van and take them with you when you leave. I would hate to have to write a ticket for littering.”

The kids filed out of the van like prisoners marching their last mile to the gallows. They pulled the cases out of the van one at a time, removed beer cans, and started popping them open. For the next half an hour, I watched as six kids poured beer into the gutter and threw the empty cans back into the van. It looked like a bunch of miniature abolitionists from the 1930’s making a public demonstration about the evils of the demon alcohol.

Periodically, cars would drive by and drivers would honk their horn or laugh out the window at the display. Everyone that passed by knew exactly what was happening the moment they saw the police car and the beer getting dumped.

The kids muttered amongst themselves the entire time.

“Are we going to have to give everybody their money back?”

“We spent it all.”

“What do we tell the others?”

“They’re going to kill us.”

Wherever the party was, when the “beer run guys” got back they apparently were not killed. At least, I am not aware of any homicide victims discovered in the city the following day, so I assume they were fine. They probably did have quite a bit of explaining to do, however, as to why they had no beer but had still spent everyone’s money.

On the plus side, they now had a story they could tell all their friends, about a mean cop that made a bunch of kids dump hundreds of dollars worth of beer into the sewer.

A story much like this one.

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Confession of a Grammar Nazi

I have a confession to make. It’s not something I generally share or even like to say out loud, but I believe I’ve kept silent about this part of myself long enough. It’s time to tell the world and expose my shameful dark secret. I may lose a few friends over it, but that is risk I suppose I must take.

I am a grammar Nazi.

Yes, it’s true. I know the difference between “then” and “than,” I know when to say “I” instead of “me,” and I can even use “who” and “whom” in the proper order. When friends, loved ones, and family speak improperly, I just smile and nod my head, but deep down I am judging them. I am judging them hard and without mercy.

When I hear the word “supposebly” instead of supposedly, I flinch. If I hear the phrase “for all intensive purposes” uttered, I have to cry silently in the dark for a while. And when someone tells me, “I could care less,” I think I actually die a little inside.

Some of my family members already know this fact about me. My wife in particular has made it quite clear if I correct her speech one more time, that she will bury my body so deep “they won’t find it until long after the statue of limitations has run out for the murder.”

To which I replied, “It’s supposed to be ‘statute’ of limitations.” But I said it very quietly because I don’t want her to poison my food.

My kids have also been the recipients of my grammatical attentions during their lifetimes. The results have been mixed as one of them has become a grammar Nazi herself, while the other is functionally illiterate. I won’t say which is which, but if you ever meet them you can probably figure it out for yourselves.

So, how does one become a grammar Nazi? I’m not sure. I suppose it’s already one strike against you when you are raised by a mother who is a high school English teacher. I cannot remember a time in my life that my writing and my speech weren’t constantly scrutinized and corrected. It started when I was three and I used a set of wooden alphabet blocks to spell “KAT.” When I went to my mom to show her my accomplishment, she shook her head, picked up the “K” block and threw it in the garbage.

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad, but it was close. I recall writing essays for school that my mother would read before I turned them in. (Mind you, I never gave them to her to proof-read; she just always managed to find them.) She would return them to me marked in red pen, and tell me, “You can do better. Turn off the cartoons and fix it.”

While my writing and my grades did improve, my relationship with my mother did not. My relationships with my friends also suffered noticeably. I figured out very quickly that telling your best friend that “irregardless” is not a real word will not be as appreciated as you might think. And, if you happen to mention to that same friend that “doing a complete 360 degree turn” means you’re actually still facing in the exact same direction, that is a good way to get a thorough beating in the parking lot after school.

I learned to keep my mouth shut (mostly) and my opinions to myself (sometimes), but the urge to correct the slightest verbal slipup has never gone away. It’s like any addiction, and I find myself falling off the wagon constantly. If there were group meetings for this, I would happily attend.

“Hello. My name is Gary, and I am a grammar Nazi. I try to nip it in the butt, but in this doggie-dog world we’re all just biting our time while looking for an escape goat to make ourselves feel like we pass mustard. I can only take it for granite that It’s a mute point.”

I think I got that all out of my system.

My own writing and speech is not perfect by any means. I know that. I am constantly learning about things I say or write incorrectly. It can be embarrassing, but in the long run I think it makes me better. It certainly makes me more humble and understanding of other’s mistakes. In fact, if anyone reading this happens to notice a few errors, feel free to call me out in the comment section below. I will accept my lumps with do diligence.

See what I did there?

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Friendly Rivalry

For as far back as I can remember, the fire departments and police departments have had an ongoing rivalry. It isn’t heated or vicious by any means, but whenever members of both agencies get together there are always good natured (and a few not so good natured) comments made about the effectiveness of one agency or the other.

For example, fire fighters refer to police as “blue canaries.” This is a reference to the fact that police officers typically arrive at emergency calls first since there are more of us and we are already in our vehicles driving around when the calls come out. When fire fighters arrive at the scene, they look for the cops. If the blue canaries are still alive and walking around, they know that it is safe for them to come in.

Why does this rivalry exist? I’m not sure, but I think it’s because fire fighters feel emotionally insecure around cops. They know that if they had only scored a few more points on their civil service exams, they too could have been employed in law enforcement.

But despite this give and take, I have to admit that when fire and police are working together, we can accomplish some really great things.

I am reminded of a specific incident that occurred over a decade ago while I was working for the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Office. I was on patrol and I was dispatched to an apartment complex because a man had brandished a knife at a fire fighter.

Apparently, someone living in the apartment complex had stopped taking his medication against his doctor’s recommendations. The man had begun to hallucinate and hear voices and, realizing what was happening to him, he called 9-1-1 and asked for the fire department to come get him and transport him to the hospital where he could get some help. Unfortunately, when medical personnel arrived at his house, he was in the middle of a full psychotic break and he attacked the first fire fighter at his door with a knife.

The fire department called and requested that police respond to assist.

When I arrived, I was met by the Fire Captain on scene, a tall, fit looking gentleman who appeared camera ready for next year’s fire department wall calendar. He smiled at me at like a tolerant sibling whose kid brother has just showed up uninvited to a gathering of friends.

“Dude pulled a knife on me,” he said without any preamble.

When I asked where the suspect was, the captain told me he was still in his apartment.

“He still has the knife?” I asked.

“No.” The captain then held up a rather large chef’s knife.

“He gave it to you?” I said, surprised at this unexpected turn of events.

“When I punched him in the face, he dropped it,” the captain explained. “I picked it up.”

“Do you want me to arrest him for the knife,” I asked, wondering if I had any evidence bags big enough for the blade he was holding.

The fire captain gave me a look like I was being particularly slow on the uptake that day.

“The guy is off his meds. He needs to go to the hospital, not to prison.”

“So, why am I here?” I was starting to feel a bit slow now as well.

“He needs to go to the hospital,” the captain said, enunciating each word very carefully.

“Take him to the hospital,” I said, helpfully.

“He is refusing to go.”

“And…?”

“And he needs to go.”

The lightbulb finally clicked on for me. When somebody refuses to receive any medical care, fire fighters and paramedics do not have the authority to force that person to get help. Police officers, in specific situations, do. This was one of those situations. The captain wanted me to make sure the guy in the apartment went to get that much needed help.

“Where is he?” I asked.

The captain pointed to a ground floor apartment several yards away. The front door was standing open, and through the open doorway, I could see a young man sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding his head in his hands and rocking slowly back and forth. “His name is Kevin,” said the captain before sending me on my way.

I approached “Kevin,” and found him crying in the living room of his apartment. He glanced up at me when I walked into the room and I could see his nose was bleeding. Apparently, the fire captain had a really mean right jab.

“He hit me,” said Kevin.

“You threatened him with a knife,” I said, knowing he was referring to the captain.

Kevin nodded and started to cry again.

I quickly but carefully checked Kevin’s pockets and waistband to make sure he did not have any more weapons and found nothing in his possession.

“You called us for help,” I told him. “The fire department wants to take you to the hospital. Will you go with them and get that help you wanted?”

Kevin shook his head.

“I can make you go, if I have to, Kevin. You know that, right? I don’t want to do that. I think it would be better for you and everyone else if you went voluntarily.”

He shook his head again.

“Why don’t you want to go?”

“I don’t want him to hit me again,” Kevin told me, pointing at the fire captain standing outside.

I almost laughed but I didn’t think that response would be totally appropriate given the circumstances. The only reason Kevin wasn’t already on his way to the hospital was he was afraid the captain was going to punch him. Again.

I asked, “If I make him promise not to hit you again, will you go to the hospital?”

Kevin nodded.

Thirty seconds later, Kevin was in the ambulance and on his way to the hospital, smiling and joking with the paramedics.

“You’re welcome,” I told the fire captain, although nobody had bothered to thank me at that point.

The captain smiled at me, then said, “Hey, Gary. What does a cop and a fire fighter have in common?”

I shook my head, knowing I probably didn’t want to hear the answer.

“When they were little boys, they both wanted to grow up to be firemen.”

And the rivalry continues.

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