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  1.  (10288.1)
    I've put a lot of stories about my real life on Whitechapel, and some of you guys seem to enjoy them. So I've started writing them down, bit by bit, and occasionally they fit a topic on the boards. I recently wrote a few that don't fit anywhere specifically, so I thought I would put them in the blog space (which doesn't have a word limit!). Hope you enjoy!
  2.  (10288.2)
    The first one is about fighting, police interrogations, and at home self-dental work.

    When I was 18, I started dating the girl who would one day become the mother of my child. We met in high school, but didn’t start dating until her senior year, after I had already graduated. So I used to walk over to her place in the middle of the night; her mother left for work at 5am. Since it took me an hour to get to her place, I would leave my apartment around 330am, and walk through the ghetto. Pimps and hookers stopped bothering me after the first month, realizing I didn’t have any money. I used to light the ladies’ cigarettes and this pimp would appear and I would be like, “Number one, I’m on my way to my girlfriend’s house to get laid; number two, if I had any money would I be walking in this neighborhood at this hour?” And the guy was like, “that actually makes sense,” and then they were always very nice to me as I passed by. The weirdest part was when I passed a window to one of those “lingerie model” storefronts, and I stopped too look at the underwear the window manikin was wearing, when she moved and I realized there was a woman in her underwear in the window.

    So one time, I stayed over on a school night, and when we got up, she begged me to come to school with her. I really didn’t want to, but she finally convinced me, just for her theatre tech class. I show up, and man was it cold out. When I got to her class, my lips were chapped. Apparently, I must have licked my lips or something, because some kid I didn’t know thought I was flirting or something. He wanted to fight me outside at lunch. When I walked out, this kid came at me swinging. A friend intervened and tried to calm this kid, Levi, down.

    It was no good. We end up outside, a big circle of kids, and a lot of shit talking. Pushing started, then, all of a sudden, dude hit me in the head like 7 or 8 times. I threw a wild swing, and caught him square in the nose. My next punch hit him right by his ear. He went down. As he groggily tried to get back up, a friend ran up and said cops were coming. Levi charged at me, but I was busy talking, so I put out my left hand and caught him on the forehead, and because I was much taller and had reach, he was kept at arm’s length and couldn’t hit me. When I finally understood that the cops were coming, I pushed Levi back and he fell on his ass and I ran off to lick my wounds.

    I had been wearing braces for the past 6 or 7 or more years. It was supposed to be 4 years, but then my folks couldn’t afford payments or something and I kept missing appointments. When I got kicked out, I never saw the orthodontist again. So this kid hits me in the mouth several times, and my lips got shredded by my braces. He didn’t kick my ass as much as the braces did.

    The next day, I got a bottle of whisky. I got myself fairly toasty, and got out a bottle opener, and a pair of needle nose pliers. I pulled the wire on the braces out first; it was already loose. Several of the brackets themselves were already loose, so I just popped them out with the bottle opener using a little leverage. I was spitting the brackets into the sink. Each time I saw blood in my spit, I took a swig of whisky. Finally, there were a few that were really stuck. I used the pliers to loosen them up, and then popped the rest out. One, in the front, I don’t know what the real name is, but it’s like a lower jaw canine on the left side, the bracket broke off, and the metal part that wraps around the tooth wouldn’t budge. Today, at least 13 years later, it’s still there.

    That night, my girlfriend told me cops were looking for me, and I should hide out at some punk house. So I stay at this guy Brandon’s house, it’s this beat the fuck up house in the ghetto, and I crash there for the night. While I was hanging out, everybody’s smoking a pipe, and I hit it too; assuming it’s weed. It was, mostly. Later, I found out it was laced with heroin.

    First, I was just happy to sit with everyone, but then I got really sleepy. I kind of folded up into a ball on the couch and hid my head. To me, it felt like I was on the inside of an old television; when the channel “flips” and you see it rolling over and over, and each time I closed my eyes, the momentum would increase; but each time I opened them I would come to a crashing halt that was terrifying. I could overhear people around me talking; like I was a lightweight, and that I was passed out. Truthfully, I didn’t sleep all night; I was even awake when someone took my wallet and someone else drew on me; I just couldn’t move. Later I found out the cops were not looking for me and that whole night was a total waste of time.

    A couple of weeks later, I’m back crashing at my Dad’s and the cops called the house. I spoke to a detective who just wanted to ask me some questions downtown. Naively, I went down to our appointment, and waited in a little room. When they let me in they asked me if I wanted water or a soda or anything and I said no thanks. Then I waited alone in that little room for over an hour. So finally a detective comes in telling me that this kid’s folks are pressing charges against me for assault because I’m 18 and he was 17. They say that I hit him first, and because I never called the police, it makes me look guilty.

    I explained to the cops that I didn’t call the cops because only pussies call the cops after a schoolyard brawl, and it really wasn’t much of a fight to begin with. Well, apparently I had broken the kids nose and fucked him up a bit, just with two punches. I explained, did it make more sense, that I hit him hard enough to break his nose, and then he hit me and we parted ways, or he hits me a bunch and I hit him with a couple really good swings, and the fight is over? Well, I must have made sense because they let me go. The detective says he’ll call me tomorrow; he’s going to talk with the parents, and then he’ll decide if he wants a warrant for my arrest or not.

    So I go home and tell my dad what the deal is, then I proceed to get drunk with my friends. Early in the morning, I get woken up by a phone call from the detective. I’m drunk still, but he tells me that I’m not going to jail, the parents don’t believe their kid’s story anymore and they dropped charges. I pass back out. Around noon, my dad kicks open my door, and I’ll never forget this, he says “Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be in jail??” and I freak out because I can’t remember the earlier phone call. So I call the detective back and ask him if there’s a warrant out, and I can hear it in his voice he’s thinking “this kid is a fucking idiot” but all he says is “No, I called you earlier, kid, charges were dropped.” Then, all of a sudden I remember he did call me, and I pass back out, relieved.
    •  
      CommentAuthorD.J.
    • CommentTimeOct 17th 2011
     (10288.3)
    I don't think I am alone in saying that I am excited for this.
  3.  (10288.4)
    This next story is brought to you by Bad Religion, the Blue Meanies, Krist Novaselic, and accidentally slitting your wrist.

    When I was 17, I was a senior in high school and sometimes I caught rides with friends back and forth to school, but because I had a short class schedule, I got out around 1pm. If I skipped my last class, I could be out just after noon. It was about a half-hour walk home, and in decent weather, it was a fairly nice walk. So one time, I’m walking home, I had recently been listening to Bad Religion, and really wanted a “Beware of God” t-shirt. I was passing by some house, and I saw a Beware of Dog sign on their fence. At the time, I was also somewhat of a kleptomaniac, especially about signs. I collected quite a few. Well, I was determined to steal this sign, and alter it later. I gripped the sign with hands on both sides, it was attached to a chain link fence with just some wires. I leaned back and pulled, and all but one of the wires broke, and my hands slipped, and the sign spun really fast in a circle.

    I felt a sharp pinch in my left wrist, and held out my arm to look at it. The sign had sliced through my wrist, and I could see (what I was later informed was my tendon) something sticking out of my wrist. Then blood shot out of my wrist. Calmly, I clamped my right hand over my wound, and started walking home; hoping to find help along the way.

    I spotted a mailman, and since they carry radios, I figured he could call for help. I walk up to him and say something like, “I’ve hurt myself; can you help me?” and he told me to go home and call 911. I told him thanks, what would I do without him? I kept walking. I walked past three of my friends’ houses, but because I had skipped out of class, it was still so early nobody was home.

    Finally, I made it home. I’m not exactly sure how I got inside the house, but I think it involved holding keys in my mouth. I walked to the basement, because our computer was down there, and it had a speaker phone that dialed with a mouse, and I had just enough feeling in my wounded hand I could manipulate the mouse while keeping pressure on the wound with my good hand.

    I called 911 and told them I had fallen and cut my wrist open and was losing a lot of blood. It had been at least a half hour at this point, and there was blood all over my arm and shirt; I looked pale, but was still very wide awake. They asked where my parents were, and I told them they were at work. They recommended that I let one of them know what happened after I get off of 911.

    So, then I call my mom. Brilliant first sentence. “Mom, don’t worry, I’m okay; the ambulance is already on its way.” Well, she freaked. I lie just a little bit to make it seem like this wasn’t my fault. Then I say, “Okay Mom, I gotta go; I can hear the ambulance.”

    So I sit on the front steps, waiting for my ride and bleeding everywhere. A kind neighbor gave me a rag to wrap around my wrist while I waited. When the ambulance arrived, they had trouble getting the tourniquet to work, so they just put a blood pressure cuff on my arm and pumped it until it stopped the bleeding.

    I get to the emergency room, and they put me in an x-ray room. That confuses the hell out of me, but they explain it to me and I just really don’t care. The nurse puts a lead vest on my chest and starts to walk behind the x-ray shield. All of a sudden, my mom rushes in the room, grabs the lead vest, and pulls it down over my crotch. She looks at the nurse and says “I would like to have grandchildren one day, thankyouverymuch.” No, I’m not kidding, that actually happened. And it was a pretty nurse. If I wasn’t so low on blood, I would have blushed.

    So, long story short (I kid) they try to stitch me up, but have to call in a specialist. They drug me up fairly well, and Dr. Bane comes in. He ends up tearing my wrist wound open even more, so he can get at my tendon. I had severed 90% of it. He stitches the tendon up, and then my wrist. I’m given drugs and sent home.

    I begged my mother to let me go to my job, the local grocery store, to tell them I can’t work there for a while. I had actually just put in my two weeks, but I wouldn’t be able to make it in any longer. What my mom didn’t know that I had set it up to meet a guy in the produce section to by a 20 sack. So I run in, tell the boss, and then buy my weed, hide it in my sling under my cast, and have my mom drive me home.

    I had also had plans to go to a concert that night to see a band at the local punk rock show. No way was my mom going to let me go. I whined and begged and pleaded, and after I told her my friend John was taking me (John was about 19 at the time, over 6 ½ feet tall, 220lbs+, spitting image of Krist Novaselic, and a great guy to have your back) she finally relented, saying “and don’t forget to bring your painkillers!”

    Don’t worry, Mom, I didn’t.

    So I get to the show, the Blue Meanies are playing, also filming a video and I got to be in that, as the kid who almost died but came to the show anyway. Later, I got pushed into a mosh pit, and some guy I don’t know with no shirt on and long caveman hair jumped in and pushed me out of the way and then got his ass beat in the pit. He later managed one of my shitty punk bands I sang for.

    Funny addendum, a year or so later, I date this girl, girl who made us all wear dresses at her party, and she ended up giving me my first blowjob (in public no less). When my Mom met her, she asked me, what her last name was, and I said “Bane,” and she asked me what her father did for a living, and I said he was a doctor, and we realized that her dad was the guy who operated on my wrist. So thank you, Dr. Bane, for fixing my wrist. Also, I put my penis in your daughter’s mouth. Thank you.
  4.  (10288.5)
    This next story is about being too old to be a rebel, and how you can never go home again. It's also about punching cops in the face.

    While I was working for the Feds, I got to take a couple weeks off. My plan was to stay as drunk as possible, and see as many shows as I could. A local Irish Punk band called the Tossers had been playing in the area, and were friends of friends, and I kept missing them. Turns out they were playing a festival back home, so I made plans to go see them.

    Well, the night before the Tossers show, I go to the Labor Day weekend festival in my hometown, and am horribly disappointed to find out they’ve eliminated the Rock Stage, pretty much they only decent stage at the event. The Tossers get to play at the Ethnic Stage, because they’re Irish. Well, I throw a fit, at a large group of kids, that the fact that there is nothing left to do in this town anymore is all these kids fault. It was actually kind of funny, and I wasn’t even drunk. Well, it was funny until about thirty kids wanted to kick my ass. And when I say kids, I mean young adults, between ages of 16 and 25. A really good friend of mine managed to shut me up and drag me out.

    So the next night, I go to see the Tossers. I guess I should state how I looked. I was 25 at the time, just about 6ft tall, maybe 240lbs. I had a bright green double mohawk (also called a bihawk), I was wearing a black denim vest, painted and covered in band patches and spikes and shit. I have an anti-swastika tattoo (NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF!) on my right upper arm. Not altogether uncommon for back home, especially at a Tossers show, but it will help explain some of the reactions I got later.

    The same good friend from the night before warns me not to mosh, or I’ll be arrested. Well, I’m all tough and badass because I live in Chicago so I pay him no heed. I’m standing in the crowd and a mosh pit literally forms around me. I actually decide I don’t feel like moshing, and I start to exit the pit, when somebody pushes me.
    That’s it, I say to myself, and I start jumping in and moshing with all the kids like I was a teenager again. Well, it doesn’t take long for some cop to grab me by the back of the neck and yank me out of the pit. He points an admonishing finger and sternly says “No moshing.” I say yes sir, and head away from the pit.

    A second (fatter) cop shoulder-checks me as I pass by. I’m like, “What the fuck?” He says, “We told you, No Moshing.” I’m like yeah, that’s why I stopped. The other guy just told me. He says something to the effect of “Yeah, well, I saw you moshing.” I say whatever and keep walking, but over hear the cop say something mildly offensive under his breath.

    “Excuse me? What did you say?”

    “What, are you deaf, retard?” the fat cop says back.

    “Oh, I heard you this time, asshole.” Now, I’m getting pissed.

    He looks me up and down. “Is this what you like to do? Run around and bash into your friends and shove your friends around?”

    “Yeah, whenever you aren’t around; that’s all we do.” I quip back. “What do you do? Stand around, drinking coffee and eating donuts?” (This is funny, because as a law enforcement officer, that is exactly what I like to do)
  5.  (10288.6)
    “That’s it,” he says, and puts a big meaty hand on my arm. Well, defending myself, I remove his hand, as us cops are taught to do. Well, he keeps grabbing me, and I keep removing his hands from my person. I wasn’t fighting him; I was simply refusing his attempts to arrest me, which was unwarranted. But, from a distance, and more importantly, from the perspective of the other cops working the crowd, it sure looked like I was fighting this asshole. So they did what they are trained to do: no questions asked, they jumped in and started hitting me.

    I think it was six cops, all yelling at me to do different things, like freeze or lie down or put my hands above my head or behind my head; all while other cops are hitting me. Well, I gave as good as I got. I know I hit a few with some good shots before they smartened up and just each grabbed a limb and started drag/carrying me away. I was screaming and yelling things too, like “Is that all you got?” and “Fuck you PIGS!” Well, the punks in the crowd see and hear all this and start yelling at the cops to let me go. They’re spitting and throwing things at the cops, and I hear one cop say something like “”Get him out of here before they start a riot,” and as much as I was in pain at that moment, I had to smile.

    Then they carried me out past the event fence, and threw me into an alley, where the six of them proceeded to beat me. At some point, the lead singer of the Tossers walks up and gets them to stop. He asks if they can let me go, and I’ll just stay on the stage with the band and they won’t let me into the crowd. They tell him no, and someone escorts him away. I managed to back up a few feet from the other cops. “Wait, wait, wait a minute” I stammered. They all looked at me. I said something like “I don’t want this to go any farther…” I see the first cop who originally stopped me, and who knew I had been compliant. I point at him. “You know this is fucked up. I did what you asked me to do, and that guy,” I point at fat cop. “That guy put his hands on me for no reason, and I defended myself. If you want to take me downtown, I can’t stop you. But I think you don’t want this to go on paper any more than I do. And if you think I’m just some punk kid, who can’t get a lawyer on this, then you’re way wrong.”

    The cops talk amongst themselves, and the first cop says something like “Fine, but you’re not going back out there. You’re banned from the festival.”

    Awesome. I could care less about the festival. They ask me for my ID, and I pull out my wallet, careful they don’t see my Federal work badge (if they found out I was a Fed, not only would I have been arrested, but, innocent or not, I would have lost my job) and give them my ID. They radio my name and description to the entrance gates so I can’t get back in. They escort me away, and all of a sudden, I’m outside the festival. I walk for a few minutes, and end up on the other side of the fence from the Tossers’ stage.

    Some guy comes up to me and asks me if I’m the guy who just got dragged out by the cops. I look at him, I’m all bloody, and I ask him if he had seen anyone else get their asses beat by the cops this evening. He laughs and apologizes; telling me he is the manager of the event and that it was his decision to hire local police to work security. He asks me if he can get me anything. I ask him for a beer. He says he’ll be right back and let the band know I’m alright.

    A few minutes later, I hear the band stop playing and the lead singer says “Hey everybody, that kid’s alright!” and the whole crowd cheers. Then the whole band turns around to face me and they all raise a beer to me. The lead singer says, “Normally we dedicate this song to the Northern Irish Police Department, but tonight you can dedicate it to any police department of your choice!” Then they play what is basically the Tosser’s Irish version of “Fuck the Police.”

    After another song or two, the band takes a break. All of them come down to the fence and hand me beers. Someone takes a picture of all of us; me behind the fence all beat up and bloody. I’m invited to a party with them after the show. I hang out with the guys for most of the night. It was a lot of fun; and to this date, every time I see them play, they play that song for me.
  6.  (10288.7)
    Need more stories plz :)
  7.  (10288.8)
    Here ya go, Root.

    This story directly follows the one about my wrist accident in my own personal timeline. Repercussions of my actions, coming-of-age, squaring off with the old man.

    If I would have known how much trouble I would have caused by my wrist accident, I never would have tried to steal that sign. The following winter, we moved from average lower-middle class land, to an affluent subdivision in a “better” part of town. After the move, I found out that my mom and my stepdad (aka “Pop”) each had insurance on me, and both companies were arguing back and forth who was to be the primary insurer. Needless to say, the added stress worked its way down to my folks.

    Once a month, my mom would go out with friends to play “Bunco,” this dice game that old ladies like to play in-between drinking copious amounts of alcohol. During these monthly outings, my Pop took this as free license to go out and get shit-bombed as well. It seemed to be a contest which one would come home later or more drunk than the other. The worst was when they both arrived home close to the same time; you could guarantee a loud argument.

    One night, late at night, on a school night, they both come home at relatively the same time. I woke up in my bed hearing yelling. I keep hearing Pop yelling my name; he’s yelling at her about me. This continues about 5 minutes longer than I can stand. I put on some shorts and go downstairs.

    I get in-between them, and confront my Pop. I tell him something to the effect of, “If you’re going to yell at her about me, why don’t you cut the bull and just yell at me?”

    This seems acceptable to him, and he starts yelling drunkenly at me. I ask him, “do you want to talk about this?” and he agrees. Then I tell him, “Then get the fuck out of the house, sober the fuck up, and then you can come back home and we can talk.” I don’t know where that maturity came from, but all three of us stared at each other in silence for a moment, because that was the only time the whole night that anybody talked any sense.

    Then drunken anger reared its head again and we started yelling. I called him a drunk; he called me a druggie. He came at me, pushing, and I pushed him back. My mom started yelling at us to stop; we both turned and yelled at her to stay out of it. He tried to put me in a headlock, and I elbowed him in the chest and face until he released me, then he fell down. I got behind him and put him in a full nelson, and held him down on one knee.

    He said, “Let me go!”

    I said, “Are you going to chill out?”

    “NO!”

    “Then I’m not letting you go.”

    A short minute later, “Let me go!”

    Again, “Are you going to chill out?”

    Pause for a couple seconds; “…Okay.” So I let him up.

    After that, it seemed adrenaline had worked most of the alcohol out of everyone’s system, and then we had a nice rational discussion. We all made up that night and went to bed.

    Let me say this: I was terrified of the old man that night. He’s a Vietnam veteran. He was a LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol), and if you don’t know what that is, look it up. Nobody really does anymore, what these guys did, not to that degree anyway, not with the low level of gear they had back then. Pop’s told me some hard core stories of the war, reluctantly, and only really recently have I learned what a badass he was (and in a lot of ways still is). C'mon, his squad was the Double-Deuce Death Dealers.

    He was just barely 52 at the time we wrestled (can’t really call it a fight; nobody threw a punch), and he was not that out of shape. He had a good 3 or 4 inches of height on me, and a lot more muscle. The only reason I had a chance is because the old Irishman was about 3 extra sheets to the wind. And the only reason I had the balls to go toe to toe with him was that I thought he might hurt my mom. I should have known better than to think that about the old man; Pop's been my stepdad since I was 3. For all intents and purposes; he is my father. Dad was a guy who passed down some pretty crappy genes. Pop taught me how to be a man.

    So a couple of weeks later, we passed each other in the hall and I must have made some smart-assed remark about our tussle. He stops me, and looks me in the eye and says “If you ever want to go at me while I’m sober, the backyard is right out there, and we can clear that right up.” I say no Sir.

    He sits me down for a moment. “Look, Billy, I need to tell you this. I’m really very proud of you for coming down to face me while your mom and I were arguing. We love each other very much, but sometimes we argue. No matter how much we argue; I have never laid a hand on your mother, and I never will. You coming downstairs that night was the best outcome that could have happened, though. You didn’t see it, but your mother was punching me, throwing things at me, clawing at me, and biting me. I did not know how to stop her without hurting her. Then you came down and gave me something I could fight at, and took focus off of me and your mother. So, I’m really glad you came down that night. But if you really want to do that again, we can go out there any time you want.”

    I nodded, and thanked him, and told him that would not be necessary.
  8.  (10288.9)
    Yay! I love uncle Spy's story time! Keep 'em coming.
  9.  (10288.10)
    Warning: I use an offensive racial slur in this story; it serves a purpose and I'm quoting someone. Deal with it.

    This tale is about dressing to impress, hanging out with the Sons of Anarchy, and doing things for your girlfriend you know you shouldn't do.

    So I’m living with this blonde chick I had started fucking to get a better promotion at my job, and we ended up working at different locations, but we still car pooled. As I’m on my way to drop her off at work, we pass by this bar. She tells me that she wants to find a new bar for us to hang out at that’s close to both our jobs, and she wants me to check this place out. I tell her I’ll check it out before I pick her up tonight.

    Well, the thing about this girl was, she was kinda dating me because I looked like a rebel or something. I had a mohawk when we first met, and she liked my tattoo and I was really into punk rock at the time, and she dug that. She was not into punk rock or anything; I think she just liked fucking guys like me. So anyway, I’m on my way to the bar, and this is what I looked like: I had very bleach blonde (short) liberty spikes, I was wearing my sleeveless denim vest, covered in band patches and pins and spikes and studs, some band shirt, no sleeves, showing off my Anti-Swastika tattoo.

    I pull up at this bar, driving my girlfriend’s KIA, and then I realize that there are no cars in this parking lot; It’s all motorcycles. I walk in, order a Lone Star, and then walk outside to smoke. The smoking ban in Austin had recently passed and you can’t smoke indoors anymore.

    I see that there’s about thirty bikers and their chicks hanging out in the front of the bar, and they’re all kinda looking at me. When I walked out, one biker looks at me and says “What’s up Billy Idol?” and I responded with “How’d you know my name?” and he motions for me to come over to him. I ask what’s up and he tells me his name is Jimmy. I tell him my name is Billy and he laughs, realizing what I had meant earlier.

    He says, “Hey I see you got one o’ them swastikkers on your arm. I got me one too, but it’s just cuz I hate niggers. What you got one for?” He looks at me, kinda daring me, it felt like. There’s a thick air of tension outside the bar, and I can tell everyone is listening to our conversation.

    I stand up straight and proud and look Jimmy in the eye. I tell him I grew up in northern Illinois, and we used to have neo-Nazi skinheads come into town and cause problems, and I would always get into fights with them. Some people I knew had gotten hurt pretty bad by neo-Nazis, and I couldn’t stand them.

    “Oh,” he says, “you hate neo-Nazis! I can’t stand those assholes either,” and then he offers to buys me a beer. Everyone visibly relaxes and we just kinda chill. At that point, I realize my right leg has stopped shaking. The whole time I was standing in front of Jimmy, my right knee just would not stop shaking. I think I kept Jimmy or anyone else from noticing it, but I was pretty scared. I have a couple beers, then I mention I’m picking up my girlfriend from work. He tells me to bring her on by. I tell him I will and then I never come back.

    When I pick up the girl from work, I tell her I checked out the bar. She asks how it was, and I tell her it was a nice place and we should go there. Then I tell her what had happened earlier. I say, “No, Jimmy invited us both to come back; he says we’re welcome now, come on, let’s go.” She refuses, and she never asks me to check out a new bar again ever.
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeOct 24th 2011
     (10288.11)
    Awesome!
  10.  (10288.12)
    Looking back on some of the time I spent working at that little prison in Texas, I can’t help but be reminded of a lot of stupid shit that we did back then. After I had been working there for some time, I started joining in with fellow officers pulling pranks. One of the simplest ones was taking your badge off, and using the pin attached to poke a very small and hard to see hole in the front of someone’s can of pop. When they went to drink, it would dribble all down the front of their uniform; classic.

    My favorite, however, scared the shit out of me when they played it on me. Normally, when assigned to work a housing wing, two officers would be assigned the floor as “Rovers” and one officer would be assigned the Picket, or a mini-control center that controlled all the cell-block doors and had a phone and a radio. When a rookie got assigned to a wing as OJT (On the Job Trainee), it was a free-for-all.

    Normally, in case of the usage of tear gas, an officer would attach a small canister to the front of his gas mask and that would filter out the tear gas. The small canister would say in very small letters “use in case of” and in huge print it says “TEAR GAS”. Well the Picket officer would put on his gas mask, and roll the small canister out the picket window right in front of the rookie. The other two Rover officers had already put on their SCUBA tanks and masks used for fighting fires, and they’d act like there was an emergency. The rookie would see the canister saying TEAR GAS and everyone wearing masks, and they would usually just freak the fuck out; some just ran off, others crawled into a fetal position, some screamed or cried; just wholesome family fun. Sometimes even the inmates (on the other side of the cell-block windows) would join in on pretending like there was an emergency, like trying to warn the rookie or running away and hiding.
  11.  (10288.13)
    I have a vision.

    It involves the community of Whitechapel coming together, helping with editing, cover design, layout, calling in contacts, and whatever else it takes to make this a book. Written by government spy, produced by Whitechapel.

    Initial proposal: Organize only loosely in chronological terms, grouped more by theme or life lessons. Just a thought.

    Imagine, you can be like James Frey, except not a lying shithead.

    Who's with me on this? I'm an editor at a publishing company (not a New York one, mind). That's me throwing my hat in the ring.

    Also HOLY SHIT BLUE MEANIES
  12.  (10288.14)
    Wow, Lamp, sheesh, thanks, I'm blushing. I don't know what I have to do (other than keep writing).

    This next story is about how I've gone out on too many dates with women that I've worked with. Seriously, I never learned my lesson.

    Sometime after my “baby-momma” and I had split up, we had a new girl transfer in from San Antonio. I was in the Lt.’s office when someone had her paperwork and all I saw was a picture ID of the new officer. Well, from that moment on I had a crush. Forgetting my favorite LT.’s advice, “Never get your honey where you make your money,” I decided I was going to ask this officer out.

    After a few weeks of getting to know her (I’ll call her M), I finally managed to ask her out. I had learned she was somewhat Gothy and I used to hang out at the Atomic Café (now completely uncool and called “Elysium”) in downtown Austin (off of 6th street). I also decided a stop off at the Congress Street Bridge for the bat show at sunset would be cool. Well, because I’m an idiot I had her pick me up from work, and she drove us there. I kinda knew my way around Austin, and had us park like a mile from downtown for some ungodly reason. We got to see the bats, and had dinner and headed to the club. On our way, she casually mentions that if she gets drunk she won’t drive back to town, and we would have to get a hotel. Silently, I decide I must get this girl drunk (hey, I was 21 and recently thrown out of my house by my ex, don’t judge me).

    So we hang out at this gothy place and I’ve always loved Goth, but it was just not right for me. I tried dancing but I just don’t have any rhythm. I had to spellcheck because I don’t even know how to spell the word. Well, my goal was to get her drunk, but I’ve always been a lightweight. So it doesn’t take long before I’m drunkenly trying to convince her that she is drunk, so we have to get a hotel. I can only assume how transparent I am being, because she doesn’t fall for it. Finally, I say I have one way she can prove she’s sober; she just has to close her eyes (I’m sure you can see where this is going). She agrees, closing her eyes, and I lean in and kiss her. She pushes me back, and I tell her I agree that she is sober. Using drunken logic, I figured if she was drunk (and only if she was drunk) she would kiss me back. She didn’t, therefore she’s cold sober.

    So we drive back to the prison parking lot. It’s now 3am. Luckily, I have the next day off. She gives me a polite friend-kiss on the cheek and hugs me, telling me she had a great time, and she leaves. I smoke a cigarette watching her car drive off, and I go to start my car. Which doesn’t start. The engine is dead. I start yelling and screaming, and kicking my car, and then the patrol van drives up to me. An officer I know fairly well gets out and asks what’s up, and I ask him for a jumpstart. He says the patrol van doesn’t have one. I start yelling and screaming about how worthless he is for not having one. He calls the LT.

    Luckily for me, the LT. and SGT that show up are somewhat good ol’ boys and, although they give me a hard time, they fix me up. At one point, I think I remember someone asking me how my date with M went, and I threatened to take the Patrol officer’s sidearm and “kill us all.”

    Well, I get the jumpstart, and by this time I’ve yelled myself sober, and I drive home. A couple days later, I report back for my shift, and a co-worker I’ll call D approaches me. It’s the daughter of the LT. from the other night. D walks right up and slaps me in the face, saying “What the Hell did you do to M the other night?” I act all confused and D claims that M had said I tried to rape her on our date. I stand there, looking shocked. I have no idea what D’s talking about. Then, I think for a second, could I have been so drunk that I don’t remember? I start to get scared. I first ask D, did she mean about when I had tried to kiss M? D slaps me again, asking, “You tried to kiss her too?” Now I’m really confused. If D didn’t know I had tried to kiss M, then what the Hell was she talking about? I talked to her for a minute, and we both calmed down, and agreed that there must be some sort of misunderstanding. Thinking to myself, I thought the misunderstanding was that I knew that D was a lesbian, and had a crush on M the same as I did, and this was some jealously playing a part as well.

    I spoke to some of my buddies, and we agree that I should just stay away from M. She worked opposite days so that wouldn’t be a problem. Later on, I schedule myself to take a vacation to Chicago, and my last working day was my birthday. I go to work, and one of my friends tells me that M is working overtime that day and I should watch out. I go to head out on a lunch break, and to exit the prison I have to exit through a sally-port, which is a small room of locking doors, where one door has to be secured before the next can open. I close one door, and the other one opens, and M walk in. I look up at the control center window like “WTF?” and the guy shrugs like “there was nothing I could do!” I freeze like a deer in headlights; here’s this attractive young female officer I had a crush on, and she’s telling people that I tried to rape her? How do I get myself out of this? (Funny how I never ask myself how I get myself into these situations?)

    I look at M and she looks at me and then she runs at me, yelling my name and saying “You never called me back! How come we haven’t gone out again?” Really? No, really? Well, I bail on trying to ask her anything about the rape situation, and she finds out it’s my birthday and organizes me and some work buddies out for a night of drinking that night. We all actually had a good time, she flashed us some boobies, and I ended up not coming back from my vacation to Chicago.
  13.  (10288.15)
    @Lamp

    You mention that my stories seemed to portray life lessons.

    Why can't I learn those lessons in some sort of safe, sane way?
  14.  (10288.16)
    Because life isn't actually skittles and Care bears.

    Seriously though, I know it sometimes seems like it sucks to be you, but I can tell you from personal experience with a few friends of my own, the fact that you are a) alive b) employed and sheltered and c) not addicted to meth means you are still ending your days on the good side of all right.

    Edit to add: I can ONLY say that based on witnessing/being accessory to the experiences of others though. I definitely can't claim to talk that kind of talk myself.
  15.  (10288.17)
    I know it's not yet Halloween, but here's a Christmas (I think 2002) story for you.

    I was still working at the high rise luxury apartment complex in Chicago, and I was a shift supervisor. My really cute lesbian roommate and best friend E was working on Christmas day with me, and we were pretty bored. Christmas day is usually a pretty slow day for us. So the two of us and another guard are hanging out down in the lobby in the smoking area of the restaurant’s bar. The restaurant was closed, but it had an open floor plan so we could hang out and smoke, and still be able to see the lobby and front entrance if anything happened, that way we could smoke on the job, not be outside in Chicago in late December, and still technically be doing our jobs.

    All of a sudden, I hear sirens. We put out our smokes, and walk to the front entrance, which is mostly a glass front, to see if we can spot where the sirens are coming from. I spot a fire engine coming down the street. If it turns left in front of us that means it’s responding to a call from our building. We start chanting “please don’t turn, please don’t turn, please don’t turn,” and sure enough it turns our way.

    The three of us split up; all knowing what to do in an emergency. I head towards the loading dock doors, to open the doors for the fire dept. before they break them open, E heads to the security desk to man the phones and maintain radio contact for all of us, and the other officer heads to get the emergency keys so when we find out where the fire dept. are headed, he can get the keys and meet us at the correct room.

    So I get to the loading dock doors and let the firemen in, and they have a stretcher and a body bag with them. One of the firemen jovially announces, “We’ve got one to bag today!” I get the apartment number from the firemen and notify E at the security desk and she passes it on to the other guard.

    By the way, if you ever live in a high rise or apartment complex with security, and you require emergency services, after dialing 911, please notify your building security. It’s not because we’re self-important wannabe rent-a-cops, it’s because it’ll make everyone’s jobs much easier if we know where the emergency services people need to go, and we can have access opened for them as soon as possible. I know, in an emergency that’s probably the last thing you’re going to think about, but if you have an extra minute, please take that into consideration.

    Anyway, we arrive at the apartment door, and my co-worker opens the apartment door and the firemen and I walk inside. There’s a late 30s white guy pacing back and forth in the apartment mumbling something like “she won’t wake up, she won’t wake up,” over and over. The firemen ask the guy where the woman is and he points to the bathroom door saying that she locked herself in and passed out. They proceed to break down the door and find a mid-thirties woman on the floor looking somewhat blue.

    While the firemen start performing CPR on the woman, a couple Chicago Police Officers saunter in. These guys must have been veteran cops, because they walked in, looked at the guy, looked at the girl and then said, “Alright, where are the drugs?”
    The guy kinda stammers and denies any drugs but the cops persist, and in less than five minutes admit that there are drugs in the apartment, walk them into his bedroom, lift up his mattress and reveal a glass pipe and some crack.

    They start handcuffing the guy and reading him his rights while the firemen successfully resuscitate the woman in the bathroom. As the firemen start an IV and get the woman on a stretcher, the story comes out that the man is a 37 year old finance attorney and the woman is a prostitute that sometimes sells him crack.

    (For some reason, to this day, that still bothers me. They guy was obviously a successful attorney. It costs at least $1,000 a month to live in that building, and I think his apartment was more in the $1500 range. And you're smoking crack? Really, Crack? My Dad, the unemployed factory worker smokes crack. You make like more in one year than my Dad has probably earned in his entire life. And you're smoking crack. Jesus H. Christ. If you're a successful attorney living downtown in one of the 3 biggest cities in the country, you should have some self-respect and at the very least just snort blow like every other lawyer. I could even respect a little Heroin. But crack? That's just embarrassing. And the hooker? I'm sorry, she was pretty trashy. Don't you know we had like two very prestigious high class prostitution rings operating inside this building? You could do so much better. Well, you know what they say; you get what you pay for.)

    As the police escort the attorney in handcuffs and the firemen wheel out the crack-whore, the jovial fireman from earlier announces, “Merry Christmas! We got one for Cook County Hospital and one for Cook County Jail! Merry Christmas everybody!”
  16.  (10288.18)
    This is how my baby momma and I split up around summer of 2001, and about bouncing back.

    I have no idea what the fight was actually about. We fought a lot. I was 21; I wanna say she was 20 at the time, and we were living together in her mom’s double-wide and with our baby daughter. The prison job was taking its toll on me, and normally, she wasn’t working, and when I came home she was playing MMORPGS on the internet and neglecting the kid. When I was home, she considered it her time off from the kid, whereas I considered it my time off from prison. Neither one of us had a clue what being a parent was about. So we drove ourselves insane.

    She told me to leave. I told her to pack my bags if she wanted me to leave. She did, and loaded them in the car. At this point, I was ashamed that she wanted me gone so badly, I agreed to go. She drove me out of town to San Marcos, and dumped me in the town square. I was off the next couple days, so I had time to find an apartment.

    I stopped at a local coffee shop, and asked around for people I kinda knew. One guy mentioned that he had a double wide and an empty room for rent, for cheap. I took him up on the offer. I crashed for the night at some friend of a friend’s mom’s house, and in the morning, I remembered I had left some sort of refund check or something at my old house. I borrowed the kid’s bicycle and rode it nearly 15 miles, in the mid-day heat, in the summer, all the way back to the old house.

    I found the check (for like two grand), and rode to the bank, and opened an account. Then I bought a used Chevrolet Beretta, put the bike in the backseat and drove back to San Marcos. I dropped off the bike, and met up with the friend who was going to rent me a room. Within less than twenty-four hours, I had gone from homeless with no way to get to work, to completely self-sufficient. I think it really pissed her off.
    • CommentAuthorRenThing
    • CommentTimeNov 1st 2011
     (10288.19)
    Just subscribed to you as an author in my reader. Keep it up.
  17.  (10288.20)
    Really? Thank you. I wasn't sure too many people were still reading...