Thursday, February 7, 2013

Don't Go Into the Woods

I often spent weekends and chunks of summertime with a cousin who is the same age as me.  One day during the summer when we were 12, we were hanging out at her house.  My aunt was at work, and my cousin told me about how she believed that her next door neighbor had murdered his wife and is storing her dead body in the woods behind their houses.

She said that she had seen him on more than one occasion, usually in the evening, carrying a black trash bag into the woods, and then he would emerge from the woods empty-handed and go back into his house.  I declared this as the day that we investigate and get to the bottom of her suspicions.

That afternoon, we ventured into the woods behind her house, and sure enough there was a giant, black trash bag—my heart was pounding.  I carefully untied and opened it, and behold!  It was full of porn!  This guy didn’t murder his wife; he was avoiding being murdered by his wife, and so he hid his stash of porn in the woods behind his house like respectable husbands do.
 
 Porn was too obvious a choice for the photo


Neither of us had watched porn before, so this was a very exciting day for us.  We each selected a VHS that interested us from the bag, then we went to the gas station at the end of the block to get snacks—I believe we had Tahitian Treat sodie and some Quik bars [hey, remember Quik bars!?]—and then we went back to her house to watch some porn.  We watched it for hours, played it in fast forward, and giggled through the entire thing.  When we had enough, we snuck it back into the black trash bag, and then we emerged from the woods empty-handed and went back into her house.

Friday, February 1, 2013

Don't Mace Me, Dad


My dad, the cop, used to be a runner when I was growing up.  He would run miles around our neighborhood, and I would often accompany him on my bicycle.  Living out in the country, not everyone kept their pets on leashes or in a fenced yard, and sometimes [especially a couple of larger] dogs would charge us or chase us.  For this reason, my dad typically carried a club with him to scare off any dogs who were feeling like starting some shit.

After being attacked once, my Dad started carrying a can of mace with him instead of the club—possibly because it was less to tote around?  I can also see how it would be more effective in discouraging an attacking animal than a stick.  So, about three times per week, Dad would go for a run with his mace.

One time in particular, I was lagging behind and Dad was already on the next street over from our home.  I jumped on my bike and sped to catch up with him.  What I didn’t know was that a dog on that street had run up to him and he had to spray his mace to keep the dog from getting too close.  As I pedaled down the neighboring street, I went directly through Dad’s mace cloud.  I remember breathing in, stopping in my tracks, and falling over sideways on my bike.  I dropped like a fly.

Have you ever been maced?  It is a surreal feeling to try inhaling, and it feels like your breath is being pulled out as you’re breathing in.  It is a terrifying and crippling experience, but thankfully it only lasts a couple of minutes.  I convinced my dad to switch back to carrying the club after that.  I was willing to take my chances with the attack dogs.