12 Chapter 11: Pizzas and Parties
There were a few memorable house parties in Grade Eleven. I can recall being deeply saddened during my friend Blake's house party when my half- full bottle (notice how I said half-full? I'm incredibly positive) slipped out of my hand and smashed on my friend's driveway. I legit wanted to lick that skunk urine up with my tongue (visual of me tongue punching the sidewalks butthole) but obviously that wouldn't have been the coolest thing to do, so I just stole other people's booze when the opportunity presented itself (much cooler).
I was a terrible thief and would take every opportunity to drink someone else's liquor even if I knew the odds of them catching me were relatively high. "I feel so damn good, more alcohol must be the solution to feel even better".
Generally, I felt the best during those first few beers, but I never seemed to be able to shake that manic state of insatiable craving that overtook me or that voice that told me, "more is the answer sonny boy!". Don't get me wrong, there were times where I drank "socially" but as you'll hear any drunk say; "I definitely fucking hated it"; controlled drinking, what a terrible, awful idea. Controlled drinking episodes were generally a form of self-punishment for an embarrassing thing I did while previously intoxicated, and embarrassing things happened almost every time I touched the bottle.
During March Break of that year I went to Ottawa to meet with my Grandfather. I took a flight for my first time alone and owned it. Not sure what I mean when I say that I owned it. Pretty sure I sat down, ate pretzels and peed once, but I ate those pretzels like a boss; they didn't stand a chance, those salty little bastards.
Once the plane landed in Ottawa and my Grandfather found me, he drove us to his place to meet with my third cousin named Jonathan. My Grandfather took Jon and I to the war museum and showed us around. What an unreal opportunity to be show-furred around a war museum by a World War 2 Veteran; while walking around, we were abruptly engaged by a museum expert, the man approached us and started regurgitating some interesting facts about the fully restored "Sherman Tank" that sat directly in front of us. The very same tank that my Grandfather rode in for months on end during the 1940's. Grandpa had no issue telling him that the facts he was relaying were not so accurate; the "expert" wasn't offended in any way, and listened eagerly as Grandpy righted his wrongs; I was impressed.
Back to his apartment for some sandwiches and Ginger Ale. While galivanting around his kitchen I noticed that there was a note on the fridge. The note said that my Grandfather did not wish to be resuscitated by any "unnatural means" and that he wanted to die with dignity. The bravery of such a note baffled me. He was assertive and honorable, I often wondered why his genes hadn't shown up in my biological make-up, "damn you energy of the Universe!" (I am tragically self-deprecating, oh how useful).
Grandpa went to bed at 9:00pm and in that instant I had decided to introduce my fourteen-year-old cousin to my Grandfathers Liquor cabinet. At first Jonathan refused to take any of the hard-liquor I was offering him, so I said "dude, just drink the disgusting crap and once you get past the gagging part, you'll start to feel amazing".
Eventually, I had successfully convinced him to take three shots. He was roaming around as best he could afterwards, and throughout the night, he continued to call me "the king", "man, you're the king!" he'd say, as he stumbled around recklessly, it was moderately amusing, but that soon ended when he began making a break for the washroom that was situated right beside Grandpy's bedroom. "Oh shit, this can't be good". He chucked up a few times with accented hawking sounds, then, when he was done squawking and groaning, I made sure to tuck him in safe and sound on the living room couch.
Thank Goodness my Grandfather didn't wake-up, I would have been mortified. After tucking Jonathan in, I was sure he'd hate me in the morning. When I went out to greet him, he was right as rain, no hangover at all and he seemed grateful for the experience. Luckily, he didn't have the same make-up as me, so he never had the "privilege" of being an alcoholic.
These instances showed that It didn't seem to matter what I was doing or how much of a "good-time" was being had, I made sure to find a way to drink if at all possible. The lows needed to be squashed and the highs needed to be higher.
(Flashback) (A little off in left field, prepare thyself)
In terms of the working world I'd been working for quite some time up to this point. I delivered papers right by my house from Grade Six to Grade Eight. I'd always race home after school, deliver anywhere from twenty to thirty papers and then race back to school for sports practice. The best time to deliver papers was right around Christmas because customers were feeling particularly generous. I'd receive plenty of awesome tips, chocolates, I even got to see a girl in her bra while collecting the $3.35 owed for the weekly newspaper, her father was handing me some change and she skirted by in the hallway upstairs, it was innocent enough, but I was still elated, boobies!
When delivering papers no longer seemed to be the "in" thing to do, I applied at Shoppers Drug Mart on Main Street. My next-door neighbor worked there and she had mentioned that I may be able to find employment. For the most part, I didn't like that job at all. The only enjoyable part of working there was being able to flirt with the girls that were around my age. The worst part about the job was the manager. He liked to make-out with his Ego during breaks and would take any chance he got to be condescending and rude. A narcissist was at large and in charge. I was scared of the dude and hated going to ask him questions on how to do things, he made it seem like a huge inconvenience. Often times I'd just guess what to do, which usually just got me into a worst situation.
A friend of mine who had just been hired at the store said that the manager was complaining to him about having to "get it up" every night for his wife. We both sarcastically agreed that we felt so incredibly bad for the guy.That was the level of integrity we were dealing with.
While on shift at Shoppers, nature was calling and I made my way downstairs and sat on the porcelain express. After doing my duty I flushed the toilet, the water began to swirl, however, the H2O did not wash away, it began to rise and my poo slid out of the bowl onto the floor along with a large quantity of water and toilet paper. I picked up the poo with a napkin put it in the trash and then ran upstairs. No one ever knew who poo'd that poo. To this day the legend of the log lives on in the hearts of those who still dwell at Shoppers.
I worked at the Drug Mart for about two years and in some obscure moment; maybe a year and a half in, we changed locations. That was when I found out that it wasn't really my cup of tea, I hated being stuck behind a cash register for eight hours straight, the restlessness that seethed through me screamed with a fiery angst. I also didn't seem to like working in general (you dirty millenial!) because the owner of the store offered me full-time hours during the construction of the new store; I stood there for a second staring into the abyss before declining. He said "well, you're pretty useless aren't you". I didn't agree or disagree; then I vacated that awkward conversation and went home to frolic with the neighborhood kids. It wasn't long after that that I decided it was time to quit.
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Now we're back to the present moment of the story, and when I returned from Ottawa after seeing my Grandfather, I decided to apply at Pizza Delight (PD) on the North Side because Skinny P worked there. Not only did Skinny work there but his two brothers eventually found Jobs at PD as well. Each of us did reasonably well because we seemed to thrive in a fast-paced environment. The Oven was a methodology that was the most challenging at PD; pastas, pizzas, wings and other deliciousness would be rolling out at you on a conveyer belt as you raced to try and look at receipts, package the food and put it in its appropriate location. All the while the servers would be complaining or asking for their order, the delivery man would be trying to crack awkward jokes I couldn't comprehend; nor did I care to, all in the midst of trying to communicate with the staff making the orders. It was the ultimate challenge for me on the busiest nights of the week which were Friday and Saturday. I was quick, but it was hard to keep track of what order went where. Skinny and his bro became experts at this sort of multi-tasking mind-fuck. I was impressed and would have the privilege of helping them out when things got insanely busy. Skinny was also firm and didn't take any shit off of the waiting room staff; I admired that. Another thing that was cool about the kitchen was that we could play whatever music we desired; they'd often let me take the lead on that. I had a ton of CD's at the time. It was something of a hobby and a source of pride in my life; to see how many CD's I could collect. Pearl Jam and Nirvana played quite a bit, and we just rocked out, slip sliding around on the greasy floor and exchanging inappropriate comments.
Working at PD became even more convenient when my Mom would travel to the Miramichi to see her fiancée. I'd often have little get togethers at the house. There were never many people invited, but due to the nature of what we were doing, things in the house often got broken.
At some point in the night Skinny P drove me down to Pizza Delight, I jumped out of the car and knocked on the back door that opened up into the kitchen. A minute or two would sometimes pass and then a fellow co-worker would come let me in, they'd help me dress-up a big party pizza, I'd throw it into the oven, package it up and then dart out the back door. As I jumped back into the vehicle Skinny P said curtly,"you coming to my cottage again this summer?" to which I excitedly agreed.
These trips to PD for "free food" went on for a month or two before the manager caught wind of what was happening. The first time they were sympathetic and gave me another chance, they gave me a slap on the wrist and issued a warning.
There were other incidents like this at PD that didn't involve me. Probably why I felt I fit in so well, because a lot of the staff members had some serious issues; they seemed to be the misfits of the world, and in the land of the misfits is where I felt most at home.
While hosting these "socials" I made sure to only invite close friends to my house parties. It was evident to me that those who had huge shindigs often had things stolen, and unknown delinquent visitors would venture in unannounced, which wasn't that appealing to me; only immediate friends were allowed.
Other than drink and smoke weed we didn't get up to too much deviousness. We'd listen to music, eat gross food, tease each other, hang out on the back deck or jump to the roof of the shed that stood about two feet from the railing of the deck.
"Mom is away, should I have a juicy rager?... nah I thought" while watching my thoughts race by on an autumns's night in 2004 where I sat bored, tired (too tired for a lot of people) and alone, I decided to invite a friend over to hangout; when I passed-out he began sending one of his acquaintances sexualized messages. She was one of "the twins" at our school. He told her the next day that I was the individual responsible for sending those messages. I learned about this escapade through another friend of mine by way of "the gossip tree". Guess I fit the bill because she believed him. Weird what stays with you.
No matter how diligent I was when cleaning up the aftermath of these get-togethers Mom always seemed to have a way of finding out. I soon came to realize that it was the next-door neighbor who would tell her (no shit Sherlock). Although that was likely the case, small things would get broken and she would ALWAYS notice. I'd think that I fooled her and then she'd say "Ben where is my good mug" or "Ben why is the screen on the bathroom window all fucked up" or "why does 'Tony the fish' have a fish-dildo in his butt".
Concerning the mangled screen there was a monumental incident in the twilight hours of a Fredericton night that I locked myself out of the house and had no way of getting back in, there was a ladder in the back yard and the bathroom window was ever so slightly ajar. I placed the ladder up against the house, slowly made my way up to the window, pushed, or actually I punched in the screen and then placed my torso on the window sill. I teetered back and forth and then began teetering back in the direction of the ladder, lost my balance and then not so gracefully fell. FUCK! BIG BLUE HERNIATED SMURF GOOCH! Luckily; and I was lucky a lot, nothing broke. Finally, I climbed into the window and fell on the toilet. How am I still alive? We'll never know.
These were the weekend shenanigans that were common. Tournaments for various sports saved me from many more destructive situations. I won't get into Grade Eleven sports. The year was uneventful. Bad coaches; other than my Dad of course hehe.
