St. Pauly

“The chief put me up for EMT of the year … again,” Pauly said, rubbing the brow above his wandering left eye. “Je-sus.” He ran the sleeve of his Sesame Street sweatshirt beneath his nose to catch the rope of snot that had been dangling there, like the rappelling line of some terribly lost spelunker, for close to a minute. “My kids are not thrilled.”
            “That’s terrific,” Jason said with a wan smile. He might have offered something more emotional had Pauly not told him last week that his boy had died in a fiery Formula One crash in Italy and, the week before, that his daughter had fallen to her death just meters from the summit of K2. A month ago, Pauly hadn’t even had kids.

Of course, Jason knew, not a word of what Pauly ever said was true.

“How’re you liking the new facility? What about that new roommate of yours? Kevin, I think?” Jason ventured, striking out for terra firma.

Pauly closed his eyes and waved a meaty paw through the air. “Don’t ask,” he warned dramatically.

“You having a good birthday, at least?”

Pauly shrugged his gargantuan shoulders. “Eh, he said, “I’ve had better.” With the surgical precision of a backhoe, he hacked at his dessert, trying to separate ice cream from ice cream cake.

While it was true he’d had other birthdays, 47 to be exact, it was a lie to say this hadn’t been the best. Jason had pulled out all the stops. He’d driven them from San Diego to Disneyland, where he’d paid a princely sum for their admission and all the food Pauly could eat, throw up, and beg to have purchased all over again. He’d gotten Pauly a big button with his name on it. With this, a signal to all workers that today was the wearer’s birthday, Pauly was treated to well wishes all the day long, from Tomorrowland to Toontown.

Jason had even arranged for his friend to take a photo with Mickey. For Pauly, this was akin to an audience with the Pope. “Thank you, sir, very much,” Pauly had whispered to the giant mouse, face shining like that of Mosses, come down from the mountain.

Now Jason was treating the birthday boy to ice cream cake at a Baskin Robbins in San Clemente before dropping him back home.

Damon Won't Stop Believin'

Damon was whistling the tune to Journey’s “Lights” as he returned to work at 1. He strode onto campus with a confident, easy step. It was most unusual, this self-assured tableau, for Damon normally returned from lunch weeping like a lost little girl.

“Best hour of the day,” he’d blubber to himself, “all done.”

He’d always had an uneasy alliance with the keyboard, monitor and mouse, bordering on all-out war. It was difficult to imagine what the conflict was over; his 9 to 6 as an executive assistant was hardly what one would call the burden of a soldier. Indeed, his bosses, sales directors for a global consumer products firm, were always traveling. One of them had spent a grand total of 30 days in the company’s Burbank headquarters last fiscal year.

So mausoleum quiet was Damon’s end of the floor that the motion-detecting overhead lights always blinked out. It was like the dark side of the moon over there. He’d have to open the printer tray, pull out a piece of 8 ½ by 11, wad it up, and toss it into the great void in order to shed some light on his situation – which involved doing a few expense reports and a lot of surfing the Web.

            Then there was his daily escape for lunch. “Free at last! Free at last!” he’d announce to absolutely no one, feeling for all the world like the Rev. Dr. King himself. Damon’s own promised land, however, bathed in a wondrous, golden-arched light, was a McDonald’s beneath the westbound Glendale freeway. He’d slide into a red-and-yellow plastic booth with his No. 3 meal and, for the first moment that day, feel he could breathe a relaxed sigh of relief.

About an hour later would come the waterworks – until today. Today, he’d done something different, something adult. He’d driven past McDonald’s to Gelson’s market in North Hollywood, where’d he’d fixed himself a healthy salad. What’s more, he’d glimpsed a man he could swear was none other than former Journey front man Steve Perry. The superstar once called rock’s greatest voice was carting a couple of roasted chickens and a 12-pack of Charmin into the parking lot when Damon spotted him.

Finally, Damon had done some adult thinking. He’d decided to tell Ann Tilden Jones he loved her.

The Corporate Jungle

Nothing gets past reader sparrow4captain, especially a guy dressed as a giant purple jaguar. Likely serial killers, half-wits mumbling to their own reflections in the window glass, entertainment executives shouting into space – and the Bluetooth devices at their ears -- he sees it all during his train ride to work in Burbank each day. What concerned him most about the jungle cat sighting wasn’t that a man would find a costume of garishly colored fur a suitable example of business-casual attire. After all, this was Los Angeles. No, what shocked him to no end was that none of the other riders even noticed.

“Next stop, Burbank,” announces the conductor. The words stir into life the air inside the musty rail car and set to shuffling toward the door scores of mindless drones. Like a stream of ants, the day laborers file out, heel to toe in perfect line, following one of several clear-cut paths to their workplaces.

Buses wait to accept the masses. They are massive, these cold caverns of steel. Yet each is quickly made cramped, as one worker after another pushes in.

            In the crowd, however, one stands out. His black ball cap, holding back greasy locks of unkempt hair, is not standard. Neither is his waist-to-floor length purple tail.

            Wait a second -- a tail? This is no ordinary drone. The ranks have been infiltrated. Who or what is this? Is he dangerous? What are his intentions?

            Surprisingly, no one takes notice of the outsider. He takes a spot in a crowded bus, bounces shoulder to shoulder with others for more than a few minutes, then it’s off everyone goes. One after another, the drones exit the vehicle, their routine the same: a mechanical voice announces the cross street, a string is pulled, a bell rings, the doors open.

So begins the last leg of the silent walk to the cubicles -- except for the foreigner. With what appears to be animal instinct, the stranger leaps from the vehicle to the sidewalk and weaves quickly through the line of office workers. Nudged awake, the day laborers grumble.

Then, as quickly as he appeared, the foreigner is gone.

Good Evening, San Dimas High School Class of 1989

In this reunion speech I wrote with a friend, the student body president of her class, I like to think I do Peggy Noonan one better, swapping "a thousand points of light" for "You'll recall, of course, that I used to be man."

Good evening, class of 1989. I'd like to thank everyone for coming tonight. It's great to see such a strong turnout. I hope you're all enjoying yourselves.

I'm Jenny, your class president. You may not recognize me. I've had a little of that elective surgery that's become so popular in the 10 years since we've all seen each other. You'll recall, of course, that I used to be a man.

            Looking out over this crowd, it looks as though a few of us have gone through some changes. When you think about it, we've seen a lot come and go in the past decade.

            "Saturday Night Live" still sucks, and Bill Cosby, Ted Danson and Michael J. Fox are still on television. But, in music, pop and punk gave way to rap, arena rock rose and fell, grunge came and went – leaving us, now, with Ricky Martin. Oh, for the days when la vida loca was a snack you'd pick up at Del Taco on Arrow Highway after English class.

            George Michael – gay! While the boys from Duran Duran turned out to be straight. Who knew? And did you see this Starbucks thing coming? Now I can't live without my decaf vanilla latte every morning.

            Andre Agassi and Bruce Willis lost their hair, while Elton John found some. Prince Charles is dating again. And we may soon have another George Bush in the White House.

            We declared war on Iraq and dropped bombs on Kosovo. But our long-standing war on drugs has yet to be decided. Most of the narcotics confiscated over the years are being stockpiled right here, in San Dimas, I understand. You know who you are.

            So, I was hoping to do a whole multi-media presentation covering what's happened in thh world in the last decade: domestic and foreign politics; the ravages of war; increased sex and violence on television; our growing fascination with technology.

            However, due to a lack of funds and planning, I'll simply hand the microphone over, now, to Shelley and Tricia, and let you reflect on these issues on your own time.

            And again, thanks to everyone for coming. Shelley and Tricia are going to give away some prizes. Please note that, after they're done, it's your obligation to dance with wild abandon to carefully selected music meant to bring back the memories of your youth.

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places

Some pray to God for guidance. Others seek the advice of licensed professionals. When a friend assumed an editorial post at the teen chat site eCRUSH, I learned that kids will put their trust in a complete stranger when it comes to matters of the heart. Though my Wonder Years were decades behind me, I had to fire off a few cries for help of my own. Editor Paul Pearson proved to be as insightful as Dr. Phil, until he realized he was being pranked.

Dear eCRUSH:

I'm just 16 and sort of new to the dating scene. I mean, I just got my driver's license. (Thanks. Yeah, it's pretty great.) So I may not be aware of, like, all the details of how these things go. But this I do know: Under no circumstances are you supposed to wind up driving your date and her drunken, 40-year-old boyfriend to the cock fights in Mexico at 1 a.m.

It was, like, the worst night of my life, eCRUSH, and exactly the thing my mother warned me against. (She used to be one of those babes who walk around the ring holding up the card that says "Round Quatro" or whatever.) For sure, it's delivered pizza and in-room cable porn for me from now on.

Hey, can I do a shout out to Clint W. and Rusty Z. from San Marino? Hey, guys, peace. Totally stay away from Christy K.

Davey O., Pasadena, Calif.

---

Davey, I'm crackin' up over here. Details, man, I want details! Just in case you go on a date with this magnitude of badness again, bring a notebook. You're just 15 minutes away from Hollywood and we need fresh scripts. I guarantee you that an after-hours cockfight in Mexico with a teenage babe and boozin' guy old enough to be her daddy is primo pitch material.

Your shout-out to San Marino is noted. By the way, did you know it's illegal to park your car in your driveway for more than 2 hours in San Marino? It's the most ridiculously regulated city in the United States, and weirdly enough it's mostly made up of Republicans, who usually prattle on about less government regulation. You crazy kids.   – eC

Dear eCRUSH:

I hate to bother you, eCRUSH, but I don't know where else to turn. I mean, I'd call Dr. Drew or Adam, but those guys are so bitter anymore. And, frankly, I hate it when they bet on callers like me, laying odds as to just how messed up I am. How messed up is that? Forget them, man.

See, eCRUSH, I'm going on a date tonight, and I'm totally afraid it might just be my last night on Earth.

OK, first off, I'm just 16, but I already know that the hottest chicks are the incarcerated ones. I used to be into all that moralistic wrestling, back and forth: Should I do it with this chick, should I not -- you know, like they do on "Dawson's Creek" and stuff?

But then, when I was visiting my mom in prison last weekend, I met this other inmate, her friend Marge. She took me into the towel room, where the big dryers are, and it was goodbye, "Dawson's," hello, Spice Channel.

"Should we be doing this?" I screamed above the roar of the machinery. Even though her ears were blown off in a botched heist, I saw her horribly burned lips twist into a smile. She jammed some crusty linen into my mouth and hissed, "Shut up, Acne Boy. Give us a little kiss, already."

Well, eCRUSH, I'm going back tonight, as Marge's conjugal visit night is Friday. And while I'm definitely going to get some, as she likes to say, I'm also getting worried. See, she told me to bring semi-automatic weapons and rappelling gear. It's glorious to die for love and stuff on the WB. But don't people get killed in prison breaks?

This is the question I'm wrestling with now. My God, eCRUSH, what price love?

Davey O., Pasadena, Calif.

---

If all the prank letters we got were this good, I wouldn't even bother to read the real-life ones...   -- eC

The Yellow Jacket War or St. Francis Takes up Arms

I’m a modern-day St. Francis; the kind of guy who, after a rain, scoops up earthworms doomed to die upon the driveway and places them in the flower bed. I know that a bee’s sting costs it its life. So when I see one upon the sidewalk, stingerless and struggling, I quickly put it out of its misery. I’ve saved a lizard’s life by swooping into a murder of crows and plucking it from their midst.

So why was it, then, that yellow jackets in my neighbor’s hedge made war with me? They should’ve gotten on their tiny knees and prayed I didn’t smite them unto death – which I eventually did, the ungrateful little buggers.

Every time I’d go to water the front lawn – which I do to keep the grass alive – they’d run sorties at my head, sending me screaming down the block, waving my hands like a madman. I’d see curtains moving in windows and realize whatever equity I’d managed to build with those living within earshot was gone.

In an attack two weeks ago, I took a sting to the back of the hand. Last week, one of their aces got under my belt. Hit and hurt badly, I ripped off my pants to find it had gotten me in the -- I thought -- protective layer of fat I keep about my waistline. I felt the glare of the neighbors, looking on in horror and scorn, but it was a full minute before I could clear my trousers of the intruder. Sure enough, it had flown off, free to attack again upon the morrow.

It never got the chance. I had turned the other cheek and had it stung. I had come in peace, but it was time now for war.

Snatching my keys with one hand and holding up my pants with the other, I flew to Orchard Supply Hardware. What an armory it was! I could spray their little nest to death. I could bomb to smithereens an area twice that size, taking out surrounding shrubs. I could foam them up close and personal. I could hit them from a distance of 12 feet.

Something in my gut told me to strike from afar and as toxically as possible.

Minutes later, it was over. I felt terrible for what I’d done. I watched in pity as fliers returning from missions elsewhere staggered around their home now dripping in napalm, their loved ones suddenly still as stones. It pained me to see them flit from one side of ground zero to the other, then float slowly, souls crushed, off into the sky.

But that’s just me, St. Francis, friend to all living things.