Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Haunted
At certain times in my life, I have found myself facing things that I could not rationally explain under the current understanding of scientific law. Most of them have been pleasant, or at least interesting; a few of them have been frightening.
At one time, I was dating a young man who shall be known as Benedick. Benedick lived in a neighborhood not far from the one I grew up in, but in some ways it was as different as if it were in another town entirely. It was slightly lower income, so the houses were all a little smaller and in a little poorer repair... and it was haunted.
That's the only way I have of explaining it. Sometimes it was just a feeling of something creepy behind you. Sometimes it was shadows where no shadow should be. Benedick not only agreed with me about the feel of the neighborhood, he told me a story about it.
Many years ago, he was alone in his family's house, and he heard a voice, a child's voice, screaming repeatedly "Let me out! Let me out!" coming from the direction of his garage. He went into the garage, looking about, but he didn't see anything or anyone. He went outside to see if there were someone outside, but again he heard the noise from his garage, "Let me out!" He checked once more, but there was nothing.
I thought it was a nice spooky tale and fit the feel of the neighborhood, but as time went by I forgot all about it. It wasn't until years later that I would remember.
I was driving through the neighborhood on my way to his house, something like four years later. It was dark, and there was no one on the streets, not even the usual contingent of cats. All of a sudden, I heard a child's shrill voice screaming from behind me, as if it were coming from my trunk, "Let me out! Let me out!" I screeched to a halt, looking around wildly, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I drove the rest of the way to his house, pulled over, and opened the trunk. Nothing. No one was around.
It wasn't until I was telling him what happened that I remembered what he'd said.
At one time, I was dating a young man who shall be known as Benedick. Benedick lived in a neighborhood not far from the one I grew up in, but in some ways it was as different as if it were in another town entirely. It was slightly lower income, so the houses were all a little smaller and in a little poorer repair... and it was haunted.
That's the only way I have of explaining it. Sometimes it was just a feeling of something creepy behind you. Sometimes it was shadows where no shadow should be. Benedick not only agreed with me about the feel of the neighborhood, he told me a story about it.
Many years ago, he was alone in his family's house, and he heard a voice, a child's voice, screaming repeatedly "Let me out! Let me out!" coming from the direction of his garage. He went into the garage, looking about, but he didn't see anything or anyone. He went outside to see if there were someone outside, but again he heard the noise from his garage, "Let me out!" He checked once more, but there was nothing.
I thought it was a nice spooky tale and fit the feel of the neighborhood, but as time went by I forgot all about it. It wasn't until years later that I would remember.
I was driving through the neighborhood on my way to his house, something like four years later. It was dark, and there was no one on the streets, not even the usual contingent of cats. All of a sudden, I heard a child's shrill voice screaming from behind me, as if it were coming from my trunk, "Let me out! Let me out!" I screeched to a halt, looking around wildly, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I drove the rest of the way to his house, pulled over, and opened the trunk. Nothing. No one was around.
It wasn't until I was telling him what happened that I remembered what he'd said.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Giant Metal Chicken
For a couple of years after graduating from PCU, I went home to Hell, a city in the southern part of the country. You may guess from the moniker that I'm not precisely fond of that place, but after all, it is where I grew up, and it has a number of redeeming qualities. Mainly, those 'qualities' are individual people who are pretty awesome and good friends of mine, but there are also some occasional oddities that just come out of nowhere.
The giant metal chicken was certainly among the latter.
I worked at a university that was stuck out in the middle of a not-so-great part of town. There were two reasonable ways to get out of the university campus for me; one took me home to my own apartment, the other to my mother's house where I grew up. On the not too infrequent happenstance that took me straight from work to Mom's house, I would drive past a very odd building, a sort of shed, with an outdoor component that seemed to house all manner of odd things (i.e., a cowboy made out of tire scraps, something that looked like a giant ball of yarn made of wood). They changed from time to time, but one thing that was almost always there was the giant metal chicken.
The chicken seemed to have been built around the frame of an old VW hippie van. The neck and head added at least as much again to the height, and the tail about half again as much length. Each individual feather had been made out of rippled metal and welded onto the structure in a very solid-looking, realistic sculpture. Realistic... except for size and material and the holes in the base (presumably for weight issues).
The first time I saw this thing, I had to pull over and get a closer look. I probably chuckled all the way to Mom's. After a while I got used to seeing it, although the novelty didn't really wear off too much. But it wasn't until I was driving about later in the evening a while later with my friend, Miss Piggy, that I realized just how amazing this contraption was.
We were stopped at a red light, and I looked at the other cars at the intersection, and had to do a double-take. "I didn't know the giant metal chicken was mobile!"
Miss Piggy looked at me, looked at the chicken on the road (with its glowing red eyes), looked at me, and said, "You knew there was a giant metal chicken?!"
The giant metal chicken was certainly among the latter.
I worked at a university that was stuck out in the middle of a not-so-great part of town. There were two reasonable ways to get out of the university campus for me; one took me home to my own apartment, the other to my mother's house where I grew up. On the not too infrequent happenstance that took me straight from work to Mom's house, I would drive past a very odd building, a sort of shed, with an outdoor component that seemed to house all manner of odd things (i.e., a cowboy made out of tire scraps, something that looked like a giant ball of yarn made of wood). They changed from time to time, but one thing that was almost always there was the giant metal chicken.
The chicken seemed to have been built around the frame of an old VW hippie van. The neck and head added at least as much again to the height, and the tail about half again as much length. Each individual feather had been made out of rippled metal and welded onto the structure in a very solid-looking, realistic sculpture. Realistic... except for size and material and the holes in the base (presumably for weight issues).
The first time I saw this thing, I had to pull over and get a closer look. I probably chuckled all the way to Mom's. After a while I got used to seeing it, although the novelty didn't really wear off too much. But it wasn't until I was driving about later in the evening a while later with my friend, Miss Piggy, that I realized just how amazing this contraption was.
We were stopped at a red light, and I looked at the other cars at the intersection, and had to do a double-take. "I didn't know the giant metal chicken was mobile!"
Miss Piggy looked at me, looked at the chicken on the road (with its glowing red eyes), looked at me, and said, "You knew there was a giant metal chicken?!"
Monday, January 25, 2010
Out of the Mouths of Babes
When I was very small, four or five years old, perhaps, my family decided to go on vacation for a week or so. This was not the first time we had gone away, not even for so long, but this time, I had a feeling, was different.
"But Mom," I said, "what if somebody tries to rob our house? We should booby-trap it!"
My mother assured me that the neighborhood constable had already been alerted and that the house would be perfectly safe, but she agreed to put a few of our more irreplaceable valuables in hiding. She probably had been doing that anyways, but it felt like progress to me. I decided to booby-trap my own room, at very least; anyone entering would find themselves struck with tennis balls, paperclips, and a child's ill wishing. I put a sign on the door that said "ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL" or something like it, and drew a skull and crossbones on the bottom. My parents smiled and told me I'd have to clean it all up myself when we got back.
We had a lovely vacation, and on our return, we discovered that our precautions had not been enough. The house had been ransacked; the bedrooms were disheveled and the public areas stripped of valuables.
Except for my room. My room was untouched, the door still shut, and even my inherited diamond ring was still right where I'd left it.
After that, my parents installed an alarm system.
"But Mom," I said, "what if somebody tries to rob our house? We should booby-trap it!"
My mother assured me that the neighborhood constable had already been alerted and that the house would be perfectly safe, but she agreed to put a few of our more irreplaceable valuables in hiding. She probably had been doing that anyways, but it felt like progress to me. I decided to booby-trap my own room, at very least; anyone entering would find themselves struck with tennis balls, paperclips, and a child's ill wishing. I put a sign on the door that said "ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL" or something like it, and drew a skull and crossbones on the bottom. My parents smiled and told me I'd have to clean it all up myself when we got back.
We had a lovely vacation, and on our return, we discovered that our precautions had not been enough. The house had been ransacked; the bedrooms were disheveled and the public areas stripped of valuables.
Except for my room. My room was untouched, the door still shut, and even my inherited diamond ring was still right where I'd left it.
After that, my parents installed an alarm system.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Solicitors
Once, while I was living with my friend Sarah, we were hanging out around midday when the doorbell rang. At the doorbell was a creature I like to think of as an isz (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Maxx#Isz, or for a picture, http://www.cybercomicsandtoys.com/actionfigures/images/Other/SpawnMaxxFaoShwarzWith4Isz.JPG). It was a solicitor.
The isz began to speak as soon as the door was opened, saying something like this: "Hi I'm selling this thing we want to go to Cancun just sign your soul away and win a free trip hey do you want to come with us we have a free spot in a magazine! Come on just one little signature and we'll all get to go to Cancun..." right past the response of "No thanks" up until the door was shut in his face.
He went away, but we were concerned he might come back, so measures were taken. Sarah made a lovely sign to hang on our door which read: Solicitors will be Eviscerated. Thank you and have a nice day! We hung it with an X made of red duct tape. In the window next to the door, we arranged a cutting board with a large kitchen knife and a banana cut into pieces. We piled our weapons by the door where they could be seen if the door were to be opened. Each of us took one, naturally.
Predictably enough, the isz (or another like it) came back with the same shpiel, Sarah and I answered the door.
"Did you see the sign?" Sarah politely inquired. The isz ignored her and kept talking.
"Should we kill him, or just shut the door?" I asked Sarah.
We exchanged a glance, the kind of glance which says: I don't want to clean the blood off the door, let alone explain it to the police. Then we shut the door in his face.
Amazingly, as we did so, the solicitor stopped his rant long enough to say, "Thanks for being rude!"
"You, too!" I sang sweetly as the last crack of light from the doorway disappeared.
The isz began to speak as soon as the door was opened, saying something like this: "Hi I'm selling this thing we want to go to Cancun just sign your soul away and win a free trip hey do you want to come with us we have a free spot in a magazine! Come on just one little signature and we'll all get to go to Cancun..." right past the response of "No thanks" up until the door was shut in his face.
He went away, but we were concerned he might come back, so measures were taken. Sarah made a lovely sign to hang on our door which read: Solicitors will be Eviscerated. Thank you and have a nice day! We hung it with an X made of red duct tape. In the window next to the door, we arranged a cutting board with a large kitchen knife and a banana cut into pieces. We piled our weapons by the door where they could be seen if the door were to be opened. Each of us took one, naturally.
Predictably enough, the isz (or another like it) came back with the same shpiel, Sarah and I answered the door.
"Did you see the sign?" Sarah politely inquired. The isz ignored her and kept talking.
"Should we kill him, or just shut the door?" I asked Sarah.
We exchanged a glance, the kind of glance which says: I don't want to clean the blood off the door, let alone explain it to the police. Then we shut the door in his face.
Amazingly, as we did so, the solicitor stopped his rant long enough to say, "Thanks for being rude!"
"You, too!" I sang sweetly as the last crack of light from the doorway disappeared.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Story the Second: Mouse
I return you now to our detestable second year at PCU. Shortly after Gabriel had his bucket taken, these events transpired for those of us in the room down the hall. I had set up a cardboard box with a towel over it a combination bedside table and printer table. I awoke, for reasons I do no longer recall, and thought I saw something moving in that direction. I turn my head, and find a pair of very small, very red eyes glowing in the general direction of the table. I found and lit a small flashlight, and determined that they belonged to a small white mouse. The mouse was pondering me - from my printer's paper tray. I stared at the mouse. The mouse stared at me. After a few seconds mutual contemplation, the mouse turned and whisked itself away into the innards of my printer. I addressed my sleeping roommate, who Neko informs me shall be named Schmendrick. "Shmen...", I said. He made a sound. In comic books I believe it is generally spelled 'unnnngh'.
"Shmen!" I repeated.
The responding grunt had the rising intonation of a question, "UnNNgh?". I took this to mean that he was as alert as he was going to get and what could I possibly be waking him for?
"We have a mouse." I told him.
"unnnghu?"
"A -mouse-. As in 'squeek squeek'. It's in my printer. "
"Uhn."
I gave up and told him about it in the morning. He remembered nothing.
For the remainder of the year, the mouse lived in my printer. I would see it infrequently, hear it occasionally, and refrain from printing things, so as not to get mouse guts on my papers. I like to think it was hiding out with us because we were the only sane ones in that benighted house. If I were a mouse, it's what I would do.
"Shmen!" I repeated.
The responding grunt had the rising intonation of a question, "UnNNgh?". I took this to mean that he was as alert as he was going to get and what could I possibly be waking him for?
"We have a mouse." I told him.
"unnnghu?"
"A -mouse-. As in 'squeek squeek'. It's in my printer. "
"Uhn."
I gave up and told him about it in the morning. He remembered nothing.
For the remainder of the year, the mouse lived in my printer. I would see it infrequently, hear it occasionally, and refrain from printing things, so as not to get mouse guts on my papers. I like to think it was hiding out with us because we were the only sane ones in that benighted house. If I were a mouse, it's what I would do.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Blue Squirrel
One day, my friend Fizzgig and I were walking to class at our lovely PCU. Our route took us across a small, generally unoccupied but pleasant green space right next to the campus power plant. As we walked, I looked out across the park and saw a squirrel.
Many of you, dear readers, are probably familiar with the phenomenon that is college campus squirrels. They are generally the size of small cats, mean as angry badgers, and completely unafraid of humans. PCU's campus squirrels are no exception, so when I saw a squirrel, I paid slightly more attention to it than I might have walking around just about anywhere else.
As I looked at this particular squirrel, the only thing I could think was, "That squirrel is BLUE."
Maybe it's a trick of the light, I thought. I looked again: still blue. I pondered this for a moment, then turned to Fizzgig. "Hey, check out that squirrel."
He paused, looked, looked again, and then said, "That squirrel... is BLUE."
Dear readers. Somewhere out there, perhaps at this very moment, is a blue squirrel.
Many of you, dear readers, are probably familiar with the phenomenon that is college campus squirrels. They are generally the size of small cats, mean as angry badgers, and completely unafraid of humans. PCU's campus squirrels are no exception, so when I saw a squirrel, I paid slightly more attention to it than I might have walking around just about anywhere else.
As I looked at this particular squirrel, the only thing I could think was, "That squirrel is BLUE."
Maybe it's a trick of the light, I thought. I looked again: still blue. I pondered this for a moment, then turned to Fizzgig. "Hey, check out that squirrel."
He paused, looked, looked again, and then said, "That squirrel... is BLUE."
Dear readers. Somewhere out there, perhaps at this very moment, is a blue squirrel.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Bob
Many moons ago, my friend Merlin and I were up in a tree having an argument. The argument went something like this:
Me: Fred!
Merlin: Derf!
After a few minutes without any sort of accord seeming possible, we began to ask passersby who came under the tree. Fred, or Derf? Mostly, we got the, 'Okay there are crazy people up in the tree, but this is a college campus, so they probably won't follow us if we look polite and walk away' shimmy.
At last, one young man looked up and said, "I don't know, but I'm Bob!"
It was summarily decided a) that Bob had won the argument, and b) that we should befriend this person immediately. So we did.
I later learned Bob's real name, which was neither Bob nor Robert.
Me: Fred!
Merlin: Derf!
After a few minutes without any sort of accord seeming possible, we began to ask passersby who came under the tree. Fred, or Derf? Mostly, we got the, 'Okay there are crazy people up in the tree, but this is a college campus, so they probably won't follow us if we look polite and walk away' shimmy.
At last, one young man looked up and said, "I don't know, but I'm Bob!"
It was summarily decided a) that Bob had won the argument, and b) that we should befriend this person immediately. So we did.
I later learned Bob's real name, which was neither Bob nor Robert.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Story the First: Taking the Bucket
Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am Walrus, and Walrus is me. Along with my below-posted co-conspiritor in blog-authorship, I attended a well known liberal arts university. The story I am about to relate concerns one of my associates during Sophomore year. In accord with our stated policy of thinly disguised names for the protection of the innocent, the guilty, the insane, and likely-to-threaten-with-legal-action, this bastion of learning shall be known as PCU, and he shall be known as Gabriel.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
I have created... a BLOG!
Welcome to Taking the Bucket, a blog about weird things.
My good friend the Walrus and I were discussing strange stories from our lives, and it came to us that these stories really ought to be written down somewhere. Maybe we aren't the only ones who like hearing collected oddities!
And thus, Taking the Bucket is born. The goal is to post here at least one story out of our pasts, our friends' pasts, or even just the crazy present per day until we run out. If we ever manage to run out, okay, game over, we'll call it quits. Until then, I hope you enjoy the bizarre things that happen as much as we do.
We will, of course, be changing or omitting real names, places, and affiliations as necessary. Up until somebody decides to offer us a publishing deal, a movie gig, or a TV series. You know. 'Cause that will happen. Right-o.
My good friend the Walrus and I were discussing strange stories from our lives, and it came to us that these stories really ought to be written down somewhere. Maybe we aren't the only ones who like hearing collected oddities!
And thus, Taking the Bucket is born. The goal is to post here at least one story out of our pasts, our friends' pasts, or even just the crazy present per day until we run out. If we ever manage to run out, okay, game over, we'll call it quits. Until then, I hope you enjoy the bizarre things that happen as much as we do.
We will, of course, be changing or omitting real names, places, and affiliations as necessary. Up until somebody decides to offer us a publishing deal, a movie gig, or a TV series. You know. 'Cause that will happen. Right-o.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)