Trash Talk, Part 1

During my senior year in college I became buddies with Mike Mooney.

Mike was an enigma: witty, moody, intellectual, athletic, and occasionally all at the same time. He also liked to drink, hated authority and greatly enjoyed  as campus alley cat, although I’m not exactly sure what the girls saw in him; especially since he saw so little in them, except maybe a good time. Whenever Mooney talked about date-night with of his honeys he made a point of running the recap through a verbal Cuisinart and making sheer vulgarity out of it. Which, he clearly enjoyed.

 

Shoot, I was no choir boy. Even so, there were lines I wouldn't cross even when the subject was “people I don’t like”. Yet Mooney's vocabulary sank to the gutter when he talked about those he supposedly did.  So there were those who, rightfully, may have considered Mike crass, a cad and a jerk. He wasn’t concerned. And I wasn't dating him.

 

But I did find him hysterically funny. And sometimes I could even make him laugh, too. And one night, under the influence of too much mirth and maybe a can or two of Coors, Mike and I decided our warped senses of humor were far too amusing to be wasted on ourselves. And that's when "The Trash" was born.

"The Trash" became our mouthpiece, a direct lampoon rip-off of The Flash, the tri-weekly campus newsletter. It was an almost dead-ringer, right down to the same bullet point format, layout and typeset. We even capped on how it was published. The Flash was paid for and published by the ASWC, or Associated Students of Whitworth College. "The Trash" was paid for and published by us- Mike and me- under the guise of the ASOV, the Associated Students of Opposing Views.  And while we didn't exactly oppose everything, we certainly made fun of everything. Every "Trash" bullet point mocked something; the more off-the-wall, the better.

Mooney and I split up the work. We both wrote, usually late at night, and before going to print Mike added the finishing touches with some crude artwork. Sure, we pushed the limits of good taste but always stopped just short of going too far. But when we did somehow manage to smear somebody or sacred cow, whether deliberately or accidentally, the writing was clever enough (and shrouded in enough layers of hyperbole), that it’d be hard to recognize the slander for the trees. And if a stink ever was raised, well… carrying on the long-standing tradition of insufferable college clowns everywhere, we simply didn't care.

But honestly, nobody ever really complained. In fact, from what we could gather everyone who read "The Trash" seemed to like it. We’d leave some around in the dining hall and Hub, or tacked to bulletin boards in other common areas and then watch and wait to see how people’s reactions. They didn’t know we’d put them there so the feedback was true and spontaneous. It’d start with a smile. Then progress to a mild chuckle, before escalating to bellowing laughter. By then, the person with them or standing behind them in line was demanding to know what was so funny, would be directed to a copy and the process would play out again. Apparently, "The Trash" and the ASOV were a hit.

Mike and I were enjoying our behind-the-scenes popularity and new-found success, and would’ve loved to take "The Trash" to the next level. However the expense was well beyond our means. It cost us about 4 bucks a week just to get 50 copies made. Even splitting the cost, there was no way we could afford pushing that up to 1500, which would’ve ensured campus-wide distribution. But then fate intervened.

We missed putting anything out during the week after Homecoming. I think we were both actually busy with class work that week. However instead of it being a set-back, the oversight apparently produced a ripple effect, all the way to the upper echelon of student affairs. We knew that was true because the Student Union Vice President posted a message in The Flash, the real newsletter.

Missing- Last week’s copy of The Trash. If you can help, contact Box 221.

Mooney and I were both amazed- and curious- and, naturally, couldn't resist getting a reply into the next Flash: 

 

Dear Box 221: To get The Trash, meet us at the campanile at 12:03 p.m. this Friday.

 

Whoever Box 221 was, they'd know the message was legit because we always made fun of the campanile- a campus landmark - and fictitious events described in "The Trash" never ever began on the hour. So the random time of 12:03 made perfect sense to us. And if anyone showed up, great, if not we'd rip 'em in "The Trash". Either way, Mike and I would be amused and have something else to write about. But Friday of that week at precisely 12:03 p.m., on one of those last really nice October days in the Northwest, where fall still fights to hold off winter, Mike and I were huddled underneath the campanile with the vice president of the Student Union.

At first, we thought we were going to be called on the carpet for our impertinence and ordered to stop.“Oh, no", Joanie, the VP assured us. "We love your stuff. In fact, I think everybody loves it and wants to know where they can get a copy. The phone in the office is ringing off the hook."  Really? We hadn't expected to hear that. And after fifteen minutes of conversation and negotiating, Joanie offered to have the ASWC pay for and distribute "The Trash" if we agreed to gentle it down a bit.

"Are you talking censorship?” Mike asked warily.

“Absolutely not. We’re not going to edit anything. In fact, nothing is really changing. You keep writing "The Trash" just as you are now. Just, ya know, when you can, be nice. The only difference is telling the print shop to bill the ASWC. And we’ll make sure it gets in everyone’s mailbox."

Mooney looked in my direction, but there really wasn't anything else to discuss. We both knew it was too good a deal to pass up and, after shaking on it, the meeting was over. “Okay, we’re going this way. Don’t follow us.”, Mike whispered as if we’d just emerged from a secret bunker even though it was the middle of the day and about a hundred other people were milling about or crossing the Loop Joanie, playing along, whispered back. “Okay. I'll go that way" and began walking in the opposite direction, towards the HUB. She disappeared into a gaggle of giggling girls, and I took a stray Frisbee off the noggin from some schmuck who didn’t know how to throw one. Then Mike and I vanished back into the dorm to write. And every Thursday after that, except over Christmas and spring breaks, Mike and I put out a new copy of "The Trash".

Our work remained scintillating silly, but we weren't hiding behind the cloak of anonymity anymore. Not as much, anyway, because some people- at least some people in the dorm- had figured out or knew first hand that Mike and I were "The Trash". Which was starting to feel okay. And though Mooney labeled me "The Big Cheese" of the operation, I was merely his friend and collaborator. I knew he was the driving force, the more gifted wordsmith and for sure, without his unrelenting impetus, "The Trash" wouldn’t have happened. And without Mooney, it wouldn't have been as fun.

 

Too bad in the end, he had to spoil it. More next time.

Waiting for the Dough

I was having a Monday-type of morning the other day. The type of scatter-brained day where just putting one foot in front of the other is an energy-draining challenge and going back to bed seemed like the least objectionable option. Unfortunately, I couldn't return to my blankies and it really was Monday.

The commute to work is about an hour and I had just enough gas to get half way there. No problem. That's how it usually works out. Of course, I knew I was running short on fuel on Sunday, and had ample opportunity to fill the tank up then. But no. I didn’t. I drive a small Toyota Tacoma pick-up and rack up around 500 miles a week. And though the mileage is pretty good, I find it eminently satisfying whenever I can squeeze just one more day off the calendar before having to feed the gas tank again. So, no. I didn’t fill it up on Sunday.

Again, though, this wasn’t a problem. I reached the half-way point of my daily drive at a Shell station just a half block from I-80 in Auburn. So far, so good. There was even a smidgen of daylight left above the ‘E’. Stopped in front of an empty self-serve pump and fully expecting to fill up, I reached for my wallet to pull out the Shell card to do just that and found....no wallet. It wasn’t in my pockets or in my lunch box. It was nowhere. No wallet meant no credit card to buy gas, no cash to buy gas, and nothing of value to even barter for gas. Nada. Zip. I couldn't even prove who I was.

A shell-shocked feeling of imminent dread came over me.

Oh, come on; it has to be here, I pleaded under my breath calmly, a state of being which lasted about three more seconds before I began flinging stuff all over the place in a frenzied search for the absent billfold. Lunch box, emptied and turned over; laptop turned inside out; books swiped to the floor. No wallet. Nothing Still cursing at the truck- as if that’d be helpful- I screeched away from the pump and stopped ten feet later at the air and water station where I began tossing everything from behind the seat out onto the pavement- tarps, tools, bungee tie-downs, tire chains, the jack; everything. It looked like I was moving out. Or in. Or setting up a yard sale. But the wallet remained M.I.A.

There wasn't enough gas to return home or make it the rest of the way to work. I was stranded. Fortunately, I did have my cell phone and called Amy to explain the predicament. She'd just pulled into work herself, but without complaint agreed to back-track home, grab the wallet and bring it to me. Such a trooper. I was at least 25 miles from our house, so this hand-off was going to involve about an hour of her day and a 50-mile round trip. Then I sheepishly called Andrew, my supervisor, to give him the heads-up that I might not be showing up till Tuesday.

Next, I stowed all the far flung items back to their rightful places. All the things tossed on the ground were gently returned to the backseat of the cab. Then I calmly replaced all the stuff tossed about the front seat and settled in to wait. And fume. It'd be at least a half hour before I'd be going anywhere. So I sat back and killed time listening to the radio and watching cars go by- cars who's owners did have wallets and did have credit cards- and tried not to think of all the work I wasn't getting done.

About 35 minutes later, Amy called in. "I've looked everywhere. I can't find it". Damn. I always left the wallet on the kitchen table together with my car keys and key card from work. It could be no place else. "No, it has to be there!" I yelled, because yelling always resolves a problem quicker. Err,, makes my position more valid. Errr… well,  never mind. Amy asked again, "Are you sure you've checked every place in the truck?"  What a ridiculous question, I thought. Of course I had. Did she think I was that stupid? But to re-prove my point and humor her I did a quick double check.

I got out of the truck, got down on my knees and, in contrast to the panicked frisk done before, searched everyplace including under the driver's seat. There, ya happy? But before I could become even more self-righteous and snarky, fate stepped in and, like stumbling upon the Holy Grail, there it was- my little brown leather wallet, wedged under the seat and in plain view. How I missed it, I don't know; I guess it fell through the cracks sometime on Sunday and I simply forgot about it. All my angst wasted, the silly thing was there all the time.

I breathed out a huge sigh of relief and apologized to my betrothed for pitching a fit and behaving like an out-of-control buffoon. Then I filled the gas tank, texted my boss and proceeded merrily on my way. Moral of the story: I’m an idiot. Well, sometimes anyway. For sure I’m a little high strung, quick to lose patience and slow to think things through; not the most useful reactions during a crisis. Or, non-crisis. But after all the self-flagellation, not to be overlooked was the teachable moment.  It came after I got down on my knees and actually opened my eyes. That's when I found what I was looking for.

I knew there had to be a lesson in there somewhere.

 

 

 

Wake Me When Its Over

It was an abrupt and alarming way to start the new day. I woke up with my heart racing like I'd run a marathon. I wasn't sick and my ticker wasn't about to give out. It was just a dream. But when fully conscious and my wack-a-doo pulse returned to normal, I silently thanked God for letting me come out of it alive and apparently still breathing.

I don't usually remember dreams, even the bad ones. Which I guess is a blessing because the ones that stay fresh upon arising are generally of the nightmare variety. Yet if I put my mind to it I can fondly recall a handful of really cool dreams; the kind I'd stay gladly asleep so I could dream them longer. But I don't get to dream like that very often because most of my nocturnal visions seem not very pleasant. Disturbingly tragic yet nonsensical. Think 'King Lear' with Bart Simpson cast in the lead. 

Actually I'm not sure how often I dream, but this one from the other morning I was only too happy to wake up from. I was a passenger in a car being driven by my late grandmother. Grandma Mason was a notoriously bad driver; an accident waiting to happen. Surviving any ride with Grandma- even to the grocery store and back- was good; good for subtracting 6 months to a year off of anybody's lifespan. Anyway, we were on a big freeway going someplace indiscernible. Traffic was generally light, moving along at a normal speed, and it was a perfect sunny spring day. The sun was to the left and going down, but still high enough to produce a rich late afternoon glow.

Grandma was yammering on about something I wasn't interested in and not paying attention to the road, when the car began to drift. It was like something bumped us, but glancing around I noticed no other vehicles nearby. But the car didn’t slow down. It was like nobody was behind the wheel which, when driving with Grandma was probably a good thing. But after the mystery nudge, the car picked up momentum and glided towards the shoulder of the pavement. Other traffic seemed to see us, though, and seemed to gravitate away, giving us a wide berth for us to continue moving off to the right, as if that’s exactly where the car wanted to go.

Feeling a touch nervous, I said, "Gramma slow down a little, okay?" But she wasn't paying any attention to me or anything else; she was gabbing about some apple pie recipe she wanted to try with eyes focused on the horizon and driving undaunted, as if nothing unusual was happening. Still whizzing along on the fringe of the freeway, I stared through the windshield and noticed a drop off in the pavement coming up very quickly. As we drew closer it appeared to be a pot hole. And if Grandma didn't slow down we were going to roll over the concrete depression at about 65 miles an hour; a  jolt sure to cause a blowout or really ding up the alignment. That was my last thought as the front tires went over the lip of the pothole.

But it wasn't a pothole.

As the car cleared the dip, it soared into an abyss as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon. The giant maw looked dark and foreboding, and the walls and base appeared jagged and unforgiving. As we continued to fall, I had the quick presence of mind to wonder why in God's name we were careening into this ocean-sized open trench. Where'd it come from? Who bumped us?  Why weren't any warning signs posted? I wanted to push the door open and jump out. But it was stuck shut and wouldn't have been any help anyway--the car was already tumbling into an inescapable plunge and moments from hitting rock bottom. We were clearly about to die.

That's when I woke up.

My mind ran in a million different directions trying to interpret the imagery I fortunately woke from. Was it a warning; a foretelling of doom and death. Like the 'Ghost of Christmas Furture', was it a spooky spirit showing me how I'm going to meet my mortality? Should I be worried? Should I never get in a motorized vehicle again?

Nah. It was none of that stuff. Just all those terrifying car rides with Grandma finally coming back to haunt me. LOL...Have a nice day.