Mickey Hadick

When I landed my first job after college, it was in Columbus, Ohio, and I was living in Cleveland at the time. I had picked out an apartment during one visit, but I needed to return there to sign the lease. On a warm, sunny Friday in August, I borrowed my father's Delta 88 and drove to Columbus.

Two friends accompanied me, Ron and The Swan. Our plan was to sign the lease, have some lunch, maybe bum around, and then return to Cleveland. It's a two hour drive, and I was happy with the company. Ron I had met at school, and The Swan was from the old neighborhood. We all played hockey together. At the time, we thought we had everything figured out.

Signing the lease was trivial. By 11 am, we were all done. The Swan then suggested we go downtown, because it turned out there was a girl who worked there whom he had met at Put-In Bay earlier that summer, and he wanted see her.

We all tramped into the Treasury Building, and wound up in her office space. The Swan bought flowers on the way, and she was impressed by that, but couldn't get away at the time.

The three of us decided on lunch at a T.G.I. Friday's®. I don't remember exactly where, but those places were everywhere then, and all the rage. The staff wore the red striped shirts and suspenders, as they still do. The menu is still probably the same, but I don't remember what we ate.

What I do remember is that the bartender was a handsome, thickly built, blonde woman. She was friendly, but, then, those people are mostly paid to be friendly. She seemed friendlier, though, as we began to drink.

We passed the time telling stories from our hockey days, and from our school days, and from the old neighborhood. The Swan had quite a few conquests with women (more than I'll ever achieve — not that I'm keeping score) and he regaled us with those stories even as he became friendlier with the bartender.

When happy hour was announced, we were feeling pretty tight already. The bartender — I believe her name was Diane — was feeding us drinks without charge. She poured one horrible drink, a Green Lizard, made with 151 proof rum and Green Chartreuse®. It was awful but effective.

Ron was inspired to blow fireballs with 151 proof rum, which, it turns out, is frightening indoors, but quite a crowd pleaser (other than the woman whose jacket was singed).

At six p.m., Diane's shift ended, and she had the bright idea of joining us on our trip back to Cleveland. First though, she wanted to stop by her place and get some pot. Nothing says "What the heck" quite like a drug run with a strange woman after six hours of drinking.

Without much more thought or discussion than what has been presented here, we started back for Cleveland. Because I was driving, I passed on the doobies (safety first kids!). Ron just completely passed out. From the exhaustion of the day's activities, conversation became a little more strained. The last hour drive was quiet.

There was also the little problem of Diane. Having spent the afternoon with her, I wanted nothing more to do with her. I didn't even want her in my father's car, let alone smoking fat ones in the back seat. The Swan had actually been the most friendly with her, but there was no discussion of where she would stay, or how she would return to Columbus. I began to suspect that Ron's unconsciousness was something of a convenient way to stay clear of trouble.

I pulled into The Swan's house, and hoped for the best. I helped Ron go inside (he rented a room from The Swan). Swan bid me good night, and Diane followed him inside. I drove the rest of the way back to my father's house with the windows down, hoping to air out the car.

When I moved to Columbus two weeks later, I made a point of never returning to that T.G.I. Friday's®.

Labels: memoir

I eat a lot of bananas, and so does my son. It's not unusual for him to eat four in a day. I'm always good for two, occasionally three, and today I had four. I like them ripe, and have been known to eat them when they are dark brown on the outside, almost to the point of turning greasy and black. I will usually slice away the bruised and rotten parts, but not always.

When I shop, I occasionally am a little self-conscious when I pile eleven pounds of bananas on the conveyor belt. I have a line ready just in case the clerk asks what I do with them. I'm going to say that I have a chimpanzee, and he gets really pissed off if we run out, and that I'm tired of scrubbing feces from the wall after he throws it. But the damn clerks never ask.

I guess the clerks see it all anyway, and don't particularly care to begin with. Condoms and cucumbers and coupons? Whatever. Price check on the zucchini? Sure. They are making their four or five or six dollars an hour (I really have no idea) and it's a grind of a job to stand for hours on end, dealing with repetitive motion and cranky customers who can't count, use checks, or smell bad. They have to deal with baggers that can't bag and managers that don't care.

But how many people do they see buying twelve pounds of bananas at once? Aren't they just a little curious? Don't they want to ask? Couldn't one of them ask just once. I really want to give them the chimpanzee line.

Labels: standup

I love the first cup of coffee in the morning like nobody's business. The aroma turns my head and draws me near as it brews. The sound of the coffee dripping into the carafe brings excited anticipation. And when I pour that first cup, I marvel at the multi-colored bubbles that form, thanks to the oils of the bean that miraculously survived the brewing process.

When I drink that first cup, it is all wonder and ecstasy. My problems become solvable, my goals achievable, and my outlook is rosy and full of joy. Even my bad knee stops hurting. I sit at my desk and begin to work, sipping frequently at that first cup of coffee.

But just five minutes later, the heat has begun to leave my coffee mug, and I grow suspicious. Did I have the correct amount of coffee grounds in the basket? Was the carafe clean? Is there something wrong with the water?

As the coffee cools, it is also exposed to the air and begins to oxidize. So I return to the carafe, and pour a second cup.

But the second one is lousy. Worse than lousy, as now it is just as oxidized as the first, and has grown bitter under the heat. I wonder, "Why do I even like coffee?"

I really need one of those single cup brewers. It'd be like meeting the love of your life for the very first time with every cup of coffee. The spark, the excitement, the arousal. Whew, now I need a cigarette.

Woot.com had one of those brewers a few months ago for $20, but I missed the deal. I may never forgive myself for that.

Labels: standup

It used to be that how one squeezed the toothpaste tube could ruin a marriage. If you were a ham-fisted buffoon that grabbed the tube in the middle, you'd soon trap a third of the toothpaste at the bottom. And what a horrible reminder to your wife that she would never be caressed gently or tenderly by her husband, for here was a man that could only manage the crudest of touch. A man like that would be better off single, using his heavy grip on jackhammers.

Back then, the tubes were metal. If you don't remember that, then this whole story is pointless. Nowadays, there are plastic tubes and small bottles for toothpaste, both of which are immune to the squeeze from the middle problem. There are also pump driven cylinders that draw the paste out vertically.

If you remember the metal tubes, do you also remember the plastic key designed to grip the bottom of a metal toothpaste tube. Once installed, you would turn the key (which folded the tube over itself neatly) to squeeze out toothpaste. When the tube was nearly empty, you'd have this huge wrap around the key of tube, and just a little nipple at the top. Without tension, the key would unwind slightly, and the unraveled tube suggested a form of abstract art to me.

My wife and I keep our own, seperate toothpaste. There is no risk of arguing over how the tube was squeezed, or if one us misplaces the cap. Is that progress? I'm not so sure.

We go about our lives like roommates, never really testing the water to see how volatile our marriage might be. With separate toothpaste, separate shampoo, and separate closets, are we even married? Marriage is about conflict, stress, and the constant threat of divorce. Yet, by depending on each other to not screw up the toothpaste tube, my parents found meaning in their lives, and probably love.

I can't believe that modern culture has robbed me of that possibility.

Labels: standup

I. If something bad happens to me, that's tragedy. But if it happens to you, that's comedy.

II. Tragedy plus time equals comedy.

III. Everything is really just a dick joke.

IV. Getting hit in the balls is always funny to someone.

V. Words with the 'K' sound are funny.

DISCUSSION

These laws have been gathered from the greatest comedic minds of the past three millenia, except for Aristotle. He thought he was funny, but really wasn't (which, by the way, is a fine example of tragedy).

Law V. is a little shaky, and may be revised at some point. Well, it's immutable, so it can't be revised; so we may just cut the little bugger (just as long as we don't cut my little bugger).

Labels: standup

I'm usually a very upbeat person, but coming home was tough today. I had to clear a clogged drain--that was my mission for the evening. I came home to find the mailbox knocked from the post out on the curb. So in the freezing rain, I repaired that. No need to rush inside,

Once I did go inside, I discovered my son sick with a cold (nothing serious) but he is not a good patient. He suffers greatly any illness. He complained about feeling sick, having a sore throat, and that he needed a better pillow.

I scrounged for my dinner, finding scraps on the table and in the fridge. I believe it's good training for if, and when, I'm homeless. Our house is a little bit cluttered at the moment, so it also feels like I'm making my way through back alleys just to get through the kitchen.

The drain was nasty. It is my bathroom sink, and the normal plumber-in-a-bottle did nothing. I removed the J-trap but it was clean. I then pulled apart the drain pipe leading into the wall, and found the blockage. It was like Dom Deloise's artery, about 95% blocked. I believe it was shaving cream scum that had built up on the walls, and then took on a life of its own.

I then had to pick up my daughter from a lesson, and when she got home she became tearful over a slight that had happened to her during the day.

Now my son has thrown himself over our bed, and I'll probably sleep on a sofa to avoid the cold germs. It seems a bit uncaring on my part, but I don't really care if it is uncaring. Just one of those nights.

Labels: story

My family threw a party the day I graduated from high school. It's was just an open house. Our extended family was there, but what I really hoped for was to have a bunch of my friends from high school there. Not a lot of them showed up.

The trick is that there were probably fifteen other parties, and so everybody is going from place to place, and that was that.

We had a keg (this was back when you could get your friends drunk at these parties--now you can't) but no one to drink it. My extended family was more into booze than draft beer. So as the evening wound down and still no crowd, one of my older brothers suggested that we, the two of us, try to drain that keg before morning.

Our house was small, but behind the detached garage there was an enclosed patio. In summer we would sleep there often, and this was where the keg was placed. So we sat on either side of the keg and stared at the trees and shrubs out back as we drank.

In the middle of the night, my father came out to check on us. He pulled up a chair and joined us.

My father flew F-86 jets for the Air Force in the 1950s. So he had quite a few stories, and he told a couple of doozies that night. He was stationed in Europe, and was the wingman for a larger-than-life character that led him on great adventures in France and West Germany. (Those stories will have to wait for their own blog entry.) As the stories wound down, he got a bit reflective and philosophical, and gave us the following advice.

You'll probably get married someday, and when you do, you'll be faced with morale choices. You'll have to decide for yourself about staying faithful to your wife, and how you raise your family.

We didn't say anything after that. It was dark, almost pitch black, and we were still drinking and probably half-drunk. I thought there was maybe something else he wanted to say, but I didn't know how to probe that subject, or how to ask an appropriate follow-up question. So it just stayed exactly how it was: an enigmatic riddle with no answer. He said, "Good night boys," and then left us in the dark.

I was the youngest, and I had just graduated. In my egocentricity, I had thought that the day was all about me. But it dawns on me now, right this moment as I type, that perhaps he was reflecting on his own life, rather than helping us shape what we might become.

He had gotten his youngest son to manhood and, strictly speaking, he was no longer obligated to do a damn thing for us. That former jet pilot was beholden to no one at that moment. He had done what nature intended: he procreated three boys, got them to adulthood, and his part in the circle of life was over.

I don't know if he was elated and relieved, or full of dread and regret. I don't know if he wished he had done things differently. I don't know if he wanted to chuck it all and start a new life, or if this was everything he ever hoped for in life. I just don't know.

My brother and I kept drinking until dawn. We didn't talk about what Dad said. In fact, I don't remember anything we talked about that night except what Dad said. If my brother reminds me of something else, I'll add it here, but I just remember the dark, and the stupidity of drinking cold beer on a cold summer night just for the sake of drinking it. I assume we had some music playing (there was an eight-track tape player in the patio) but maybe not.

We faced west, and so the trees began to show light at the top as dawn crested behind us. We did not finish the keg, but we put a world of hurt on it. We left the patio, peed one last time on the shrubs, and made our way to the house.

And thus my adult life began.

Labels: memoir, story