Mother and Father

     I had said before that I hate blogs where it's nothing but how unsatisfactory the writer's parents are, and the hardships endured while being raised in an upper middle class suburban home. I also said, in my last post, that I was going to be writing about my parents. Some of you may be wondering if I'm going to take the hypocritical dive into complaining about them, and to those people, you don't have to worry. Because in all honesty, I don't have much to complain about.

     That might be surprising to a lot of you. A teenager who doesn't have anything but disdain for his parents? What kind of blog is this? But it's true. I have two of the most supportive and loving parents I could have been given. And while I'm praising them in a way that makes me feel like I should be asking for money any minute now, I am truly grateful for all that they've done for me, one of the major ones being existence.

     When asked about my parents, one of the first words that pop into my head is, oddly enough, “anomaly”. My father was born in Massachusetts, much to his chagrin, and was raised in Northern New Hampshire. My mother, on the other hand, was born and raised in the Southern part of Southern California. If we stay in the Continental US, they really can't get too much farther apart. However, this distance between each other was soon solved by something called the Navy, in which my father was apart of.

     So, there he was, in California, going through a bit of a rough time in his life. The kind of rough time that makes you go on a drinking binge. A friend of my father finally had enough and took him to church on one fate-filled Sunday morning. The morning he met my mom. There she was, a blonde bombshell (yes, it is awkward writing that about your own mother, thanks for asking), in her Sunday Best, who also happened to be a friend of my dad's friend. So, like any good friend, we'll call him Gary, Gary asked if his friend (my father) and himself could come by for dinner. As a good responsible person, my mother had to ask her own mother. The conversation basically went like this:

     “Hey Mom?” My mother asked, finally getting her mom's attention. “Gary has this gross looking guy who smells terrible with him, and wants the both of them to come over for dinner. You don't want that, do you?”

     “Oh, heavens, no!”

     “Thank you.” My mom went back to Gary to tell him the news. “Unfortunately, my Mom says we already have plans today. Bummer.”

     However, over the next few days, my smitten dad cleaned up, sobered up, and tried again. And after what Mom says took several attempts, she finally agreed to go out with him, as futile as it seemed.

     They were married within the year.

     But yes, anomaly is still what I would use to describe them. Let's look at the data.

        Father: Grew up in North North East East.

        Mother: South South West West.

        Father: First met my Mother coming out of a binge, without bathing for days, on a motorcycle.

        Mother: Attended a church that was basically the setting to Footloose.

        Father: Twenty-three years old when meeting my mother.

        Mother: Eighteen when meeting my father.

        Father: Somewhat down to Earth man, who thinks in a somewhat down to Earth fashion.

        Mother: Bat-shit crazy. In a good way, though.

     And the list indeed goes on. However, there is one thing they have in common. My parents' love for music is second only to their love for their children. And you can see it in said children. We are an extremely musical family, and even though only one of us went on to pursue it occupationally, it's still a major part of our lives, as proven by the term this blog is named for.

     They went ahead and had five kids, and raised each one rather successfully. And what I think impresses me the most about how my parents raised us, is that they wanted us all to find what makes each one of us happy, to find our own niche. They didn't raise us to be a clone of the one before, because they understood that we would be different people. And good lord, are we. We each found something radically different from anything someone else found, and somehow, Mom and Dad supported every son and daughter's passion. I'm still not entirely sure how. Rachel is a professional photographer, and Sam is a musician. Those are expensive. Twice.

     I often catch my parents saying something along the lines of “I have no clue where our kids got their brains and talents from, 'cause it sure ain’t from me!”, to which I call bullshit on, in all certainty. My dad is the only person I know who reads the encyclopedia for recreation, and my mom is to this day the most creative person and talented singer I've ever met. So, it's not that far of a stretch to think my fellow siblings and I get a lot of what makes us who we are from our parents: Creative, intelligent, and passionate people, who can think for themselves, and are capable of achieving what they want from life.

     So Mom, if there's anything that I want you to get out of this, it's that you, as a mother, succeeded with flying colors, and that you have not only raised intelligent and creative children, but children who love you immensely, and are grateful for everything you've done. Happy Mother's Day Post.

     Oh, and Dad? Father's Day is coming up. Just a warning.

Siblings and Summarizing

      I think I made Sam out to be a racist last week with the fried chicken comment. That's not good... or correct. I guess that's what happens when I write when I'm sick. Actually, that's a good idea. As a code for my readers that I'm writing the post while fighting some form of illness, which actually happens pretty often, I will randomly drop somewhere in the text a hint that Sam is a white supremacist. It'll be an inside joke! We don't have one of those, readers. It's about time we get one.

     I am however feeling dandy this week, and I'm excited to write with a zeal that only a healthy body and mind can produce. Also, a good three cups of coffee this morning helps to the point of near hindrance, and I can only assume that this post is top notch stuff, as my eyes haven't stopped jittering long enough for me to read what I've written. Ah well. Editing is an unnecessary step, and can honestly be skiped altogether.

     I brought my brother to the list of people I talk about last week, and I realize now that my family is a rather large majority of my memories, as they tended to be around a lot while creating them. So, if I didn't talk about them once in a while, it would be a major disservice to my readers, to whom I'm allowing a glimpse into my life, where my family is both half of that and half of my readers. And I'd also be doing a disservice to myself, who is in a constant need of things to write about. By bringing up my family, I just postponed the end of this project by at least a couple years.

     I would like to bring up two things before I get too carried away. One: That all the paragraphs so far start with “I”, which would usually make me think that I'm failing at sentence variation, but I'm leaving it there as both a curiosity and a warning to future paragraphs that uniformity is not for them, and that they should branch out and start the way that they should: Differently. I think I just used two colons in the same sentence... I double-coloned. Is that a thing? It is now. Wait. No. Never mind. It's not. I should really lay off on the coffee...

     The second thing I'd like to bring up is that I apologize to the quartet fans who read this for Cory, Ben and Spencer, or Corbence, as I am now calling them while they are being acknowledged in a group. I would like to think that I'm in something of an introduction phase in my blog, and during that phase, I'm trying to bring up the people that I will be writing about while the project is young, rather than wait a couple months and say “Hey! I have a family!” and write about them for the next half-year. This approach allows for variation between stories, and makes it so that I'm not limited to the same characters week after week. Now that I'm done explaining myself to the likes of you, it's time to introduce the family.

     Over a span of time, I've given a pretty accurate title to each of my siblings, that I feel describes them in a short and easy-to-understand way. For example, we have the eldest, Jesse: the Perfect One. Every single time I've called Jesse “the Perfect One” he has denied it. And you know what? That's exactly what a perfect person would do. So if anything, he has proven my point. How is he perfect? Well, he's an intelligent and thoughtful track star with a great sense of humor, who is a terrific father, and a loving husband, who is handy with tools, handier with a computer, slow to anger, quiet (but not in a shy sort of way, more like a “I'm too cool to be loud” sort of way), and also has perfect hair. He calls it combing. I call it straight up witchcraft. Anyways, we have a smart, athletic, funny, and loving handy man, who is calm and collected, and has the wavy hair of Prince Charming. This is perfection personified. But he won't have it, so let's move on.

     Next we have Rachel: the Cool One. Sam actually helped a bit with that title, but it's true. Out of the five of us, Rachel is by far the coolest one. Say Sam and I discovered a band that's really underground (because yes, we're basically hipsters), Rachel will be like “Oh, I love that band! Although their second album was sub par.” Sam and I had yet to discover that the band even had a second album. But besides her being more hipster than Sam and I, she went to school for photography, out of state I might add, and she went to Australia for a while and survived. That's basically as cool as our family gets.

     Then we have Sarah: the Sarcastic One. I think the only actual rivalry in our immediate family was between Sarah and I, and a lot of that is because we were also the only ones who were actually somewhat alike. Now that might not make sense, even though it totally should. A sarcastic teenager is probably going to be annoyed by a sarcastic eight-year-old, who is doing his best to annoy the teenager. The annoyed teenager will complain to the tired parent, who then punishes the eight-year-old to shut up the annoy(ed)(ing) teenager. Then the eight-year-old punishes the teenager for getting him in trouble by annoying her. And the circle of life continues... But again, we outgrew that, and now Sarah is a loving wife and mother, and will soon have her turn at being the tired parent, with her unavoidably sarcastic children.

     After Sarah, there's Sam: the Favorite One. And not just by me. By everyone. If you spend five minutes with Sam, he will become your favorite person. Seriously, the whole family agrees. Sam is the favorite. And we're okay with that. My Best Man speech for Sam's wedding was basically me talking about how he was all our favorite person. And everyone there agreed too. Is he perfect? No, that's Jesse, remember? No, Sam is just a guy you immediately love to be around. Unless he's being Apple Sam. Never be around Apple Sam.

     Lastly, there's me: the New One. I have a far enough age difference from the rest of my siblings that Sam was really the only one I could hang out with regularly. Most were past college and starting a family of their own by the time I hit high school, so I never really had a chance to get to know them before I lost my “annoying younger brother” attitude. High School was really when I started hanging out with Sam the most, and I think during that time, he was almost getting me ready to meet my older siblings, but not as my older siblings, but as the people they really are.

     Jesse is no longer the mean older brother that didn't share his stash of candy with me. Rachel and Sarah are no longer the girls that didn't let me into their room. Sam is no longer the kid that sword fights with me in the back yard. They're people now. People with hopes, fears, and faults*. And even though I grew up with them, I'm just starting to get to know them. So yeah, I'm the New One. And I'm pretty excited about it.

     Oh, my parents? Please. They deserve their own post.

*Except for Jesse

Brotherhood and Applebee's

     This is the four year anniversary of the twenty-six hour bus trip from Disney World to New Hampshire. And what a trip it was. Heck, the entire week was full of memories, stories and friendship. They were days of happiness, life, and slight corruption. Oh, and that one time where Woody from Toy Story took a smoke break. I could talk for hours on what happened on that trip. But you know what I'm not going to do this week?

     That.

     No, I think that now is a good time to introduce a new character, much like any failing TV show does. Am I saying that my blog is taking a nose dive? Not at all. I said failing TV Show. Blogs are on a completely different level.

     No, this is somebody who really should have been on this in the first place. He might not be a part of the quartet, but he has been as much a part of who I am, if not not more so, as Cory, Ben and Spencer has. And anyone who has seen the two of us together understand that we have a bond that is the equivalent to brotherhood. Who is he? Well, he's my brother.

     For me, Sam has been somewhere between best friend, and adviser. Think of it as a Gandalf to Bilbo sort of relationship, only Gandalf has even crazier hair, and Bilbo is even shorter. He's encouraged and supported me through a lot of weird ideas I've had, while still keeping a heavy foot on the “Constructive Criticism” pedal. For a long time, I just thought this was him making sure I didn't get too good at anything, as it was obvious that he was jealous of my pure and undeniable skill. However, this was just not the case. He wasn't trying to bring me down, he was trying to lift me up. (Reference that 99% of the readers won't get, anyone? Anyone? You, 1%? No? That's fair.)

     Sam believed that I had more potential that I thought I did. And I'm pretty egotistical, so that's saying a bit. So every time I wrote a new short story or idea that I knew was bad, but tried to pawn it off as good anyways, he called me out on it. “Nope. You can do better.” “Nice try. Go back, and do it again.” “This just sucks.”

     Did it hurt having a literary equivalent of Simon Cowell as an older brother? Yeah, but it was necessary. Sam is pretty much the reason I'm doing this project, rather than some terrible attempt at a fantasy novel. Sam is probably the only brother in history who has pulled his younger naive brother aside and taught him the importance of timing when telling a joke, how maturity should always be an aspect of your humor, and that you should never make a fool of yourself to try to impress someone. On that note, I'm going to tell you the story of the time Sam broke every single one of those rules. The day that Apple Sam was born.

     Anybody who dates me learns pretty quickly that I probably love Sam more than I will love them. It's most likely due to the fact that I talk about him more than anything, we have more inside jokes than there are insides, and we're actually tempted to believe that we have a telepathic bridge to each others' brains. Is this a bad thing? Probably, but we kick ass in taboo. And in the end, that's what matters.

     Anyways, it's no doubt that I raise Sam up on a pedestal a little bit when describing him, so when someone finally meets him, there are a lot of expectations that go along with it. And usually, they are all met with flying colors. Usually. However, the first meeting with my girlfriend, Becca, didn't go as smoothly as I would have expected. We were on a double date with Sam and his wife, Alex. Becca was excited, obviously, and well, I guess Sam was too...

     I can really only exemplify Sam's behavior with the way a dog acts when he sees his family for the first time after the family has been away on a week long vacation. I've never seen him like this before. I mean, he can be crazy sometimes, but never on this level. He was being loud, obnoxious, and at some points, just plain annoying. I think Alex apologized for him at least ten times throughout the day. Then dinner happened.

     “LET'S GO TO APPLEBEES!” Sam exclaimed while pouring a pitcher of water on himself.

     “Uh, you sure, honey?” Alex asked, obviously not wanting to be in public with this monstrosity.

     “You betcha, Lady! I want me some CHICKEN!”

     By now, I was mouthing “Please, forgive me” to Becca, although she seemed to be pretty entertained with the whole ordeal. Lucky her.

     When we got to Applebees, Sam seemed to have calmed down a bit. We got seated, all ordered water, and looked at the menu. Then, out of nowhere, this happened: “Aw yeah! Fried Chicken! I love Fried Chicken more than blac- OW!” This is where I kicked Sam extremely hard under the table, as it was easy to figure out that Sam didn't notice the African American family that was being seated behind him. That's a check mark for breaking the timing rule.

     Then we got our water. Maybe Sam just needed some hydration? Nope. When Sam got his beverage, he took the opportunity to suck some water through the straw, point the straw at his wife, and blow. Maturity rule? Check. Alex didn't even know how to react. Thankfully, before she could, the waiter came by to take our orders.

     When Sam's fried chicken came, he was somehow under the impression that we were vikings. Seriously. Everything from the way he ate it to singing battle tunes he made up on the spot. Actually, come to think of it, the latter was pretty impressive. Still, making a fool of yourself? Check.

     Apple Sam is a much referenced part of Sam, and he comes out once in a while like Mr. Hyde when he's in that delicate balance of being tired and wanting to stay up. We have yet to find a cure that doesn't involve massive head trauma, although it might just come to that. However, it did turn out to be the most interesting double date I've been on. 

Grumbling and Freshman Tossing

     
     I believe the truth in any story is measured by how much the teller thinks he or she can get away with. We are told stories from an early age ranging from Heracles to Paul Bunyan, and each of these tells not only the events of the characters, but also about the culture that the stories came from. The thing is, nowadays with the “pics or it didn't happen” mindset, storytelling has lost its way of tall tales and mythology, and has become nothing more than recreational journalism. Any anecdote that has an ounce of truth-stretching is immediately branded as complete bull. And that bothers me. Because truth-stretching, unlike journalism, is interesting. It's entertaining, funny, gross, frightening, sad, and a lot of the time, enriching.

     It's anything you want it to be, and I think the untrue parts of the story can tell you as much, if not more, about the person telling it as the parts that aren't falsified. But if you look for nothing but the facts, that's all you're going to find. However, if you stretch the truth a little to get across what you think the story needs, you end up with a lot more than journalism or straight facts could give you. And I know that some of you are all-too-cleverly saying to yourselves that journalism stretches the truth too. And to that I say: I don't care. If there is one thing I don't want this blog to be, it's political. However, if there's one thing that I want my readers to get out of this, it's to not lean on reality too much. You'll only get bored. And with that, I'm going to tell you the story of the time Spencer wrestled a bear.

     Completely kidding. To my knowledge, Spencer has never partaken in fisticuffs with a grizzly. However, if I'm wrong, I promise you that that story will be next week's post.

     I never really gave Spencer the description he deserves. I sort of painted him as a gloomy spiteful man, who doesn't talk much, and grumbles hate at people. While the latter is definitely true, Spencer really isn't depressing. If anything, Spencer is an example of how an emo kid can turn out to be a pretty awesome guy, as long as you let him grumble at people. I've tried to see if he could control his under-the-breath insults, but it ended explosively. Seriously, that New Years Resolution did NOT turn out to be a good idea.

     The challenge started around the time most New Years Resolutions are broken: A couple days after New Years. We were sitting next to each other in band, and this is basically what he sounded like.

     “Freaking..... grumble..... hate your..... grumble grumble..... break you in half.... grumble grumble....”

     “Man, I've never seen so much disdain for a reed before....”

     “It keeps squeaking!”

     “Okay, but do you have to vow to slaughter its children?”

     “Only if it doesn't stop!” Spencer played a few notes after some adjustments, but it didn't take long for the saxophone to start making awkward squawking sounds. “Gah!”

     “Just get a new reed! It's not that big of a deal!”

     “But that means it wins, Josiah! The reed can't win!”

     “I think you're breaching some Ahab-esque obsession here...”

     “Shut up!” Squeak. “Dammit!”

     “You really gotta work out some of these anger issues...” Spencer glared at me in a way that made me worry about my immediate safety, but after a couple seconds, he just rolled his eyes.

     “Fine. What do you think I should do?”

     “Well, let's try grumbling less. It can be your New Years Resolution.”

     “Isn't it kinda late for that?”

     “It's never too late for self-betterment.”

     “Screw you.”

     “See? You didn't mumble that! You're already doing better!”

     The next few weeks can only be described as scary. Instead of what I thought would happen: Spencer slowly but surely becoming a less angry individual, he actually got worse. Things that would normally just irritate Spencer actually made him violent, and I really had only myself to blame. I took away Spencer's only way of safely and peacefully venting, and I was reaping the consequences. Well, more the people he threw stuff at were reaping the consequences, but I was the cause of it. I just made Emo Hulk.

     The longer it stayed like this, the more violent it got. Small annoyances became unforgivable acts of war. Walls were punched, bad drivers were frequently flipped off, and children cried in fear of him. I knew I had to do something.

     Back in the music room, I caught him just in time to stop him from throwing a small Freshman at a slightly smaller Freshman. “Spencer!”

     “WHAT?!?” Spencer yelled, still holding the terrified teenager over his head.

     “Forget everything I said! Grumble your heart out! Grumble till you're tired of grumbling!”

     “BUT I RESOLUTED!”

     “I think you mean resolved...”

     “SHUT UP! AAAAUGH!!” Spencer got ready to throw, and both Freshmen screamed in horror.

     I had to act fast, but as always, I had no idea what to do. Then I saw it. Spencer's saxophone. I ran over, picked it up, and held it over my head. He looked at me in disbelief. “You wouldn't!”

     Nope. I wouldn't. “Oh, I would!” He glared at me for a few more seconds. “Put the Freshman down!”      We stared at each other for what felt like years. He was furious. I was terrified. Luckily, my frightened eyes can be mistaken for crazy eyes, so thank God for that.

     Then, just when I thought that all was lost, Spencer started to lower the now coarse voiced child. “Stupid little..... crybaby....fu...ing piece of..... taking my saxophone...... I'll break his legs......”

     I sighed with relief as a grumbling, normal Spencer walked over to me and took his saxophone from my hands. What followed was about an hour of the angriest Jazz I've ever heard, accented by awful squeaking. I guess he never changed that reed.

     I learned a lot in that time. If you take away a man's way of dealing with the world, he'll start to throw Freshman around. Also, I was the worst life-coach ever. But at least I was a good bluffer.

     Hell, come to think of it, it's actually pretty likely that Spencer wrestled a bear at one point. I'll have to check on that... See you next week!

Pocket Watches and Murderers

     I'm not really into deadlines. Ask my High School teachers, it's actually kind of a problem. I'm not going to make up any excuses for myself, like how deadlines crush my artistic spirit or some other pretentious swill that art majors say to their professors. I'm lazy. However, this post is exciting, because this is the third straight week that I've posted a story. This is like a punctual hat-trick for me. Also, the fact that I just used a sports term is pretty impressive. Today is just full of accomplishments.

     I stopped wearing t-shirts freshman year. To this day I'm really not sure why, but I started wearing nothing but button down every day. The next year, I added vests, and the year after that, I started wearing sport coats. Add a pocket watch, a newsboy cap, and dress shoes, and you've got a kid who makes, at the very least, a memorable first impression.

     Although I dressed the part, I definitely was not living the high life, as evidenced by living in a house where one of the rooms didn't have a roof. I was hit-or-miss with words; dashingly suave one sentence, and stuttering profusely through the next. I was terrible at talking to girls, especially girls I liked, and at the same time, I found most guys to be obnoxious and hard to get along with. Social Debonair I was not.

     However, if you put me in a room with Ben, we will charm the top hat off your head. When Ben and I are together, we sound like we came out of a Jane Austen book, that was co-written by James Bond. The Sean Connery version. I'm really not sure how to explain it. For now, I just give credit to the both of us watching a great deal of British television, mixed with saying “Indeed” and “Quite” a lot. And while that's not all you need to be fancy, it does indeed seem to be quite a large part of it, indeed? Quite.

     Ben also tended to be fancier than me in a lot of cases. He was the first of the quartet to acquire a pipe (Yes, we all have pipes), he's the only one out of the two of us who has actually worn a tuxedo, as he was the only one out of the two of us to go to prom, where he arrived with two girls at his side, one of which being my then and present girlfriend. And he wore t-shirts and sneakers. No vests, no loafers, not even a pea coat. Ben was, without a doubt, the modern gentleman. That's what got me jealous.

     It was a while ago in the winter. Ben and I were sitting in a grungy Boston subway car, on our way to visit some friends in the city. I was wearing a vest and pea coat, and Ben was probably wearing a band t-shirt and some windbreaker. It was relatively empty in the car, but a rather intimidating bald man wearing a hoodie and combat boots walked towards and sat across from us. He looked to be in a hurry, however I'm still scared to think of what for.

     We sat there for a while, pretending to ignore each other, until the man finally asked us in a thick Russian accent, “Do you guys know what time it is?” My eyes widened with excitement, and a crazy grin widened on my face.

     “HELL YEAH, I DO!” This was right around the time that I bought a pocket watch, and I was excited to get the attention deserved from it, even though I forgot that this guy was probably going to kill somebody that day. However, this excitement led me to think of the next two seconds as a race between Ben and I. Here's the thing: In order to get to my pocket watch, I have to undo the three buttons on my coat, reach into my vest pocket, raise up the watch, and open it via a sometimes malfunctioning button. Ben had to raise his wrist up.

     It was a hopeless mission. This undoubtedly upright citizen of Boston needed the time, and only I could give it to him... from a pocket watch. I did what was necessary. I stood up, skipped the buttons altogether, and just lifted up my coat so I could get to the pocket. I ripped the watch from my vest, forced open the cover, and read the man the time. I was proud, I was victorious, and I was in a Boston subway with my pea coat hunched up to my ribs holding a pocket watch. 

     I looked back at Ben, who was looking down in shame. Probably because of his defeat. I looked back at the man, who couldn't think of words to say. Speechlessly in awe, no doubt. It was right around then when I realized Ben didn't even have a watch.

     There was no race. I was the only one who had the time on the whole freaking train car. And I just made myself look like an idiot trying to out-class Ben, who was wearing a goddam WINDBREAKER. I definitely had a problem, and I needed to “declass” a bit. So I planned to spend the next couple of weeks hanging out with Cory.

     We later found out that day that my pocket watch was off by an hour. However, we just shrugged and figured that we probably prevented a murder from happening. Hopefully. But I decided then that Ben and I should never compete for fanciness. It was just something that we were, and we worked even better when together. That day, when I came to this decision, I had a short talk with him on the car ride home.

     “Ben?” I began.

     “Mmm?” He replied.

     “You truly are quite the gentleman.”

     He looked at me for a moment, puzzled. Then he looked back towards the road, pondered a little while, and finally gave his response.

      “Indeed.”

Wizards and Delivery Boys

     I really hate the word “blog”. Not that I'm in denial. This project is very much a blog, and I can't really do much to change that. But for me, “blog” has a somewhat general meaning for a place where whiny teens talk about how they hate their parents, or where environmentalists try to prove that they're saving the world, and we're not. And that's not how I want this to be portrayed, but I feel like every time I tell someone about this, they judge me as if that's what I'm writing. So, instead of calling this a blog, I'm calling it Basic Literature of Grandeur, or, because it's a bit of a mouthful, a Blog. -Oh... Well, that was counter productive.

     Like all friendships, there was a time where the friendship between Ben, Spencer, Cory and I had yet to exist. And I always wished that there was some amazing story about how the four of us met, maybe something with adventure, intrigue, and random explosions. However, the story of how we met is actually fairly dull. Cory, Spencer and Ben all knew each other from Elementary School, and I met them through Middle School Band.

     Spencer was a saxophonist who constantly grumbled all the swears he knew at that age (which were surprisingly numerous), Cory was an awkward euphonium player who resembled a vampire's preteen son, and Ben, also a saxophonist, was just a cheery ginger kid. Me? I was the good little Christian boy who was terrified of everyone, cried at a moment's notice, and wore a beret whenever possible. Yup.

     While the four of us knew each other back then, and would consider what we had as friendship, we weren't quite at the quartet status yet. No, that would take a long and unforgettable journey to one of the wickedest places in the world. A place of bright lights, proportionally impossible women, and home to some of the greediest people to ever live. That's right.

     Disney World.

     It was Freshman year, and the four of us were all roommates for the High School Band Disney trip. It was an exciting time for our music department, and my first time going to Disney. This was a time of growth, not just for our friendship, but for me. However, this growth isn't exactly what I would call maturing, or even good. You see, this week is what's known as “The Week of Corruption”, and is aptly named. And while this week could easily create ten posts, this particular story is about a twelve o'clock at night pizza ordering, and a wizard named Zan.

     To make this as entertaining as possible, I'm going to show you the role of the delivery boy, and what he was probably thinking while this event occurred.

     Okay, last delivery of the night. Large pepperoni? Man, these guys are generic. Talk about boring. Alright, this is the room number. Knocking on the door... Nobody's answering. Great. I hear voices... Maybe I should knock again. Okay... Oh, someones opening. “Hi, large pepperon- Ah!” Why did a small puppet just answer the door? Am I THAT high?

     “Did I frighten you, Son?” asked Zan, Cory's wizard puppet that he bought at Epcot. Cory had only opened the door enough to let his arm and puppet through. The rest of us were trying to stifle our laughter.

     “Uh, yeah, a little bit. Um, this is going to be $19.99.”

     “That's pretty freaking expensive, Young One.”

     “I'm thirty-four.”

     “Wait, really?” Cory accidentally said in his real voice. He caught himself, and got back into character. “I mean, uh, I'm a hundred and sixty-seven. So, you're still young in comparison.”

     “Sir, are you going to pay for this or not?” This puppet is getting obnoxious.

     “Just a second...” Zan went inside for a while, and then came out with a twenty taped to his hand. “There you go.”

     No tip. Typical. And how am I supposed to give this large pizza to a tiny puppet?

     At that moment, Cory was actually wondering the same thing. “Guys...” he whispered to us, “I think I need to actually open the door to get the pizza.”

     This was a bad idea. Let me explain. If Cory were to open that door fully, the things that that delivery... man... would see would probably make him scream. This screaming would get the attention of the female chaperones who were right next door. They would come out, and then scream themselves.

     However, before we could stop him, Cory swung the door wide open, without shame. The delivery man's eyes widened, and his jaw dropped.

     Oh... That is... the shortest kimono... I have ever seen.

     “Uh, here you go... sir?” He thrust the pizza into Cory's chest and walked briskly back to his car. All four of us were laughing hysterically, that is, until we all heard the next door over open. Four women chaperones, one of them being ours, walked outside to see what the laughing was about an hour after room checks. Ben, Spencer and I were terrified. Cory, fully visible and outside the hotel room, in a Japanese kimono that stops around high-mid thigh, looked at the understandably confused group of middle-aged women, and smiled.

     “Ladies.”

     Cory literally dived back into the room through the door, and I jumped up off the bed to close it. Our laughter was directed towards what just happened, and the certainty that we were all going to die. But after a couple of seconds, we realized that we weren't the only ones laughing. The chaperones next door were laughing so hard, I'm pretty sure they were having trouble breathing. We all sat down on the bed, and started helping ourselves to pizza.

     I said in my last post that there are a set of rules that every friend of Cory learns. The second one: Never look for shame. You will never find it. This rule has been proven again and again at parties, classes, and conversations with my parents. The latter proved to be pretty interesting.

We finally went to bed around four o'clock in the morning. I had just finally gotten myself to drift off to sleep when suddenly, Cory throws open the bathroom door from the inside (because, naturally, he was sleeping in the tub) and turned on the lights.

     “That guy owes me a penny!”

     I will definitely be writing more about the Disney trip, because as I said before, I can easily squeeze ten posts out of it. However, not all at once. They will be sought after stories that I will share when the time is right... or when I can't think of anything else...

     Also, I realize that these posts are pretty Cory-heavy. While it's true that he definitely seems to be the easiest one to write about, that doesn't mean that I'm not going to write about Ben, Spencer, or even myself. And yes, Ben and Spencer. You should be scared.

     Feel free to comment below, show me to your friends, or if you don't like me or my writing, show me to your enemies. I'd probably like them more. See you next week!

Knife Wounds and Coffee Preference

     

     There are few reasons why somebody would take their coffee black. Apart from the obvious, that they are a soulless being that is devoid of the pinch of general goodness that God so graciously sprinkled on top after he was done with us, one really has to wonder why a person would prefer to take on the day with a cup o' bitterness, rather than be pleasantly born into the morning with cream and sugar. Or at least, that's what pleasant people wonder.

     Bitter people often wonder the opposite, and generally have a deeper disdain for the opposing side, because, as previously mentioned, they're bitter. They see their black coffee as the gasoline that fuels their malicious attitudes, because they're damn well going to be awake enough to spread it around.

     But, as an ever present exception to the rule, there are the ones who just don't care. The ones who order a cup of coffee in a fashion that lets the waitress know that she can do whatever the hell she wants with it, and it will probably be enjoyed. Most would call this person apathetic. I usually call him Ben.

     Ben thanked the waitress as his mystery drink was placed in front of him, and I did the same as my thoroughly creamed and sugared coffee was placed by me. Spencer, who was sitting across from me and next to Ben, sat silently as he received his black coffee. I looked at him, smiled, and sipped my pleasantly altered drink. After putting the mug down, I looked out the window to our other friend, Cory, a tall lanky boy who was outside by the car in the freezing New Hampshire winter cold in a black T shirt. He was talking/yelling on the phone with his girlfriend.

     “What do you think they're talking about?” I asked, tearing another sugar packet open.

     “I don't know, probably something crazy.” Ben took a whiff of his mug. “Ooh, vanilla!” Ben was a stout red haired boy, with a demeanor not unlike my own. He just seems to be unshakable. He can roll off a worry with a shrug of his shoulders, and make a problem seem insignificant with a “Meh”. He's almost admirable that way, and he seems to be the one in our quartet that keeps us mellow. Or at the very least, sane. I looked out the window again, but Cory wasn't there anymore. He must have started walking in.

     Spencer rolled his eyes as he raised his coffee to his mouth, and promptly spit it out as it burnt his tongue. “Son of a bitch!”

     Ben and I smiled as we blew into our drinks to cool them off. While Spencer is a man who is not exactly what I would call cheery, I sometimes feel like I judge him too harshly. Out of the four of us, he's the one who had to grow up the fastest. Between an actual job, an actual apartment and, well, an actual life, I can't really blame him for being a little moody. To be honest, I sometimes wonder if we're holding him back at all, from actually taking the final step into adulthood. But on the other hand, maybe that's what he needs. A reminder that there's more to life than just trudging through the work week.

     “Hey.” Cory looked bewildered as he took a seat next to me. We nodded back at him, and wondered which one of us was going to ask what he was talking about. But, of course, he noticed. “I need coffee first.” The waitress came over to take his order. “Black, please.” I gave a look at Ben, and he shrugged as if it might be nothing. “Well, this day sucks.”

     I shot another look at Ben. He gave me another shrug. Apathetic wad.

     Spencer was the brave one. “What happened?”

     “I need coffee first.” Cory repeated. We sat there in silence until the waitress came back with Cory's drink. “Sugar packets.” He held out his hand towards me. I picked up two and placed them in his palm. He looked at his hand, and looked back at me. “Sugar packets.”

     “Sorry.” This time I took a handful and gave them to him. Any friend of Cory learns early on in the relationship a set of rules. The first one: Never comment on the way he eats or drinks. And you'll be tempted. But don't. I remember back in high school when we were sitting at a lunch table, and a new girl asked about the towering pile of mozzarella cheese on his tray. Before the three of us could warn her to stop, Cory was verbally ripping that poor girl to shreds, hitting every mental pressure point he could find, from slutty makeup to anorexia. She left the table crying.

     Now Cory isn't a mean person. Actually, that's not true. He's a very mean person. But he's a good person. He's a mean, good person... Screw it. Cory is complicated. To call him a human being is a bit of a stretch. He's a medical anomaly, for more than one reason, and was institutionalized twice in elementary school. I'm not going to give his life story or anything, but what I've come to accept, is that he's completely justified to be a dick once in a while.

     However, when he goes a bit too far, which is pretty often, a smack to the back of his head has almost become instinctual to me, sometimes starting before he even finishes the sentence. At times I feel abusive, but I think it's just my way of trying to better him. However that's probably going to blow up in my face around the time his fist does.

     Cory didn't start talking until the sixth packet emptied into his cup. “I think I just got mugged.”

Ben's eyes widened, and Spencer almost spat out his swig of coffee. I was, as I often am, confused.

     “You what?” I asked with good reason, as people who get mugged are usually pretty sure about it, and also don't get coffee right after.

     “Mhmm,” Cory hummed pre-sip. As he swallowed, he grimaced. “More sugar.” I gave a couple more packets to him, still confused, but quiet about it this time.

      “What do you mean, you got mugged?” Spencer asked after finally succeeding on swallowing the coffee that almost escaped a few seconds ago.

     “I mean a man with a knife walked up to me while I was on the phone, and told me to give him my wallet. I got mugged. Kind of.”

     “Kind of? What the hell does that mean?” Ben asked, noticeably not shrugging anymore.

     “Well, my girlfriend and I were fighting, so I was already kind of pissed off. So...” He pointed out the window to where he was standing before. We all looked out in disbelief as a homeless looking man was laying on the ground motionless. My first thought led to one of my instinctual head smacks.

     “Did you kill that guy?!”

     “Ow! What? No! Of course I didn't kill him. I just sort of... kicked his ass...”

     “WHAT?! He had a knife!”

     “Yeah... come to think of it, I think he nicked me...” Cory rolled up his right t-shirt sleeve to reveal a relatively deep cut on his upper arm. Spencer was already on the phone with the emergency service. Ben was laughing.

     “Did you take HIS money while you were at it?”

     Cory smiled as he put pressure on his wound with some napkins. “No, but don't think I fail to see the irony in that.”

     A part of me was wondering if that was actually irony, because every time I try to say that something's ironic, there's always some person there to say it isn't. I've given up on trying altogether. But my friend next to me was somewhat injured, kinda, so I couldn't waste my time with grammatical antics. I had to yell at him.

     “Cory, you realize that a few minutes ago, you could have died, right? What if instead of the arm, he stabbed you in the heart? Or the stomach? Or the head?”

     “The head?”

     “I don't know! It's possible!”

     “Okay... But that didn't happen. So why are you worried about it?”

     “Because you could have DIED!”

     “As you've said. However, I didn't die. I am, more or less, intact. So, you can either waste time worrying about something that I had no control over, and wasn't really harmed in the process, OR you can pass me the cream.” I stared at Cory. He was right, of course. I should be happy. I mean, not only did he not get mugged, he actually took the guy out of commission. That's when I realized my part in the group. Ben was the one that kept us calm, Spencer kept us moving forward towards adulthood by pulling us along with him, and Cory made sure we were never bored. Me?

     I was the Mom.

     In a few minutes, the police were there with ambulances for Cory, who was probably going to need stitches, and the mugger, who was probably going to need some surgery. I never stopped thinking about the what-ifs though. About the things we can't control, even though we try so hard to get a grip on what goes on in our lives. I guess we don't really have a choice on what events happen to us. However, we always have a choice on how we're going to respond to those events when they come: Whether or not to let them get the best of you, or to make the best of them. Or, as an ever present exception to the rule, to let it happen, and just enjoy the ride. I guess what I'm trying to say, is that when the waitress of life takes your coffee order, you can choose to just take it black, ask for cream and sugar, or look her dead in the eye and say “Surprise me.”