Candy

For me, Halloween was never really about the candy and, as far as I know, I'm the only kid to go on record saying that. Don't get me wrong, I was always up for a creamy peanut butter cup or a sticky watermelon jolly rancher, but it was never the reason I'd spend days thinking about what I was going to be on October 31st. All of my friends, however, would let this time of year get the best of them, some going as far as to having a typical child-like meltdown. And, when I didn't join in on the drama of it all, they were thrown off by my self control, perhaps even threatened. "What's wrong with you Chester? they'd shout, "Don't you like candy?"

"It's alright," I'd say, and they'd glare at me with utter confusion.

They would lose their minds and their voices, creating their own type of Beatle-mania over the prospect of free junk food. It was what they dreamed of – an endless supply of sweet goodness – when all the while, my sweet goodness was trying to look up a girl’s skirt. Because they couldn't understand where I was coming from, they'd spout out their usual default explanation, "That's cause he's gay!" and walk away laughing.



What I could never figure out was how lanky boys with Oreos jammed in their braces could call me gay. I was the anti-gay. I was the typical heterosexual nightmare for every parent who was wondering what their daughters were doing, with me, in the middle of some field at ten o'clock at night. So if anyone was gay, it was them. They were the ones with bone dry hair that their stay-at-home mom's had combed out for them, with their stale breath from dodging a good brush. They were the ones who still laughed at farts and sported sweat suits with their initials on them. They approved of fist fighting over whose football team would win the Super Bowl. I was passed all of that. In fact, I never subscribed to that stuff in the first place. Perhaps it was just my innate sense of originality. Sports were not my life, women were. So, the costume I wore had to embody much more than just some way to get candy, it had to make a statement about who I was and what I had to offer. I kept to myself, while judging those dumb enough to fall for the adult world's plan to control us with candy. I looked down on the cute farmer costume and showed very little respect for the clever roll-of-toilet-paper-person from down the street. I saw past the gimmicky team costumes, “brothers and sisters”, “BFFs”, “moms and toddlers”. I couldn't stomach the parents that beamed with pride at their little creations, who'd make sure their kids said their overly rehearsed "one liners" to all the neighbors as they passed. I hated the smirks and the approving smiles from all the adults as if I needed to feel their assurance that we were all growing up to be such fine young men and women. I despised all of it. The only thing I wanted was to look cool, and that shit wasn't cool.



When I moved to New Jersey at the age of ten, my mother thought that it was the style to dress me up in sky blue pants with matching suspenders, a Hawaiian shirt, and high top Reeboks with the thick, thick tongues (you know which ones I'm talking about). My hair was drenched in Flex gel (the first to take a chance) and stuck straight up. Since I had been blessed with the healthiest head of hair known to man, it tended to curl, which is why a lot of people thought that I was a girl on my first day of fifth grade. I was cool. I studied my father's record collection and wanted to be Elvis. In fact, I was so obsessed with fame that I hired my two best friends (who only knew me for a couple of weeks) to be my body guards. From what? I wasn't quite sure, but I soon learned that it wasn't from the girls going crazy, but the boys who wanted to drive my face into the grass at recess. I was a complete weirdo who talked with a funny Bronx accent and swore so often that parents cut their kids off from me like I was heroin. In my mind, I was a badass. I was a cautionary tale and I loved it.

It was then that I started to notice the sports thing. Everyone loved sports. It was taking over the minds of my classmates and their parents. So, when Halloween came around, the guys didn't care how they came across to the girls, because they simply didn't like them. Or, if they did, they'd approach it like the bottom of the ninth. I remember our school’s point guard, Ernie, pulling a girl’s hair on the front lawn and, years later, doing it with her in the back seat of his car. In fact, I even opened myself up to the idea and tried out for the basketball team. Even though I was horrendous, I still did my best with the lack of coordination God gave me. The coach would scream, "Don't worry Chester, you're hair looks great." Which would send the guys into a fit of laughter, while the “coolest” kid laughing, sported a bowl and tail haircut and was only popular because he could shoot a rubber ball through a hoop? What happened to cool?


That year, I watched my friend, Dominic, cry in front of our whole fifth grade class when his mother took half his bag of goodies away. "Get in the goddamn car Dom. You've already got two bags at home!" He moaned and sniffled his way into the Caravan and I stood there shocked at how uncool he would allow himself to look in front of all the ladies. And for what? Candy? Get a grip, I thought. No, Halloween was worth that much.

So with my introduction into the neighborhood and the pending threats from all the kids, I decided to think of an aggressive costume, with flare. I decided to be a werewolf. My mother, of course, added the flare, with her innate sense of style. "Here Chestah. Try this on."

"No, Mah!" I cried, terrified she would miss her mark, yet again.

"Put it on. It's the style" she said (which instantly meant that it wasn't). I stood in the mirror with a yellow flannel, my father's old jean jacket and enough fake facial hair glued onto my skin to let me pass as a child Deadhead.

"There" she proclaimed with an enthused Bronx accent, "You're the teen wolf."

What was she talking about? The movie? I thought for a second. She had a point. Michael J. Fox was pretty cool. I loved the film and I knew it was just the right touch to impress the girls, show up the guys and still look tough. I went with it and, to my surprise, it was a success. I pranced around, making my friends’ homemade costumes (tin foil and cardboard boxes) look like a joke. The older women (seventh grade) were inevitably going to catch on that I was a man with potential, and the boys? They could swing their pillow cases full of sugar claiming victory for all I cared – the bottom line was, I looked cool and they didn't.



Besides falling off your bike or getting beat up in front of the girl you liked, what wasn't cool was the inevitable change that took place between the ages of twelve and thirteen. A crackling voice, two growth spurts and acne pretty much sucked whatever confidence I had and left me to dwell in the land of ordinary. Instead of being an ambitious kid, I was an uncomfortable looking teen who so desperately needed to hide. If it were the world of fame, I would have gone from being Elvis to Art Garfunkel. It wasn't my fault, as far as I could tell – just the nature of the beast. I was a strong contender coming out of the gate, but I'd lost my way around the track. Tufts of hair hanging off a fifth grader certainly wasn't going to cut it for someone in the seventh grade, although, I tried to hide as much as my face as possible. "You're a pepperoni face!" screamed Ted Devill, the hottest girl in school’s little brother. I wanted to kick the eyeballs out of his head, but instead, I had to take it, as all the girls giggled at his inappropriate honesty.



If ever there were a time to reinvent myself, it is now, I thought. I needed a hit and so it I realized that the only hope I had of redeeming myself was by being Batman. Not the silver, wilted one from the 70’s but the strong, black one from the late 80’s. "Wow, Chestah, you're the Batman" my mother said, as I stood in the living room with a mass of rubber covering my face.



The cape wasn't as thick as I would have liked it to be, but I made do. I stood in the mirror and there was Batman. Nobody would question that I looked the part. The only thing that separated me and Mr. Keaton were the two zits that camped out on the left side of my chin. Who cared? I thought. I was Batman from ten feet away or closer with my sister’s Maybelline. It could work.



Unfortunately, within the passing of those same two years, my mother had grown busy. Unable to focus solely on restructuring my reputation, due to me getting a baby brother that year. I was on my own. "I need you to get me boots, Mah" I'd insist on telling her, at least twice a day.


"I'm gonna get them tomorrow, Chestah, I'm busy!" she'd shout.

It was three days before Halloween and, there I was, sweating bullets after having done an inventory of the things I didn't have to make my costume complete. I figured out the chest and leggings with all the time I was left to sulk, but the one thing I couldn't get past were the boots. I needed the right boots to make it a hit. There were only four stores in town and none of them had anything to do with shoes. "Can you take me to the mall" I begged my father.

"I don't got the time pal. And whose gonna pay for this, cause I can't!" he'd reply.

By the time Halloween arrived, my face was on overdrive from the stress. Zits had turned into what looked like a bad rash. "I promise I'll go out and pick the boots up tomorrow," my mother said, "Just give me a fuckin' moment to breathe." I don't think I slept that night. I went to school, confident that my mother would take care of the one thing that was holding me back from having a show stopper for all my friends to see. I'm sure you've already guessed that by the time I got home to catch my sister being painted as a bumble bee and my newborn brother, a scarecrow, my boots were nonexistent. "Whatta you want me to do Chestah?  The stores didn't have anything." I was in shock.

"What am I going to wear?" I screamed.


"Go look in the closet and see if you can find anything from your father's shoes. He's got some boots" she assured me.

I scrambled. I was knee-deep in what looked like the back room of a consignment shop. Old shoes with different types of leathers and none of them were the sturdy boots that could support my outfit of steel. "Here. You could wear these" she said. Little boots that came up to my shins, go-go boots that my father probably wore to clubs in the early 70’s.

"No way. This looks so stupid!" I shouted.

"No it doesn't, Chestah. You look like the Batman."

After a lot of pacing and contemplating, I wore the boots. I'd already lost hours of trick or treating and my friends were wondering if I had gotten cold feet. I was Batman from the waist up and Nancy Sinatra from the waist down. My thick Batman legs were reduced to skimpy tights. I had feminine qualities, and my ankles swam in four inches of boot. A thin plant in a pot. I was not Batman. My friends thought things were okay, until they caught a glimpse of me walking. I couldn't help but think of how these two elements were attempting to make a person look cool – the boots in their heyday and my outfit that year – but together, things just didn't work.



The following year's costume had one mission – to fix what I had totally fucked up for the last two years. Batman could have been great but, instead, I was the poor man's superhero. A joke. A streetwalking slut with a cape. It was eighth grade, I was fourteen and I knew exactly what was expected of me. There was a particular girl named Amy who I had fallen in love with and who had asked me to go trick or treating with her. I couldn't be cute and I wouldn't dare allow myself to be ambitious, so I stuck to the safe side of cool and went with a horror theme. If you can scare women, then you have some sort of power over them and, to me, nothing was scarier than Frankenstein. My mother threw the kit on the table. "There Chestah. I'll help you with the glue, once I get your brother and sister ready" she said. I was confident that, with the plastic forehead, green face paint and two things that stuck out of my neck, my costume would stand above the rest.



Basically, I looked intense. I walked around the house with my half opened eyes and stiff walk, while my mother threw herself into a fit of laughter, "Oh-my-God Chestah! You're the real deal. You are!" I met up with my friends, got candy I didn't want and had a fairly successful run. But then it started to rain. My forehead started to slip, my green paint had completely washed off, and I now looked like a kid with a plastic bump stuck to his head. "What are you supposed to be? A zit?" a now older Ted Deville maliciously spat.



Dominic, at this point, resorted to general white face paint and cheap plastic teeth – a vampire sporting clothes from the Gap. Interesting. Lazy, but interesting. Even though nobody verbally communicated how good I looked, I thought Amy was impressed. The candy was collected, we made our way home and, overall, I wasn't that upset. But then came the interesting part. While everything else seemed to come apart at its own will, I realized that I now, involuntarily, adopted a full head of black fake hair. My mother had poured glue on my real brown hair and dumped fake black on top.



"Jesus Mah, you're ripping my hair out!" I screamed. I not only screamed, but I cried. And why wouldn't I? My hair was being pulled out strand by strand. I started to look like a dog with mange.



I stood at the bus stop and ignored the strange looks I got from my friends. They'd noticed the even, flow of my brown curly hair against the longer strand of black wisps poking out at random. "Did somebody light his head on fire?" I imagined them thinking. It was like styling a portion of your head while the other half had a mind of its own. Over the course of two weeks, I'd noticed globs of glue stuck to my scalp. I tried so hard to pull it off, but had to make a trip down to the nurse several times as my head started to bleed. She took a look at it for me. "Just don't touch it Chester. Stop picking at it and it will eventually come off." My mother dabbed enough rubbing alcohol on my head to make me feel dry and buzzed. One day in the shower, I pulled what looked like a worm off my head – the remainder of the glue.



I never got very close to Amy. While I was her best friend for two years, she dropped me in high school the first week. I never dressed up for Halloween again. For the next ten years, I laughed at my siblings’ cute costumes, reached into their bags and unwrapped peanut butter cups. From that point on, it was all about the candy.

Special (Jobs 15, 16 and 17)

Where I grew up, there weren't many restaurants serving more than steak and potatoes. I never recall a time when my father asked to speak to the sommelier, or complained that his martini didn't have enough vermouth. All we had were pizzerias and delis. So, when I moved to my cousin’s area and walked into the newly renovated luxurious Outhouse Restaurant, I didn't quite know how to proceed. For one, there were tablecloths and starched white folded napkins placed in front of  Bordeaux glasses, instead of the usual paper napkin and weathered plastic tumbler. The menu didn’t list “samplers” or towers of jalapeño poppers. Instead, there were oyster bars and bib lettuce salads. It was a whole other ball game and the prices were the first thing that made me want, so desperately, to get the job. The owner was a jolly type of fellow, named Nick, who seemed to love my energy.  "You don't have enough experience, but we can teach you everything you need to know." Not long after, he confided in me that within the next three years he was going to be financially independent (years later, in New York , this same man wrote a bad personal check for his modeling agency’s dinner).  He also told me that he wanted to buy up the entire street so that he can turn it into a type of Neverland for the children. Popcorn and cotton candy. I believed him. I also believed that he was a feminine womanizer, until he asked me to stay late one night and serve him and his flirtatious man-friend rounds of Johnny Walker Blue by the fireplace. "He's not gay. Men have drinks too." This was an entirely new world to me. I was very naive and completely out of my element. On my first day, I proudly displayed my crisp dress shirt and sharply creased khakis. No more stripes and buttons or birthday singing – I was moving up in the world. I rushed around with a short-haired British woman who was able to handle a five table section, sustain a perfect smile and still mutter insults at the pompous customers as she turned away. I trained within a week, showed everyone on the staff that I was completely capable of handling myself and even enjoyed a couple of drinks afterwards with everyone at the local wine bar. "Wine bar! Can you believe this?” I said to my mother on the phone.   "Yeah. I like wine too, Chestah," my mother revealed in her thick Bronx accent. "Your fathah sometimes brings home that big bottle of pino greggo." "Grigio", I corrected. "It's Pino Grigio, Ma, and it's a nice light-bodied wine that has mineral hints of limestone and grass." It was a bumpy start, but I learned everything – the way to present the wine, fold a guest’s napkin when they got up from the table.  I mean, wasn't that what it was all about? Learning? This is why I had no problems when my very first table showed me how to open up their very expensive bottle of red wine. "You're doin' it all wrong kid, here just give me the thing." When I explained what “venetian” was to a table, a woman graciously corrected me and explained that the right pronunciation was “venison…ven-i-son.”  There was even a helpful old Jewish man that spoke to his wife about me as if I weren't even standing there. "No darling, the waiter doesn't know what he's talking about, just order the brisket." It wasn't until a customer reprimanded me for reading my specials off of a pad that I noticed things began to feel...well, a little difficult. "We spend enough money in this place, we should get the proper service," he says. "Huh?" I muttered. "You should have those specials memorized," he complained. At this point, I noticed the owner's beet-red face. He was disappointment in my performance. He quickly sent his Mexican assistant, Pedro, to the kitchen to get the table a plate of home made cookies for their distress. “Memorize?” I thought. “That's kind of silly. Why would I memorize something that's already written down for me?” Nick and I had a little powwow. He told me to get with the program: "I can't afford to look unprofessional, Chester , this is my business." I decided to learn the specials and try to step up my game so that the Outhouse could get a good review. "You never know when they're going to come in, Chester . You need to be on point", he constantly reminded me. On one particular night, the same night I noticed that the Executive Chef would describe the specials as if he were tasting them on the spot (closed eyes and wet lips – a typical air taster), we had monk fish. There I was, giving out my perfect sales pitch. Selling the special and making tables happy. Nick looked over at me and thought to himself, "Boy, you've come a long way."  He couldn't have been prouder of his prodigy or gayer in the pink colored shirt he claimed was, "Salmon. Not pink. Salmon." But nothing – and I do mean nothing – can compare to the pressure that I felt as I stood in front of a table of eight doctors that stopped me midway into my well-oiled special speech, and asked, "What did you just say? Did you say hand roasted?" A little caught off guard, I looked down at my "only in an emergency" pad, to see the exact word that the chef had told us. "Yeah, that's what it says. Hand roasted", I replied.  "You mean pan roasted", he said. See, this is the point where my rationale went a little haywire. First of all, I'd been saying hand roasted all night and people never questioned me. In fact they loved it. And just because they were doctors didn't mean that they knew everything. But, on the other hand, I never did stop to ask myself what that meant. So, being the proud person that I am, I told him, "No sir, tonight the Chef is doing it hand roasted." The entire restaurant seemed to have stopped. Like when MJ entered a bar. The owner stood there sweating. I was used to this by now, and so was Pedro (already standing there with a cookie plate). "Well what the hell does that mean?" asked the man. "What does that mean?" I said nice and slowly, hoping to buy myself a little bit of scramble time. "It means...that...the Chef takes the little...fish patty and sort of massages it with some chilies and salt and herbs", I said. "That can't be hygienic." "No it is", I said. "See, cause he uh…he uh...”  What the fuck was I saying?  What the hell is a hand roasted monk fish?  It must mean something.  "You know what? Let me go back and check." Nick's pursed lips and bugged-out eyes told me that I was in some seriously deep shit. So, I nervously approached the air-tasting chef, "Hey, Taylor ?" "Yeah?" "It's a hand roasted monk fish, right?" I ask. "Yeah" he replies, "A pan roasted monk fish." How was this going to get fixed? How could I tell them that all of what I said meant nothing but babble from a newbie that didn't know what the hell he was talking about. "Is everything alright?" Nick asks. "I got it under control" I said, as he motioned for Pedro to go back into the kitchen with the cookies. And I did. I marched right back up to that table and with a look on my face as if this was all going to be something we could laugh about in days to come, I said, "You know what? You were right sir. It is a pan roasted monk fish, but the chef told me to tell you, that if you'd like he can cook it on his hand." Silence is an understatement. Revulsion is more like it. Every one of those doctors looked at my stupid little joke as if I had insulted their doctoral intelligence. I looked back and remember thinking how fast Pedro retrieved that plate of cookies. I got no laughs, no sympathy and zero respect. Needless to say, I wasn't at the Outhouse for long and neither was anybody else. It closed a year later. However, I did get another job, at an even ritzier place, not long after. Talk about money? I was officially working at a New York City steakhouse. And not only was it a steakhouse, but it was Donna's (one of the best in the city). The money and level of professionalism was practically triple compared to the Outhouse. High rolling executives came flooding in with their corporate cards. Bottles of wine for over six hundred dollars were poured like Pellegrino. The owner was never around, and the chef was a scrawny little chain smoker that loved to make me drink with him, just so he'd get the opportunity to tell me, "You know what Chester ? You're an asshole.”  His smile couldn't have been wider, I’d nervously laugh, and he'd always repeat it to convince me, "No I'm serious! You're a fuckin' asshole." Everyone liked me and life was great. However, right when you think you've got things under control, a table walks in and pops you with a question that...well, that you don't know the answer to. "What's a chanterelle?" this woman asked. I knew if I went back to the chef he would look at me with utter disgust, not to mention the backlash I’d get during our after shift drink, so I did what every other waiter learns to do. I lied.  Made it up on the spot.  I thought to myself, "Just say what it sounds like." "Sorry, I just don't know what that is", the woman confessed. "No worries, miss, that's what I'm here for", I said. "No, a chanterelle is an herb. It's a plant...very leafy and green. It's just got the most wonderful flavor", I said. She smiled, was sold on my bullshit and ordered the special. But when the dish actually arrived and I could barely see her face from the steaming heap of mushrooms on her plate, I knew I was in trouble. She waved me over and I quickly stepped to. "Now, where is the chanterelle on here?” she asked. One of the uptight floor managers looked to see how I'd handle the situation. "They're probably on the bottom" I said. "Would you mind bringing me an extra side of it, so I can get a taste?" she asked. "Honey" her boyfriend chimed in, "He said they're on the bottom." "No, I know," she said. I thought to quickly defuse the situation by “yesing” her to death.  "No, it's not a problem. I'll get that right out to you," I offered as I swiftly made my way back into the kitchen to invent a seasoning that never existed. "You told her a chanterelle was an herb!" my co-worker says. "It's a mushroom, moron." "I know that now," I replied, "but I have to just play along and figure something out." "What's up with that table?" asked the manager. "Oh, she just wants a side of herbs and stuff." "And stuff?" he asked. "Yeah...you know, like just a side of them." "Which ones." "Oh, don't worry about it," I told him. "I'll take care of it." He walked away without completely being convinced that I knew what I was doing. So there I was, back near the dishwasher, ripping off leaves from any sort of green that I could stuff down my apron from the walk-in fridge. In fact, I didn't even know which ones I grabbed. I was trying to do it as fast as I could, so the maniac chef wouldn't catch on and, at the same time, I was trying to think of a flavor profile so that it didn't taste like anything she'd had before. It had a minty scent that I killed with some lemon. I quickly seasoned it while softly coaching myself, "And a little-bit-of-salt…" I made it look appetizing, put it on a plate, and served it. She, gratefully, thanked me, covered her forty dollar steak with my nasty concoction that I wouldn't have fed to a dog and piled it into her face. "It's wonderful" she said. I slowly bowed my head, smiled and walked away, but not without giving her the old, "Let me know if there's anything else I can get for you." One of the last restaurants I ever worked at was full of verbal landmines that could easily trip up even the most seasoned of servers. It was called the Nocturne Room, a seafood restaurant that was full of itself. Every shift, they would cook and serve over one hundred dollars worth of menu items for the wait staff. Managers would go around the room and ask us what was in "that dish or this dessert" and made you feel ashamed for saying anything out of order. Nobody wanted to hear your opinion of something – they simply wanted you to sell it. The owner’s name was Jacob, and he was a spoiled child that came from a disturbingly rich family. His mother, I was convinced, should already have been dead, but had enough money to stop the process. She had a wing in the Museum of Natural History and tipped like shit.  His father was a talented prick. One of those guys that would enjoy watching you run around because his salmon was undercooked even though he ordered it from the raw bar. He was a lawyer and a classic piece of shit. I often felt that Jacob was riding my back with a whip, telling me how to stand, walk and trying to practically control my mind through telepathy. I despised going into this job. It was the worst of the worst.  If it wasn't mothers with strollers streaming through the doors in droves, like zombies, creeping out of the Hudson at sunrise for Sunday brunch, it was a decrepit old woman that wanted her fish boiled…. or, a table of six couples sitting outside, appalled that a huge pigeon came and shit across their food.  Saturdays sucked if you were in the front section. The owner stood there with his hip outfit and fake hospitality as he pummeled you with table after table, expecting nothing but perfection. If you needed help, it concerned him. It was table twelve that did it to me.  Two couples that were looking for a wonderful night of fine dining. They weren't from the city, so they had a tinge more manners than the average Upper West side patron. The special was a South African Black Toothfish, or better known as rockfish – the ugliest food I'd ever seen to date. I was sure that this was, at some point, mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster. In order to remember confusing details of a special, I would make up easy references.  For the rockfish, I thought of Chris Rock. The reason being was that the fish had huge bucked teeth that stuck out and...well, so did Chris Rock.  So, it was completely understandable, at least from my point of view, that I didn’t call it the correct title of a South African Black Toothfish but, instead, a “Black African Toothfish” (remember the Chris Rock thing was in my head). It was a mistake that Jacob, so kindly, brought to my attention by wiggling his index finger at me, from across the room. The problem wasn't the slipup; the problem was that my four guests were black.  If they were offended, it would have been news to me since I never heard a complaint. But I knew Jacob wasn't impressed. Though I never got fired, my theory of specials is this: Why have them?  If you do, let the fucking server read them and stop making everything so complicated. Write it on a chalkboard for Christ's sake and nobody will be offended, misinformed or overlooked. It would all be there for everyone to see. Besides, most career waiters that I knew would nod “yes” to the chef, go back to their section, never sell the kitchen's little overpriced inventions and, still, they made the majority of people happy.

Knees, necks and nerves

I've always loved the soft touch of a warm animal. A bunny rabbit with its little fluffy feet. A big cat that can warm up your belly on a cold winter night. But, the moment you run my hand over the fuzzy velvet feel of a horse’s nose, I sweat. Beautiful as they may be, these things are dangerous.

When I fell in love with a woman and took her to Puerto Rico on my mom's credit card, however, I figured that enough time had passed. Let me be more specific. When I was eight years old, my cousins and I were usually dropped off in the wilderness for two months to make the most out of sticks and running brooks. I remember building a shrine at the bottom of a hill just to keep myself busy. I remember my tough Irish Uncle Marty chopping logs and convincing us to do work around the house with the promise of a special treat (which always ended up being “a hearty hand shake”). It wouldn't be out of the ordinary to see us kids go ballistic over a trip to the one store in town, the Gay Bull, to get taffy and load up on all sorts of sugary, shit candy. We relied on each other for excitement, which is why, when my Aunt Renee came in and said, "Today we are goin' horseback riding", I nearly flipped from excitement.

My horse's name was Lady. She was the size of a wall and had the manners of a drunk. All of us shouted that our horse was the best, and then we were told to file right behind one another as the man-like woman took us out into the "wild." While I was the last in line on the trail, the one trying to keep up, I could sense that Lady was getting restless. A couple of twitches and disrespectful facial expressions, but nothing to be alarmed by. I was in the moment and laughing at how awkward the girls looked on these crazy beasts…. I am pretty sure it was at that point that my horse lost its mind. She started to trot and quickly busted into a sprint, which eventually turned into a gallop. All the while, I was in shock. "This isn't really happening. I'm not really moving this fast on an animal fifteen times my size."

As I passed my entire family I noticed the look on the instructor's face. That's when I panicked. Never mind not knowing where Lady and I were running off to, what concerned me more was how it was all going to end. Eventually, I was clotheslined by a pine branch. The mini stunt show for my cousins ended in tears and embarrassment. At that moment the pain meant nothing to me, I could handle the pain. It was the idea that something went horribly wrong and it happened on my horse.

"Lady!", screamed the rough instructor with the straw hat. "She's never done this before."

She rode to my rescue and asked if I was alright. Yes, I had pine needles embedded in my neck and, yes, I did do a back flip off a horse and land on jagged rocks and, yes, I was alright. I was more than alright. I was relieved to have gotten off that goddamn beast alive. But I was scared. That’s where the emotion came in. The fear. I was terrified of horses after that, but not completely convinced that they were deadly.

Years later, Uncle Marty longed to recreate his boyhood memories of galloping in the fields of Ireland and thought it would be good for the entire family to take up riding. He took us to the stables one day and declared that he bought a horse named Louie and a pony named Firecracker.

"They're beautiful, wouldn't ya say?” in his thick Irish brogue.

Everyone looked at me to see if I'd actually go through with it. Uncle Marty tried to beat the fear out of me like a priest performing an exorcism. He thought it was best for me to keep riding even though I pleaded to be left alone. I hung onto Firecracker's mane while she spun in psychotic circles. I had close calls of falling off but managed to hang on with one hand as the family cheered me on. I wasn't getting hurt. But when Uncle Marty heard me scream, that's when everything changed. A boy scream? A boy who was supposed to one day grow up and be a man?

He pulled me aside and asked, "What's the matter with ya Chester? What do you got to be so afraid of boy?"
 "I'm afraid it's gonna jump over the fence and run out into the road and get me hit by a car. I was afraid of dying." I've always been a fatalist.

"Do you think the feckin' thing is dumb?” he asked. "Do you think this here little pony is gonna want to get its face smashed in now by some bloody truck? Eh? Do ya?"

I did, but I could never tell him that. The way I saw it was, if horses weren't completely stupid, they were still dumber than humans, and we got ourselves into accidents all the time.

A few years later I realized that Uncle Marty was right; horses weren't stupid and they weren't necessarily monsters either. They just needed a little positive attention. So that's what I did, I gave them some positive attention. I brushed them. I fed them and basically, I let them know that I was there for them. And that I could love them. That is until Louie kicked me in my knee cap and left me for dead. I had to fend for myself while I crawled in the mud amongst a mosh pit of infuriated hooves which, by the way, could have easily killed me. Firecracker had sniffed Louie's ass and Louie didn't like that, (I don't blame him), and so he went to buck and it caught my knee. Understandable. But as I slid my way back to the gate, I was sure I'd never be put in this situation again. And, to top it off, nobody cared. Nobody even noticed that I was tossed seven feet in the air or that I was crawling like a war hero to get out of the ring and, worse, when the dust finally settled, everybody told me that it was my fault.

"He only did that cause you're givin' him mixed signals", my smaller cousin said.

Fuck signals! I sat on him. Was that the wrong signal? And what did she know? She was born like a week ago! Even worse, when I arrived to safety from this stampede and could barely walk, everyone thought I was just being a pussy.

"You're fine", said Uncle Marty. "Now what you want to do is get right back on that horse to show him you're not afraid."

But I was afraid. What the hell was wrong with these people? This man was being downright neglectful. I was a child. Twelve...isn't twelve still a child?

The color in my face was gone and I was losing consciousness, possibly passing over to the other side, but all the while I was to stop my whining and take the blame for not being able to control a furry fit of rage with two leather straps. I was completely misunderstood. Nobody would take my side. Why didn't they come to help me? When it reared up like Long Silver I screamed, “My knee!”

“Didn’t anyone hear me?” I later asked.

My dazed older cousin, the elder of Ms. Know-it-all, and a tomboy in nature, shook her freckle-covered face and muttered, "I thought you said, "Yippee."

In the end, after much convincing, I got a ride to the hospital and, sure enough, I was legitimately hurt. I'm not sure exactly what gave it away. The elephantitis of my joint or the crackling sound that was heard from every step I took. Regardless, I was now convinced that I would never ride another horse for as long as I lived. And this time I meant it!

But, still, maybe enough time had passed? Besides, I was with my lady friend, and I did feel a need to overcompensate. In the passing months, I ballooned from stress. I gained ten pounds and I was already shy about what my horse would think when I sat on it. And here in the beautiful rolling hills of Puerto Rico, I was sure these horses weren’t as high strung.

I told the guide about my hesitance, and so she stuck me with Fernando, a horse that looked like it was counting the days to retirement. When I mounted him I felt the usual guilt. Why should this poor horse have to drag me up and down the path just so I can say that, "Yes, even though I'm fat, a horse can still carry me?" Who was being tested? The horse or myself? When I felt that it was able to move with me on its back I, surprisingly, went to a very nice place. Maybe with the extra weight it would bring things down a notch. And it worked. There we were, slowly walking through the local neighborhood, with the locals all waving with coconuts and smiles. There was a nice man sitting on his porch with a parrot that made the sound of horses and everybody giggled, even me. Fernando was calm and I couldn't have been calmer. My girl looked back at me to make sure I was okay. And I was. I really was. This was destined to be my best experience yet.

Now, my old self would have disapproved of a pile of people on horses walking on the side of a small windy road – and a real road, not a dirt one, a real road with lanes – but I couldn't tell you what I was thinking. I guess I just felt up for the adventure. “If the locals could do it, so could I.” What I wasn't aware of was that this wasn't your average ride. We were to embark on a three hour trail of beaches, roads and brush. My ass felt bony and sore which paled in comparison to when I slipped up and accidentally sat on my balls. It wasn't until the lady in front of me couldn't get her horse to move while we were moseying through thick high grass that I got a little nervous. Since my horse's face was sitting directly in her horse’s ass, I decided to just...I don't know, lift my leg out of the way to avoid a potential knee injury? I must have looked like a real renegade. A one legged cowboy that was in-con-trol. I lifted my leg pretty high. Higher than a man in my state should have been allowed to.

Finally, we were instructed to go around the still creature and wait on the beach for the guide before we were to continue on. This is when, what I like to call, "Shit Happens", happened. At the first chance he got, Fernando rushed to the tree line and used my bloated body to make a path. It was as if I jumped into another world. For some reason I thought about Vietnam (don't ask me why). I was surrounded by jungle animals and felt the Viet Con were waiting for me in the grass. But then I started going to that bad place after enough pulling to the left and tugging to the right didn't do anything. We went up small hills and found our way back to the path, but, Fernando, the smart horse that he was, threw himself back into the bushes and trees, this time prickers, and there I was busting out of the wilderness, back onto the beach with sticks and shit covered in my wild hair, just in time for everyone to ask, "Why did you do that?!" After pulling a stunt like that I would have normally gotten off, but since we were in the middle of nowhere, I had to carry on. Plus, it gave everyone a good laugh. Not the worst person to be.

The sun was down, we were back on the windy Puerto Rican road, where drunk driving wasn't a big deal (I was guilty of it myself) and where morons felt the need to honk their horns as if I wasn’t aware that I wasn’t supposed to be in the middle of the road on a stallion. I was stressed. I was stressed that all of this commotion would prompt this animal to lose his shit and make a run for it. That was about the time a fellow rider tried to pass us. I learned that the golden rule of what not to do in horseback riding is to try passing another horse.

"Fernando was threatened", the guide told me. Of course, this is what all horse lovers say to justify the need for the animal to go from 0 to 60 with a paying patron towards oncoming traffic. Uncle Marty tried so desperately to convince me that horses weren't stupid, but I had my doubts that they understood the rules of traffic. In my mind they wouldn't be aware that behind those bright shiny lights was a body of metal that was moving fast enough to smear the both of us across the intersection.

I was planning my escape. Maybe it would jump the car. They did seem to have little cars in Puerto Rico. Maybe we could jump it and I would then be able to run into another tree branch. All I know is that I was flailing like I'd been kidnapped and everyone saw me at my worst. The last stretch was unacceptable. My mouth made that funny face that people make when they are falling out of planes and my woman described me as an Indiana Jones stunt man. I passed the little parrot that made the stupid fucking horse noise and we arrived back at the camp before I shit my pants. At that point I was convinced I was already going through post traumatic stress. The reigns were dangling off both sides and I would have let Fernando do anything, just as long as he didn't run.

The guide came over to help me down. "That's funny", she said. "Fernando's never done that before."

If she weren’t helping me off of hell I would have strangled the life out of her for making such a stupid comment. I would have cut her up into little Puerto Rican pieces and fed her to the stables. Because the truth is…she did know. And so did Fernando. Everyone knew. And now I know. "Too bad for them", I thought. "They just went and lost a good customer."

Fred and Ace (Job # 14)

Right smack in the middle of my twenties, with no promising career opportunities other than waiting tables at Bennigan's, I was offered a job I couldn't afford to turn down.

My mother sat me across from my Aunt Nell with a cup of tea and said, "We got this guy that needs to be taken care of. Real good money. The only problem is that he's requested males only and so...well the both of us were thinking of you.” For some time my mother and her sisters were running their own business, taking care of elderly people that needed assistance. They had stumbled upon a ninety-four year old Irish man that left loads of cash to his lawyer who saw that he got the proper treatment over the duration of his life.

"He's pretty much forgotten everything and can't be left alone."

My first reaction was, "Abso-fuckin’-lutely not", but when I was told that I would be making twelve dollars an hour under the table to sit with a man that thought he was somewhere else, I figured, "Absolutely." I mean, I hated waiting tables and this would be the perfect cash flow while I kept my eyes peeled for something else. The only catch was that I had to go to this retirement home, spend the night and help him go to the bathroom.


The place was called Northern Acres, a sweet old mansion that harbored the elderly – but it wasn't, and I repeat, it wasn't a nursing home. After all, who in their right mind would work at a nursing home? My Aunt Nell was slick with her business deals. She was a red-headed stick figure that talked a smooth game making strangers cry over the rosary and firmly believing in what the fortune tellers had in store for them. Most of her friends were from AA even though she hadn't taken a drink in thirty plus years. She knew how to take care of business and when she saw an opportunity, she jumped on it. So, when I arrived at Northern Acres, it didn't surprise me that I wasn't taking care of one person, but two.

"Two people?” I said. "I've never done this before."

She looked at me, pinched my cheeks and said in what sounded like nasally baby talk, "Don't worry sweetie, these guys don't know who the fuck they are anyway."

At least she raised my salary to fifteen an hour. Their names were Fred and Ace, both ninety-four years old and both suffering from Alzheimer’s. Both had done well for themselves and managed to save up enough to live out the rest of their lives in this homely estate. Fred was a Professor at a prestigious college and Ace made pipes.


The inside of the mansion was what you would see in an old movie. Outdated patterns that covered the wall. Light classical music could be heard on the speakers and everyone looked like they were waiting for something to walk through the front door, pick them up and take them back to a place that resembled something they could remember. The temperature was warm and the entrance was filled with bright old people that lit up at the sight of a stranger. While this may have seemed random at first, it didn't take me long to realize that everyone's space was meticulously claimed like cats in a cage. The woman on the left always sat on the left and the couple in the corner always sat in the corner. These people survived by rituals.

Aunt Nell walked me over to a nice old man that seemed to be lost in thought. He was sitting in a chair near the front door.

"Fred? Fred honey. This is Chester”, my Aunt says.

Fred slowly picked his head up as if it weighed a ton. His half smirk attempted to lift his droopy eyes. After a moment of awkward silence, he went right back to his catatonic state.

"He just got a bath. So he's nice and clean, aren't you?” she asked.

"Aren't I what?” yelled Fred (his hearing wasn't so good after the war).

"Clean. Aren't you clean?" "Oh, I don't have time for that", he replied.

I didn't know what to make of this. He just gave a senseless answer for a very simple question, which convinced me that this was going to be a cake walk. Fred didn’t want to be there any more than I did.

"Come on. Let me introduce you to Ace."

We walked down the long hallway and into the TV room where a very small thin man sat. He drooled all over himself and had a disgusting handkerchief. I found myself becoming confused.  Was I supposed to wipe that off of his chin? Was that part of my job? Ace had a horrible hunched back and needed a silver, square walker to get around.

If I were to compare these two, Ace was a prehistoric bird, a bit light on his feet and still fragile, while Fred was a broken statue that had hands of stone. When he stood up you got the feeling he was made of lead. If Fred fell, I had visions of a tractor pulling him up. If Ace fell, I had visions of picking pieces of him up. I was warned to never let both of these men out of my sight. That, even though he was convinced he had stubble on his face, Fred wasn't to go near a razor or he'd make himself bleed to death. I also found out that Ace tends to yell in his sleep and likes to keep the light on at night.

"I've got to go sweetie. So they both go to bed in an hour and they need to be up for breakfast by eight."

Aunt Nell swept out the door faster than I would have liked. I didn't know what to do at first, but I then reminded myself that part of my job was to do nothing. I found a seat and patted Ace on the lap as if we'd been friends for years. He looked at me and smiled, "It's good to see you again."

We could have watched porn for all those people cared. They would have still sustained the same smiles on their faces and bickered about how cold everything was. The room was pitch black with just the light from the television and the slight shade of red coming from the exit sign.

"They got you workin' here too?” comes this voice from the dark of the room.

Out steps Lauren. A man that had two teeth and one testical. I know this because he told me. One of those people that spews out his history as if you aren't going to judge him for it. Within ten minutes of us meeting he confessed that he was in a legal battle with a doctor that laughed at the size of his penis while going under anesthesia during an operation.

"Geez they got your whole family workin' here", he said.

In a nutshell, the man was dirty. Filthy really. He was the type to play two sides and always had an answer for everything. He was seventy five, a parent of three wild young girls and the person responsible for making our food. Their food I should say, as the owner would dart his eyes at me with contempt and never let me sit down at the tables, especially while meals were being served. It seemed everybody knew what my aunt was up to. Taking money under the table while none of us were properly qualified to look after these men. Nobody liked it and, furthermore, nobody liked us.

Lauren revealed himself to be even more of a rodent when he claimed he never touched his little girl, "She's just goin' around startin' trouble. I told her, I said you keep this up and you're gonna be out on your own. Them people are gonna come back and take you away from me." That sort of information wasn’t what usually came up in my line of conversation. I wasn’t sure what shocked me more, what he told me or the idea that this mess of a person had little kids at the age of seventy five. Who would sleep with this thing? The man wouldn't shut the fuck up and, furthermore, he began having arguments with himself. The type that didn’t require feedback. I had to constantly remind myself that he wasn’t a patient. Just when I would feel I’d had enough, I envisioned all of the money I was getting paid to endure such a vile presence.

Fred was the easier of the two. When it was time for bed, he slowly made his way down to his room, got under the covers and thanked me for taking his teeth. Ace on the other hand, needed coaxing. He was like a child that needed a bedtime story, only he'd forget what I was talking about halfway through. Another interesting quality about Ace was that he was convinced we were actually in the stories. He'd repeatedly demand to speak to the captain of the ship which forced me to play along and give him some random reason about how he never properly tied up his horses or how he should have put in a request for leave much earlier than he had. Even worse, he refused to piss in the toilet. I quickly learned that, while completely capable of making his way over to the bathroom, he just preferred the rusty Folgers can that sat beside his bed. I realized that rusty meant reusable. How many people got on their knees to help this man rust up this tin? Grey pubic hair that looked silver from a certain angle. I remember thinking it seemed like something to look forward to. When I realized just what it was I was doing, a surge of adrenaline shot to my head. A panic really. His balls dropped to the floor like silly putty. I wasn't sure if I should run or play tetherball around his little leg. To get him into bed wasn’t an easy task either. He violently shook and was as stiff as a board. When all was said and done he finally passed out and I stepped out of his room feeling that maybe waiting tables wasn't so bad after all. Lauren told me that whenever Ace would scream, "Help me"; it was just him talking in his sleep. Later I learned that it also meant he pissed the bed. The only other thing I could compare Ace to was a camel. The man hardly drank water but constantly pushed it out. Sometimes twice a night.

What was becoming evident was the pattern of delusion among the guests of Northern Acres. Was fifteen dollars really worth it? I turned the page of an antique magazine, and desperately tried to read in the dark. In the distance I could hear "Help me, help me" coming out of Ace's room. I could also hear Lauren snoring. The man was tormenting me even in his sleep.