Breakfast And Spiders

Won’t lie. I had it all. And I knew I had everything. It’s what makes everything in life that much worse. Knowing you had the world in your hands. And then, in a blink, watching it not just crumble, but shatter. Having been married for fifteen years to a beautiful woman, three amazing kids, a house in the suburbs, and a solid job with a large corporation—what more can anyone ask for? Not much. And if someone in that position asked for more, than fuck ‘em, they’re just greedy assholes. I wasn’t greedy. I didn’t want more. I was content. No. More than content. I was happy. And when it ended, a horrible evening five years ago, it left me empty. Feeling rejected. And lonely.

How did I handle it? Oh, there were many, many different paths I traveled. Many, many of those paths are bound to wind up as future blogs. This story, however, is unique enough to demand a blog of its own. See what I did, was I joined an on-line dating service. I won’t give the name of the site. But it rhymes with Blenty Bof Kish. You might know it. You might not. The name of the site isn’t important. Not really.

So what happened? Slow down. I’m getting to that part.

I log on. I surf through the pictures of available, seeking women in my area. I read the profiles, of course, but let’s be serious, it’s the pictures that initially will draw a man’s attention. I don’t suppose it’s much different for women. If the attraction isn’t there, what’s the point, right? Of course, right.

This girl is on. She’s blond. Thin. In the photo she is wearing jeans, and a long sleeve red shirt. She’s cute. Not hot. Not a knock-out, but cute. We use the chatting feature. Instant messaging back and forth. Getting a sense of who each of us is. We do this a lot over the next several days. We seem to hit it off. She claims to work as a nurse at an emergency room in a hospital in her town. No kids. Never married. Maybe a few years younger than me.

Sounds good. Trouble is, she lives sixty miles away. Not quite long distance, but far enough away that even if it worked between us, it could never really work. I knew it. But at the time, I ignored that. I wanted to meet. We made plans. It was summer. June, maybe July. I think June, though. Hell, it could have been May. But if it was May, it was late May. You know what? The exact month is insignificant to the tale. The point is, the day I drove all those miles, it was hot. Not warm. Hot. Humid. It’s why I was thinking June or July. But in the back of my head, May just keeps nagging away.

I take the trip. Listen to the radio on the Interstate. My stomach is in knots. It’s been 19 years since I went on a date. Do you understand how long that is, 19 years? But that thought, as much as it made me apprehensive, also excited me. The idea of new love, a first kiss – damn, a first kiss. Is there anything like a first kiss? I mean, it happens once. Once, per each new date, sure, but each first kiss only happens once—so I am excited, no doubt.

The plan was to meet at a Pancake House. Thought it might be like an IHop. Had never been to a Pancake House before.  Neurotically early, I realize a Pancake House is really nothing like an IHop. It’s more like a Denny’s. At least, that’s how I remember it now. Like a Denny’s.

I park. I stand by the main door, under the awning out of the already blazing morning sun. It’s got to be eighty degrees. I’m in jeans and pull over shirt. And pissed. Because, my car doesn’t have air conditioning, and I know I’m sweating. Sweating is never impressive on a date. Especially not a first date. Self-conscious, I try not to think. By not thinking, I can slow my pulse. Hopefully curb the sweating. It’s a thought. Don’t recall it working. By trying not to think, I think I thought all the more.

I went over the schedule for the day. It was me, I know, who suggested since I was driving so far, that after breakfast we should go to a park, or somewhere and talk more. Figured we’d make an entire morning out of the occasion. And why not? Why drive sixty miles for scrambled eggs? As an idealist, I suspected since we’d hit it off so well on the computer, meeting in person would be similar to fireworks on the Fourth of July. There’d be more than sparks between us. There’d be colorful explosions popping between us so intense they’d quite possibly be visible to everyone around us.

And that has always been part of my problem. The idealist. My mind is awesome at making mountains out of mole hills. Of creating amazing times, out of hum-drum plans. I didn’t plan to be an idealist, and I didn’t work at it, either. It’s just my make-up. It’s not a blessing. It’s more of a curse. How much easier would it be to expect nothing, and then occasionally by pleasantly surprised by some unexpected turn of events?

So I see her pull in. I recognize her as she drives around and parks. The blond hair, though, is shorter than it had been in the photo. And when she gets out of the car, she, herself is shorter—heavier. Older. My guess? The picture she had posted on the Internet was at least seven years old. Maybe as much as ten.

I shrug it off. She’s wearing jean shorts, exposing nice legs. I like legs. Legs are very important. And she also has on a white tank top. I freaking love a girl in a tank top. It’s hotter than a teddy, or being all dressed up. And she’s not fat. Just heavier than the person depicted in the photo.

We smile as she makes her way across the parking lot. She’s about ten minutes late. I don’t immediately hold it against her. However, her hair is a bit wet, and messy. You think if you are going to be late, your hair would at least be dry. Not to mention it’s a first date. Why the hell would you show up late to a first date late, and unkempt like a slob? I wouldn’t. But that’s me. The idealist.

I hold open the door to Pancake House, as we say a quick hello and enter. Despite all of this, it is only now – as we are led to a booth, that everything spirals out of control. Badly.

The hostess sets down menus as she and I slide into the booth across from each other. My breath catches in my chest, and I gasp. Literally, I gasp, “Hnnnnnn.”

On her forearm, halfway between her elbow and wrist is a spider. A big, fucking spider. One of the hairiest arachnids I’ve ever seen! And I am a fraction of a second away from slapping it off her arm. I hesitate because, if you don’t already know, I am terrified of spiders. Paralyzing-ly terrified! And it is that gripped-in-fear moment that saves me a most embarrassing moment.

As I stare at the forearm, at the waves of quarter-inch hair sprouting off the back and legs of the spider, I realize … Holy Shit! It ain’t a spider at all. It’s a … It can’t be … It’s no spider … It’s a mole.

The mole is the size of a half dollar. Round as that piece of coin, and sporting a mane a lion would be proud of. And I’ll be damned if the mole’s hair isn’t better groomed than the hair on the head of my date. (And for what it’s worth, I have absolutely no idea what her name is. I could make one up. If only so I can stop using pronouns to describe her. What if we call her, I don’t know, Shelly? That work?)

It looks like Shelly brushed and hair-dried the bush of hair on her arm, maybe spritzed in some gel? I don’t know. It looked, clean, neat. Like I said, well-groomed. Show-dog Poodles would be considered pampered if they had an owner like Shelly, if you ask me.

I’m not shallow. Okay. A little shallow. I’ll admit it. Again, it comes down to attraction. And having a mole might not be something someone asks to have, but neither should it be something shown-off, exposed, out in the open without shame, right? I mean, a tank top? Really? Why the hell would you wear a tank top on a first date if you knew – and you have to know – there is a tarantula posed on your forearm? You wouldn’t. It’s like a guy having a grossly hairy back and going topless to a public swimming pool. Do guys do it? They do. Should they? Hell no!

Raised to always look a girl in the eyes when she’s talking, and not to let my gaze drop, I struggled. I admit it. I wanted to look her in the eyes as we talked, waiting to order. But I was clearly distracted. I don’t think for a second that Shelly was Italian. But she talked with her hands. Waiving them all around to punctuate and accentuate whatever the hell it was she talked about. I wasn’t listening. I couldn’t. And I wasn’t looking her in the eyes as she talked. I couldn’t. I was like a freaking penguin following a beam of dancing on a wall. My head rolled, neck twisted, eyes locked on watching the bounce of the hair on the mole. Got to the point where if she didn’t shut the fuck up, I was going to get dizzy and pass out.

When the waitress returned to take our order, I had two things on my mind. I knew what I was going to have. Shelly ordered what she wanted it. I couldn’t help wonder if I should get a half-stack for Charlotte. (Oh yeah. I named the tarantula. Charlotte. Like from that kids’ story about the spider and the pig).  Charlotte might be hungry. And if she was, I’d rather she fill up on hotcakes and syrup than risk the thing sucking blood from my veins. Sounds melodramatic, huh? Well, I thought it. And the other thing I was thinking, if my phone rang, regardless of who was on the other end, regardless of what they said, I’d proclaim an emergency back in Rochester. And I’d run the hell out of there! (I’d drop a twenty on the table. I’m not a jerk). I even recall pulling my cell out of my pocket and setting it on the table. Trying to will it to ring.

(And from this I did learn to set up the fifteen minute first-date alarm. It’s apparently not new. Just new to me. Someone who’s been out of the game for nearly two decades. Just in case you are not familiar with it, and I can pass down some words of actual wisdom . . . Have a friend call fifteen minutes into a first date. They are basically just checking to see if you need and out, or to ensure things are going okay. I’d also suggest having a pre-escape plan prepared. Nothing like taking a call. Saying you gotta go. And then when they ask what’s wrong – and they’ll ask what’s wrong – you’re not put on the spot. Grandma fell and has been rushed to the hospital, or your house is on fire, something, anything, just have an excuse planned. Trust me).

But you know what? The phone, it never rang. Not once. It didn’t even chirp to notify me of a dying battery. Not a sound. Not a peep. And I still resent that phone till this day!

The bad thing? The part your might have let slip your mind. I planned out the morning with Shelly. Breakfast was just the beginning. We still had the park to go to.

And after we ate, she offered to drive. She brought us to a park. A nice park, mind you. There were trails. They snaked through the woods. She wanted to walk them.

I’m the guy. I’m the stranger. She’s supposed to be weary of me. Apprehensive and cautious right? Not the other way around. But she’s all aggressive. She drove. She found the spot at the park. She picked the trail we’d walk. It was hard for me not to be suspicious of Shelly and Charlotte. What might they have in store for me? The fact that she didn’t carry a duffel bag with us on the walk was somewhat reassuring. A duffle bag definitely would have made me curious as to intentions.

The walk was, to be fair, nice. Hot. I was working up a good sweat, but still, nice. We continued to talk as we walked. She was a sweet girl, Shelly. I’ll admit that.

It still boggled my mind though, the more she talked about work. As a nurse in a hospital, you think at some point she’d be close enough to some doctor to ask if they could cut Charlotte the fuck off her arm on a coffee break or something, right? Or is that crossing the boundaries of friends? Mixing friendship and work? It might be. But if it were me, I’d risk tainting a friendship for a few swoops, and slashes of a sharp scalpel.

When we emerge from the trail, the parking lot yards away. Her vehicle is like sanctuary from the heat, and sanctuary to the fact that soon this date will end and she will drive me back to Pancake House for my car. Unfortunately, at this point, she reaches for my hand.

It’s not the hand attached to Charlotte. It’s the hand on the end of the opposite arm. Or her “good arm” as I’d begun to associate to her limbs. Good arm, fucked-up arm.

I was too stunned to pull away. I let her fingers lace through mine as we walked back toward her van. Each step I took I cursed myself. Why did I still have to be so charming and funny? Why didn’t I just leave when I had the chance at the restaurant?  I could have excused myself to use the john, and then crawled between rows of tables to the exit. I coulda, shoulda, but didn’t. And now, now we were hand holding.

Thankfully, the front of the van separated our latching hand-hold. She went to the driver side. Me to the passenger side, resisting an urge to wipe my palm over my jeans just in case Charlotte liked to limp-hop from forearm to forearm or something. Maybe, to ensure that Charlotte’s eggs hadn’t transferred from her digits onto mine. Irrational, but again, it is the thoughts that plagued my overactive imagination.

We drive back to Pancake House. She parks next to my car. And what follows is that awkward good-bye silence. Usually, it is the guy anticipating whether or not a first date will end with a kiss or a hand-shake. I am not anticipating shit. She, Shelly—that is, seems to be silently asking for a kiss goodbye. She keeps leaning a little closer. Keeps the conversation kind of going. Like she won’t say goodbye until we seal the morning with a smooch.

All I think is, if I lean over and kiss her, she might wrap her arms around my neck. And if she does this, where will Charlotte wind up? Brushing up against my skin? What if the thing starts giving me a hickey or something? It could. I swear at one point, I swear I saw a mouth and fangs – this after a good breeze ruffled the mane. Damn right it’s what I saw!

I didn’t oblige. I didn’t kiss her. I shook her hand, undid my seatbelt, unlocked and opened my door, all in one Jackie-Chan-style fluid motion.

On the drive back to Rochester, I was a gentleman. I sent Shelly a text. Thanked her for the nice morning. Told her there was no love connection. Sorry. And when I got home, I deleted my Internet Dating Web account, and burned my computer.

Until next time—have an awesome day!

--Chase N. Nichols

Follow me on Twitter, or don’t. I really could care less!

A Night At Pineapple Jacks--Me and Eight Girls

You know, in my first blog, I "changed the names to protect the innocent." But you know what? If you made your way into one of my blogs, chances are there's nothing innocent about you. Chances. But regardless. (Or as some people I know mights say, irregardless ..."

As a novelist, I am often asked the question: "Where do you get ideas for your stories?" (Now you can google me. But you won't find me. My name is not Chase N. Nichols. So writing these blogs is going to do nothing to help me sell books. But I am not writing the blog to sell books. Like I say in my bio -- it's therapeutic. It's all about the therapy).

Anyway, the short answer is, (and the question was ... "Where do you get ideas for your stories"?) the ideas just come to me. And that is the truth. I don't dream them. I don't struggle to come up with plots. I just, all of a sudden, have an idea and then grab a pen and pad (or napkin), and scribble out the basics of the idea.

However, that new story idea, is just that, an idea. The work I put in comes from fleshing out the idea to make it three-dimensional. Plausible. Believable.

A key to good storytelling, is realistic characters. Crisp dialogue. And plenty of action, regardless of genre. Action is what keeps readers turning pages.

One night, I was overwhelmed with inspiration.

See, I posted on Facebook that I was headed down to a local watering hole to watch the Yankees/Orioles game. A good friend said she'd see me there. It was "Girls' Night Out" and I was invited to intrude on the get-together.

Most of the women going, I knew. Most I had not seen in 20 years. Not since high school. Yeah, I'm that old.

I arrived at Pineapple Jacks a bit before seven. Found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. I paid with a twenty. The barmaid, always chatting up patrons, forgot to give me change back. I tried not to get anxious. But twenty bucks for one drink ... it was hard to not fidget on the stool.

When she came back around, the guy next to me held out money. She took it as he said, "This wasn't my change."

She made a stupid, Oops-face, and goshed, gollied, and gave me back my change. What did I do? I bought the guy next to me a bubble (next-drink-on-me-kind-of-thing), as a kind of a reward for returning-a-lost-wallet idea. We shook hands, he thanked me, I thanked him. In return, the barmaid gave me a bubble. Karma?

I'm going to admit something here. Two years prior, I had no idea what a "bubble" was. Me and this girl Franca met out for drinks. She bought me a bubble. The barmaid slid a shot glass in front of me. Mouth down. So I said, "What's this?"

"A bubble," the barmaid said.

"Oh, no," I said, and pushed the shot glass toward her. "I only drink beer."

Franca and the barmaid laughed at me pretty good. I got married at twenty-one. Had my first son by twenty-two. I didn't know much about bars, and bar-slang.

A bubble--good for a next drink free. Just in case any of you reading this were like me, and had no idea what I was writing about.

So my friend Mindy showed up. Said she and her friends had a table out front. In back was smoking. I smoked. I guess some of the other ladies did not. I followed Mindy. Turned out I was the only guy among eight women. Not a bad night, eh? No. Not at all. Not at first, anyway.

We spent an hour catching up. Turns out most of the women hadn't seen each other since school, either. Cell phones with pics of kids and husbands were passed around. Memories shared. An abundance of laughter ensued. Blah, blah, blah, right? But it was all good. All fun. I was having a good time. Hadn't even watched an inning of the ballgame.

Unfortunately, like I said, I smoke. Bad habit. Filthy. But I do. So did a few of the women. Four of us entered the smoking section of the bar. (One of the only bars I know of in Monroe County that has a smoking section, part of why I love going there so much).

While Mindy went to the bar, Abby, Kim and I found a table. Turns out, Mindy was harassed by a large man while waiting for a glass of water. The guy, apparently, was rude and obnoxious. His comments too vile to post on a public blog.

When she came back to the table, so did he. Mindy, tough like she is, told the guy off, in equally obnoxious language.

See. I'm the guy at the table with four girls. There's an obligation to stand up to the man and put an end to the situation.

So I did. I turned to the guy. He sat next to me. I said, "Look, you're upsetting my friends. We're just here to hang out. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the table."

Don't think he expected me to stand up to him. His buddies were at the table behind us. He looked at Mindy, who wasn't listening to him, and said to me, "She's got balls." Then he turned to me. "And you got bigger balls."

But he stood up. Was ready to leave. Mindy missed the exchange. The guy was up, and staring at me. She must have misread it. So what did she do? She started in on him. Insults flying from her mouth so fast and furious, all I could do was cringe. AT one point, perhaps her crowning moment, she called him a "fat-fucking-keg," and made like a basketball hoop with her arms outstretched to mimic the size of the guy's gut.

I said to Mindy, "Dear, I handled it."

She wasn't listening. Kim and Abby tried to tell Mindy, it was over. That I'd handled it. But Mindy, she was on a roll. I can't recall much of else of what she said, of what she called this man, but I do recall feeling my intestines coil, and my bowels liquefy some.

I expected a chair over the back of the head, or a sucker punch to my ear. Something. Anything. It had to be coming.

After all, this guy wasn't going to hit a girl. He was going to hit me. Right? Of course right. Mindy would piss him off and I'd get the shit kicked out of me by Keg and his buddies.

Kim, who'd just told me a story about a fight she'd been in at Roller City, had used one of her roller skates to pound an adversary and assured me--had a bru ha ha erupted--she had my back. Abby, who'd also shared some fight-stories from her youth, let me know she was ready to use her chair to smack the guy across the back of his head if necessary--despite just having undergone back surgery. And Mindy--no doubt--was ready to duke it out from the get-go.
What happened next caught us all off guard. Keg and his pals simply left. I'd love to say it was me that intimidated the group to swiftly exit. But it would be fairer to say, though harder to admit, that I think if anything, Mindy scared the shit out of them.

Eventually, we finished our cigarettes and made our way to the other half of the bar outside of the smoking section, where we rejoined our friends.Of course, we recapped what just happened. Everyone laughed. Apparently at my expense. At least it felt that way.

"If Kim had a roller skate with her, I'd have felt a lot more prepared," I'd said. This, for some reason, made everyone laugh ... more. My imminent doom seemingly caused much delight.

What I took out of the event?

Emotions. They'd surged.

Anger: that some guy would continually insult my friend.

Fear: not for me, mind you, but for the obnoxious guy. I don't think he knew the hornet's next he'd stirred was buzzing and ready to sting, relentlessly.

Courage: for not having backed down.

Inspiration: because I knew I'd get a blog out of the deal, and some character attributes to store away for use in future writings.

All in all. It had been a great night, with many, many inspirations tucked away.

Had I of stayed home, on the sofa, in jammers, and watched the Yankees game on TV, I'd have missed out on all the free inspiration oozing at Pineapple Jacks.

What I don't know, what I may never know is, did the Yankees even win? I missed the entire game!

Until next time ....

Chase N. Nichols
Follow me on Twitter -- or don't, I really don't care!

Quick & Crazy Straws

It's hard to say at what age I started drinking. Ten or eleven seems right. I could take full responsibility. After all, it was me that choose drinking. But I also blame Mark. Well, Mark's parents really. See, Mark's parents went out every weekend. All summer long. And all summer long my brother and I spent weekend's at Mark's.

His parents had a pretty well stocked cupboard. More whisky and bourbon and wine than any tween should have access to.

Being just ten or eleven, the three of us were both smart and stupid. We were smart enough not to take and drink from just one bottle. Even a blind man would notice two-thirds of a bottle missing. Instead, we used a Quick glass. Actually, it was plastic. Like a fountain drink cup. "V" shaped. Had the chocolate bunny from the commercials on it. His body bounding over the word Quick, and through the giant "Q", ears askew as if his leap over and through were captured by an action snapshot.

We'd pour in some vodka, Southern Comfort, red wine, a can of beer, and mix the conncoction with a spoon.

The conncoction is where we could be placed in line under the Stupid catagory.

We sat at the kitchen table. The Quick glass (plastic), filled to the rim, betwen us.

Also under stupid was the escaped thought that one of us could simply have had a few glasses of wine. The other some hefty shots of vodka and the third a beer with Southern Comfort chasers. That would have been a damned good idea. And I am slightly embarassed to admit I only just now thought of this. But see, that's the thing. The idea of pouring all of this into one twenty ounce plastic cup was what I'd done, so it always seemed like the only way to drink it, at that time.

We didn't even know enough to mix it up, doll it out, and chill. Put on TV and watch a ballgame, or cartoons. Nope.

Playing cards was an interest we shared. Aside from Old Maid and Go Fish (which when I was younger I used to call Gold Fish, but that has absolutely nothing to do with this story) we had recently learned a new game. Bloody Knuckles.

The rules of Blood Knuckles espcape me right now. Maybe it had something to do with getting the lowest scoring hand? I'm not sure. It really doesn't matter. There was this guy I worked with. He was the worst at telling stories. He would say something like, "I was taking pictures the other day. I had two-hundred speed film in my camera. No, no, wait--it might have been four-hundred speed. Because I know it wasn't a full roll of film. I had put four-hundred in the camrera about a week before. And I think the four-hundred was still in there. Unless I finished the roll of four-hundred, and put in that roll of two-hundred. I got the roll of two-hundred free at the store about a month ago. The pharmacy's photomat fucked up a roll, and to make it up to me gave me a couple rolls of two-hundred. It didn't make up for losing the pictures. But, you know, free is free..."

And then you say, "Ron! Ron! What the fuck are you talking about?"

And he would shake his head. "Aren't you listening, Chase? I was taking pictures at the Bill's preseason game the other day and got some great shots of them warming up."

"No, Ron. That's not what you said. You just went on talking about absolutely nothing for like ten years!" That's what I always wanted to say. He was like my boss. So I never said that. I just nodded. And waited. Eventually he got around to the point. And I didn't give two shits either way. If he was jawing away, we weren't working. Getting paid by the hour, the less I did in eight hours, the better.

...So we played Bloody Knuckles. At the time, we knew the rules. So for all's sake, the game was played. Rules followed. Then who ever lost--the others would fan out the cards, face down on the table. The loser picked a card. If it was a black--seven, say. The loser would have to drink while the oher slowly counted to seven. If it was red, the others counted fast.

The loser had to drink the concoction while the others counted.

But we didn't want to be slamming the drink all at once. So we looked for a straw. Only straw we had--Mark had--was a Crazy Straw. You know what a crazy straw is? It's one of those hard plastic straws that are washable. When used, they tease a thirsty person. While a regular straw goes from Drink to Mouth. Point A to Point B. A Crazy Straw insists on whipping around and in and out of loops like a liquid roller coaster before ever passing through now dry, cracked lips.

Imagine drinking a cold (plastic) Quick glass filled with--not mixed drinks, mixed like someone might order at a bar, and pay money for--an ulcer-possible, vomiting-certain ... well, concoction? I still can just stare an empty stare and drool from thinking about it, from remembering the smell. And I drooled. After every crazy draw on that wild and crazy straw, I drooled.

It was dentist office--Novocain drooling at its best.

We did this at least every Friday night. Sometimes Saturday, too.

By the time a full glass was gone (and sometimes a second filled and downed), we were pretty ripped. If between the three of us we weighed more than one-fifty, I'd be shocked.

At ten or eleven drinking is no different than if you are twenty-one, or forty. Bed spins, running to the bathroom to blow chunks, crawling up the stairs to get to bed, butt sliding back down to keep from toppling over and tumbling twelve steps. Slurred words, prank phone calls, and fighting. It was all in there. Along with promises we'd never do it again. And we promised that. A lot. And then by Tuesday, we counted the days, the hours, until Friday night.

Yep. Quick and Crazy Straws. Good times. Good. Times.

--Philiip Tomasso