January 4, 2011

I worked at Embassy Skate Center when I was in eighth grade.  I played hockey there, and was offered a job behind the counter by Beverly, the proprietor, though her husband Gene might have something to say about that.

I sold (and consumed) Icees, nachos, pizza, sodas, airheads, and other shit to kids and adults alike.  I wore a 100 percent nylon referees jersey which, when I was promoted to floor manager, would cause me to sweat, which would cause me embarrassment, which would cause me to, well, sweat.

Needless to say, this was my embarrassment period, wherein I was bashful like it was going out of style.  A terrible time, really, though in all likelihood beneficial in the end and indeed unavoidable, I surmise.

With that in mind, picture the following true events.  It's my first day of working, both at the Skate Center and in general.  I'm given the taxing job of restocking the oversized, red Icee straws, which come in 6" x 6" x 12" pressed cardboard boxes, the boxes whose upper portions rip off in such a way that one can use the box as a display.  Said portion removed, if you care to imagine, is a triangular prism, which allows for more of the front face of the box to be removed, the brink of each adjacent wall climbing up to our original back face adjacent corners, which has lost none of its original height.  From the side, it looks like a stadium wherein the tallest-people-in-the-front-rows' heads equal exactly the height of those sitting in the topmost rows.  These sad sacks, of course, are altitudinally challenged to the extreme.

Even though we had purchased these boxes of straws, we cared not for their packaging.  Perhaps the pressed cardboard was less apetICEEing than a large, red Coca-Cola cup, which was the domain for our tubulars.  Anyway, I prepared to refill the Coca-Cola display, which couldn't have been more than 8% empty, given its size relative to customer flow.  I removed the aforementioned prism, trashed it (recycling wasn't much on the minds of this 14 year old nor the minds of the proprietors, who were quite dear and lovely people, as it turns out).  As I walked towards the Icee machine, something must have caught my attention, startled my nerves, or something of the like, for I allowed the box to slip out of my hands, its collision with the floor sending a veritable pipeline-in-pieces scattering all over the alternating black and white chess or checker-style floor.  Of course, this got a rouse out of the coworkers who, in their later teens, jumped all over the occurrance largely becuase they just wanted so animalistically to jump on something.

On that day, friends, you would have thought the color of those straws, the cherry Icee sticking to the inside of the drip reservoir, or indeed the (probably trademarked) Coca-Cola receptacle into which said straws were intended to end up, that red, would have been a dull, somewhat muted pink in comparison to the raging hue that screamed off my face, lighting the place, putting the neon to shame.

January 3, 2011

I was walking into work at American YouthWorks.  I was having trouble with my bag.  It was being unwieldy with me.  I grabbed it by the top handle with my right hand, left hand lugging a bag full of fruit.  I tossed the bag directly upwards, and attempted to slip my right arm, my free arm, my heretofore coordinated arm, through the shoulder strap.  I missed.  The bag fell, inside of it my laptop computer, slr camera, and some books.  I was shaken and stirred.  I was red as a hornet. 

Everything worked out just fine that morning.

February 9, 2010

I was at Monte Alban, a large mountain upon which exist ruins of a city of the Zapotecs, which was then inhabited by Olmecs, Aztecs, and maybe others subsequent to that. Really amazing stuff. I walked the grounds, which included some piramides, religious buildings, a ball court, domiciles, and others. I bought my dad a small statue from a fella walking the grounds. He was about 200 years old, and a meter tall.

Upon leaving, I visited the museum and gift shop. I wanted to purchase an informational packet with which I could further learn about Monte Alban and its interesting inhabitation. I bought an information packet. I learned later that it was written in French. I don't read French. I didn't read French at the time. In all likelihood, I'll never read French. It does me less than great. My face was, and is currently, beet red.

January 25, 2010

I went with Brian Kendall to play putt-putt. We were with his father. It was nighttime. We were playing putt-putt. The course was green, different shades. I stepped down on a light shade of sea green. It fell out from underneath me. It was a pool of water. Lights in the water made it look green like the putt-putt areas. This is what confused me.

I was in up to my knees, and had splashed water up to my waist in some spots. My club got wet. I didn't cry. I didn't laugh. I was in shock only. I got out and we finished the game. It wasn't particularly hot or cold that night, so it really didn't matter. Clearly, it made an impression on me because I remember it.

We went on about the evening and nothing.

I have another story involving the same Brian Kendall and a famous basketball player, Tree Rollins. I'll tell that one someday.

January 24, 2010

I was with my parents in San Antonio. We had a recipe for thai chili shrimp that we were going to try. Of course, I was going to replace the shrimp with tofu for my version. We had all the ingredients ready, or so we thought. We lacked one thing. That one thing was coconut milk. We sent my dad to the store and he returned with a can of...

...coconut cream. The kind of stuff you use for mixed drinks or pies. He felt like a moron. If there's anything that kills me to see, it's my dad feeling like a moron. He's absolutely brilliant, and generally avoids mistakes such as this one, which is why it gets his goat, to employ his oft-used expression.

We used the coconut cream and had thai chili-sweet tofu and shrimp. It was quite good. We all said how little the minor snafu had caused.

January 22, 2010

I was probably eight years old. I was with my family at my uncle Jonathan's house. His wife, my aunt, is Terry, and their daughters are Hillary and Charlotte. They still all exist and relate to me in the same way. We're all still the same number of years apart.

We were having a barbeque or something there. There is their house. It was in New Braunfels. I honestly don't know what to say if you ask if they still live there now. They are a diaspora across the Southwestern part of the United States. Terry spends most, if not all her time in Taos, New Mexico. Jonathan spends his days between Taos, New Mexico, New Braunfels, and San Antonio, Texas, where he visits my mother, his sister, and uncle Andy, his brother by blood. The two girls are or have been, depending on the case and when you're reading this communique, living in Austin, though both have spent time bebopping around the globe.

At the time, they lived there in New Braunfels, and I lived with my family (ma, pa, bro) in San Antonio. Any exploration of their diasporic migration will be saved for later.

We were visiting. We were eating. I was running. Running, I shuffled across the wrong board of the deck with no shoes on. I was penetrated through the bottom of my foot by a splinter about an inch long. If you need to know how long an inch is, you can imagine huge for a splinter or about the distance that spans the two middle knuckles on your pointer finger (for average-sized adults) or middle finger (for smaller adults or children). It's 2.54 centimeters for those of you who...well, I won't even say it. Just 2.54. Trust me.

Regardless, the beast of a splinter entered me rudely and without warning. I found myself shrieking and bleeding all over the deck. We attempted to remove the foreign object with tweezers. Failure found us.

I went to the doc-in-a-box, which is to say general practitioner. He cut my skin extending out along cardinal directions, using the entry point as the origin. He removed the splinter. My brother nearly vomited and fainted upon seeing the blood, or was it the iodine? Either way, it made him queasy and he left the room no worse for wear.

The scar, naturally, healed like a cross shape. I remember, at the time, thinking that I probably should believe in the Christian God, or at least say and hope I did. The cross scar told me that I was forever connected to God's existence. More recently, I have noticed the thing disappear. Wonder what that means about my God connection.

January 21, 2010

I drew with a magic marker. An 'x' was drawn with it. It was drawn with it on a wood storage space. It was drawn with it on it in the garage. My dad entered it, saw it written on it with it.

I had written it with it on it in it because I was upset. I don't remember why I was upset. I was, though. That's why I drew it on it with it in it.

I lied to my parents. 'I didn't draw it with it on it in it!' I yelled. My yell was weak. It was devoid of conviction. It didn't take long before I realized the obviousness of my action and subsequent fibbing thereof.

I came clean. 'Okay, I drew that with that on that in there. I'm sorry.'

I remember Little Brandon's smug face as I received my punishment - a glare from my father which said, 'Why did you do it?'

'It? I said.