On an unrelated related note, I am no longer employed by the Ridge. So I will only ever have the seven or eight really good stories that I have collected over my three years there. Should I fabricate future ones, I will - of course - let you all know up front.
Best,
-Ed(die) IV
As with previous installments, what you are about to read (and therefore see with your minds eye) is 100% truth. Scary, huh?
Chapter 2: They know me around here...
It was a Saturday night like any other, filled with my friends doing tons of fun and exciting things while I was stuck at the Ridge...jerks. The time was inching close to 10:30PM and I was trying desperately to kill the last hour-and-a-half, before boredom did me in first.
I was hunkered down in the Security office scrolling through Myspace (I know I am dating myself here, it was before Facebook became so very important...circa Fall 2006) a movement caught my eye. It was a ratty and faded baseball hat and it was floating at the bottom of the camera just outside the front of the building I was sitting in. Having been on the job for an entire three months, I knew what that meant, a 'guest' had arrived. "Oh goody." I said to myself as I slowly got up and collected the tools of my chosen trade: a radio, the keys, and a pseudo-tough exterior that belied an understanding of the overall uselessness of my job.
As I locked the security office door behind me, I said a little prayer that went a little something like this, “Lord, I am freshly married and the Dolphins have not yet won anything significant in my lifetime. So please don’t let me die now at the hands of a psycho drifter with a hankering for livers and spleens. Amen.” Thus armed, I opened the magnet-locked door and stepped outside to find the bearer of the ratty hat.
I looked to my right down the breeze way towards US-1, then looked left and very nearly crapped myself. There, standing not 15 feet away, was the largest non-professional football playing man I had ever seen. He was about 6'7", a solid (if not rotund) 330lb white male with a beard to make Charles Manson cringe and a stare made to bore through granite. To top it all off - literally - he was a Boston Red Sox fan. "Oh, boy..." I exhaled, "...they don't get much bigger and bandwagon-ier than that."
I quickly collected my thoughts (all two of them...more than usual, I know) and turned to squarely face the Yeti-In-Man’s-Clothing. “How are you tonight, brother? May I help you with something?” I secretly hoped I had put enough ‘gruff’ in the question; that coupled with my squared posture and solid eye-contact should alert the behemoth that I took him seriously.
“I’m here,” Gigantor began in a deep baritone, “looking for my people. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”
I took stock of the situation: One large man, one large hiking backpack on the ground, matching sneakers in relatively good condition, dirty clothes, open fly (that’s no good), and (Whew!) that smell means he’s been on the streets awhile. This one was going to be a doozy. “No, I haven’t seen your people, brother. What do they look like?"
I did not want to step back, although the smell was nailing me full-force, because giving ground - as any soldier will tell you - is the first sign of weakness and supplication. Besides, I stood only 6'1" and weighed (at that time) around 190 pounds...I needed to appear as big as possible in case Tiny decided to get hostile.
“Sure you have. You’ve seen my people.” Big Boy waved his ham-hock hands upwards and in a circular motion, “All God’s people are my people.” And he fixed me with that laser-gaze again.
"Oh great...he’s a hippie. Lord, why do you do this to me?" I thought with a subconscious look skyward. So I replied, “Why of course they are. The Bible says to love your neighbor.” I didn’t think that verse really applied there, but I was nervous...and when I get nervous, I ramble.
“They misquoted me.” Tons-O-Fun said with more than a little disgust in his voice.
“Who did?”
“The Bible writers.” Tubby said with a shrug and shake of his head.
“You lost me, pal.” I confessed with a wince of ‘here-it-comes’ fatalism.
Jumbo looked me dead in the eye and with a sincerity to rival most Elvis impersonators said, “I’m Jesus Christ, Son of God.”
I remembered then having read somewhere that it was usually best to let the looney tunes talk their mania out and NOT to interject or correct. So I proffered, “Well, if you’re who you say you are, you’re a pretty popular guy.”
Not missing a beat, JCSOG put his hand out against the wall of the church, crossed his right leg over his left one, nodded a bit and said, “Yeah, they know me around here.”
I stifled some serious laughter, "Best. Story. Ever." Was all I was thinking. "Nobody will believe this. Nobody." I looked around to avoid the earnestness of the Fat Man’s eyes, knowing that if I made eye contact now, I would be thrown into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.
I managed to muster a “Congratulations” or “Must be nice” or something to that effect. I tried to compose myself. When I looked back at that strange stranger again, I was surprised to see that I was being studied intently by those big creepy eyes.
“Are you security here?” Double-Stuff asked.
“I am.”
"What?"
"I am."
"What it is my son?"
"I said, I am."
“NO! I Am."
"I'm lost." <---- my best Captain Obvious impression.
"I am that I am!" When he added the emphasis, (and You Bible scholars out there know what he was referring to). I knew that this Chunky Monkey needed a platoon of shrinks...and fast.
"Sorry. I meant: Yes, I am the security here."
Pudgy nodded thoughtfully and asked, "Does it pay good?”
A little annoyed at the blatant grammatical error by one who held claim to being perfect and without sin, I replied in an even tone, “It pays well...but the Army paid better.” I added that last part in the hopes of letting XXXL know that I was no pushover. I also said it with my eyes as drew myself up to my full height...still woefully inadequate for the potential task at hand.
“Army, huh?” Bacon Bits raised one eyebrow and cocked his head to the side a bit, “Would you like me to commit your body to the deep, my son?”
Chubby spoke the request in such an innocent, earnest way, that I didn't immediately put two and two together. You see, in the Navy, 'committing a body to the deep' is a phrase said during a burial at sea. A. Burial. At. Sea. "A BURIAL AT SEA!!!!! WAKE UP YOU MORON AND GET THE MACE READY!!!" It was about that time that I realized I had left the can of pepper spray back inside the office.
With that cacophony ringing in my head coupled with me mentally kicking my own rear end, I managed to mumble something to the effect of, “How for you mean to that do?”
Obviously used to such a fluid response, The Two-Legged Manatee said matter-of-factly, “Well first off, I’d have to suck out your soul...to purify it, of course.”
My threat level instantly went to DEFCON 5. "This isn’t happening...This. Is. Not. Hap. Pen. Ing." I began to embrace the fact that Piggly-Wiggly meant to kill me in ways that would make Stephen King blanch. I responded, “And just how do you plan on doing that?”
“A little mouth on mouth action."
"Oh." In the absence of all other options I realized there was but one hope left to me, “I think it’s time for you to move along.”
“Ok...later dude.” And just like that, Chumba-Wumba turned, picked up his rucksack, and walked away into the night.
I watched him go - at a safe distance - then headed back to the office thinking about what had just transpired. Needless to say, I continuously threw up prayers to the actual Jesus Christ, Son of God as I finished up my shift.
EPILOGUE:
An hour later, I kicked out a couple of high school kids making out in the back seat of their car. From what I could see, he was trying really hard to purify her soul.
FIN
What I am reading now:
The Call - Os Guinness
The Natural - Bernard Malamud
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