Scattered Pictures

I was talking with a teacher friend of mine about graduation and I began to reminisce about my own graduation back in 1983.  Which led to many memories of my strange senior year.  I can't or won't go into details about everything that happened in those few short months, but there are two stories I would like to share with you today.

The first I will share because it is deliciously ironic (that is the term I coined today).  It's not laugh out-loud funny, but it is blog worthy.  The second story I have thrown into conversations from time to time, but every time I do, the listener's eyes glaze over.  I can tell they are trying to decide whether to file it under B is for Bullshit or P is for Pathological Liar.  They nod and smile, but usually don't make eye contact until the conversation changes.  So I'm going to stir in the details today, just so you'll know its true.  Not that you could fact check it, I did a pretty good job of erasing myself from high school.

First though, I have to digress and tell you a little bit about gay culture.  Just like other subcultures within the American landscape, gay culture has its own set of rules and idiosyncrasies hidden from straights. I don't think I subscribe to these traits as much as some, but  believe me, I can become a queen in a minute in the right setting. A lot of gay culture today mirrors the sassy black woman.  We snap three times with our fingers while making an imaginary Z in the air.   We say things like, "Talk to the hand", or "Girlfriend don't wanna go there."

But this is relatively new.  At an earlier time, when being in the closet was the norm, there were secret codes and phrases that were hard to decipher for straight people.  I have no idea why, but one of those phrases was the name Mary.  Its not something young people say today, but you'll often hear an older gay male say things like, "Mary, make me another cocktail", or "Oh Mary, that dress looks fabulous on you!" or even "Hold your horses, Mary. Let me get my pants off".

That is the set-up.  Now we have to go back to 1982-1983 for my senior year of high school.
 As I've stated before, I had the unlucky experience of attending 13 schools in just 12 years.  It was difficult, but because friends were hard to get or to keep, I spent a lot of time with my books. Somehow during high school I found myself in the drama club, and pursued that one hobby through all four years.

At the beginning of my senior year in Texas, I got myself into a little trouble with my mother, and found myself unceremoniously shipped to live with my very religious father in Hampton, Virginia. My new life now included church on Wednesdays and twice on Sundays, as well as bible readings at home, prayer before meals and Friday night youth group.

If you've ever driven down Todds Lane in Hampton, you know how many churches are competing for your soul.  Back in the 80s, there was a Baptist church near Big Bethel that had a huge Easter show, complete with donkeys in the aisles and a guy tied to a cross that lifted up over the audience.  Not to be outdone, my church, Bethel Temple Assemblies of God, decided to hold an Easter extravaganza musical cantata.  With my drama experience, my father pushed me to the front of the volunteers to star in the production.  The problem was I couldn't sing, and I had big silver braces on my teeth.

Lord, I should have been granted a reprieve.  Oh no.  I was cast in THE STARRING ROLE as Jesus Christ himself.  I didn't have to sing or even speak.  I just moved about the stage with a forgiving and loving look on my face. Arms outstretched to whomever believe-ith in me.

Wait.  Did I say I had no lines?  I did indeed have one line.  After the burial and resurrection (no flying cross for me, the church wasn't designed for that)...after the burial and resurrection, while Mary Magdalene looked for my body, I appeared on a hilltop, stretched out my arms and beseeched, "OHHHH  MARY!"  She then broke into song and dance, accompanied by the other joyous disciples.

Thinking back on it now, it just seems too funny. It wasn't even my mother, the Virgin Mary.  No it had to be the prostitute Mary.  Ironic, no?

Moving on, did I mention I studied a lot?  Did I mention drama club?  Well, when I arrived in Hampton in late October 1982, the school was very welcoming.  I was immediately enrolled in all sorts of clubs, such as drama, Key Club, science, Honor Society, etc.  A friend of my father gave me a part time job at the Boys and Girls Club of America.  Plus youth group that I mentioned before.

Sometime in late March or early April, I was sitting in class.  I'll never forget: 4th period with Mrs. Bicouvaris, the government teacher.  I was suddenly called to the guidance counselor's office.  I was very nervous, but I was not prepared for what I was told.  Because of my SAT scores, because of my outstanding academic performance, because of my contributions to the school clubs, because of my church attendance and because of my work with local children...I was named Valedictorian for the 1983 graduating class.

In Texas I had held steadily in 8th place for that honor.  I had not turned in an important paper in my freshman year, and I had a B in freshman English.  There were 7 students with straight A's at my school in Texas.  In Virginia though, my grades propelled me to the top of the class.  Imagine that.

Also sharing that 4th period government class was a girl named Kendra Lindsey.  After I returned to class, she was called to the counselor's office.  She returned sobbing heavily, grabbed her things and left for the day.  You see, Kendra had been the hands-down leader of the pack since middle school.  And I had just dethroned her.  And even though she and I were the only two with office appointments, by the end of the day, every single person in that school knew the situation.

It was honestly a horrible moment for me.  The church and clubs and work with young people were all things I was thrust into... I had volunteered for nothing.  I felt like such a fraud, and an evil fraud at that. I stated loudly and clearly that I would not graduate from that school. 

And despite all the hopes of my father (he wanted me to go to seminary), I fled Hampton, Virginia and spent the last six weeks of my senior year with my "friends" in Texas. There were many other factors happening at the time, including the realization I had no friends at that school.  My heart had taken me back where I had already been forgotten.  Suffice it to say, I failed my classes in those last few weeks.  Combined with my grades from Virginia, I squeaked out as number 28 out of over 500 students.  Magna Cum Laude.

I take a little more pride in the achievement in retrospect, that is why I drop it in conversation from time to time.  So the next time I say, "I was valedictorian of my high school class", please don't roll your eyes. And don't laugh when I tell you I was Jesus.

Stories finished for today.  Go make me a cocktail, Mary.

A Tribute to Ray

This idea came to me while walking Zeus. I thought I would write a short story to honor Ray Bradbury on this day of his death. Of course it is nothing compared to his genius. I hope you enjoy:

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Twilight.
--There will be no stars tonight, thought Mr K.

He let the curtain drop and walked into the kitchen. His wife, Ylla, stood staring into the cupboards. He could sense her confusion. He breathed slowly and deeply.

--Let’s have eggs tonight, he suggested.

She turned to him and stared into his golden eyes, her own eyes thoughtful and sad.

--Breakfast for dinner? But we are having guests. It will never do.

Mr K answered, --Breakfast for dinner. It is settled.

The stillness of the evening was broken with swirls of red dust as the guests arrived; men in white plastic suits, with red, white and blue emblems above the heart,; girls in dresses and boys in play clothes, their smiles lost long ago; golden-eyed ghosts from over the Blue Mountains. There were many guests of many ages, and Ylla set a long table while Mr K made the introductions.

The meal began, eggs and bacon and home fries and grits, passed from hand to hand.

To the left of Ylla sat a blonde, blue-eyed girl, her eyes reflecting the atmosphere of a world Ylla would never see.

--Do you think tomorrow will be sunny?, she asked.

Ylla did not answer.

The question again, --Do you think tomorrow will be sunny? I have never seen the sun.

She breathed slowly and deeply.

On the other side of the girl was a man with dark markings. His skin seemed to shift. He answered, -- Have some more bacon, my sweet. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

Another boy across the table suddenly interjected, --Do you think he is dead? They say he is dead.

The men in white plastic suits breathed slowly and deeply.

The boy offered, -- My parents are dead. They were eaten by a lion.

The skin of the dark man’s wrist seemed to shift and dance. The sunless girl began to stare at the motion.

--Don’t look, my sweet, said the dark man, and he pulled his sleeve a little lower.

After dinner, the guests moved to the front lawn, covered in red dust and memories.

Mr K looked for his wife and found her in the kitchen, cleaning. He could sense her resolution.

--I will not have a dirty kitchen, Ylla said.

He approached his wife and took her hand. --Let me help you, and then lets join the others outside.

Twilight.
Tonight there will be no stars.




(This is a tribute to the following stories:  The Last Night of the World, Ylla, The Veldt, Alls Summer in a Day and The Illustrated Man, with a nod to all the rocket men who travelled through his world.)

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An Extreme Year

Whew!  2011 was a year of extremes, mostly good and mostly a reminder of what an exciting life I live. 

The year started out quietly enough; we were in bed before the ball even dropped to toll in the New Year.  January 1st dawned bright and chilly, but warm enough to continue to melt the remnants of the snowstorm which had fallen the day after Christmas in 2010.  Fourteen inches of snow fell in Norfolk, an exciting amount for this city.

London came to visit for a few days that first week of the year, and we had a nice time before she had to go back home to Lexington, KY.  As I recall, she spent a few days with me and then a few days with her mother.  Too short a time, especially as we did not get together again this year. In fact, she arrives next week, almost a year to the day since she landed at the Richmond airport in 2011.  We have bigger plans with her in 2012, namely her graduation and wedding, so hopefully this year-long absence from one another was just one of those extremes I mentioned.

                                                      London and Leo at Crackers

The next few months were quiet.  Leo and I worked, payed bills and played.  My time at Shula's 347 was relatively uneventful.  At one point I waited on Pepa, one-half of the 80's band Salt-n-Pepa...and on another exciting evening I had the pleasure of serving Spike Lee.  I like to believe that I worked hard while I was there, but I also used the time before my shift to practice climbing the stairs.  I don't quite remember why it was so important, but I know I was elated when I finally climbed to the top of the 24 story building, almost 400 steps.  So happy that I did it several times.  Woohoo!  (Someone explain that one to me.)

I left Shula's at the end of April for several reasons, which I will keep to myself.  But this was when my year got really crazy... because Leo and I were off to Spain!  Two weeks of excitement in Madrid, Avila, Segovia, Toledo and Barcelona.  I would experience many VLEs while in Spain.  What is a VLE, you might ask?  Why it is a Virgin Life-Experience, as coined by my friend Laurie.  Here is an example of one:

                                                              The Stance
No, I did not pull this picture off the internet!  Leo and I were at this bullfight, and Leo took this picture.  We saw a bullfight in the world's oldest and most famous arena, Las Ventas.  Earlier in the day we had cached in some amazing areas in the historic area, and then stumbled upon a rally for the Socialist Party (another VLE). With all the stress I was unable to calm down for the spectacle/slaughter,  so we left after only two bulls had been killed.   For me it was enough, but I am sad I pulled Leo away, especially as the next day we spoke to a couple from Australia who told us just how intense the action became. I think Leo would have liked to have seen the whole thing.  I won't post here a picture of the dying bulls, but I will tell you that we watched a bullfighter almost get trampled!  It was close.  Leo used his camera to show just how close:

                                                           A Horn in Your Butt? 

Later in Segovia, we would enter our first real castle, Alcazar! (VLE)

                                                 

And then just a few days later, Leo and I would stand in awe in the beautifully preserved city of Toledo, our favorite place in Spain (so far).   One interesting sidenote about Toledo is that it is also the first time Leo and I would just get on a train and go to a city without any hotel reservations.  It was interesting climbing the hill with our luggage, having no idea where we might stay that night.  After we left here, we went back to Madrid, and stayed the night in a hostel, the first time we had done that, but definitely not to be our last.  It was cheap and convenient, and a hostel in Spain is usually much nicer than a hostal in the rest of Europe.

The last leg of our journey was Barcelona, which held many surprises, including getting pick-pocketed on the Metro.  We got the wallet back, nothing stolen, but it was definitely a wake-up call for us not to go tooling around on the subway after a few bottles of wine!

I cried in the Sagrada Familia. I had never been in a cathedral so beautiful. St. Peter's in Rome may be opulent, but this church echoed of Heaven:

The day before we left Barcelona, Leo talked me into riding the teleferic over the bay.  I am afraid of heights and cable cars, but I am glad I did it.

Of course we did so much more than I am able to relate here.  I can only hit a few of the highlights.  I look forward to the day we can return, especially to see areas south, such as Sevilla.  The day we flew away from Spain, the southern portions of the country experienced a mild earthquake.  Two weeks later and much of the northern portion of the country was paralyzed by strikes and civil unrest.  Many of the sites we had visited were closed to foreigners, including the Sagrada Familia.  Our timing was amazing!

When we arrived home, the summer festival season was beginning, and Leo and I love the festivals!  I remember watching the Commodores during Harborfest when a friend pointed out the approaching thunderstorm.  We packed our belongings and went into Waterside while we watched the approach on both our smartphones and in the sky.  I was having a libation when the clouds burst on the tens of thousands of spectators on the field.  I watch as a mother pushed a stroller and as an older couple hurried, arm in arm, while the wind holwed around them.  I remember being so angry that Festevents didn't bother to stop the show when the radar showed no other outcome.  Luckily there were no deaths, which did happen at the Indiana State Fair later in the year.

During these summer months, I should have been looking for a job, but I was just goofing around and enjoying the breeze. I wanted to fly out to see London in Kentucky, but I felt guilty for not working, so I just bummed my way through until July...when I went to Ecuador!  YAY!  The year was only half-over, but I was just beginning to rev-up my VLEs!

Thanksgiving

I am rewriting my blog post from last night. A friend has asked me to leave the original, which I can do. But I want the reader to know that particular post was written under the influence of beer and vodka, heavy on the vodka. What follows now is what I intended to write when I sat down, but my brain couldn't organize the thoughts.

After our summer trips, Leo and I were sitting around talking about how exciting our year had been thus far. And what types of things we wanted to do in the future. We realized that with careful planning, we might actually do something very few are able to do:  put our feet on all seven continents.  Somewhere in that conversation, I began to list all the amazing places and things I have already done. At the time I said to Leo, "I can't believe I've done these things. It wasn't planned. Who would have guessed things would turn out like this? I am truly blessed."

I had been thinking about some way to put these ideas into a blog post, and then Leo got run over by the car. When Leo told me the doctor stated he "would do everything possible to save this leg", we both realized our lives and plans might change drastically. Although I was brave at the hospital, when I got home I called my sister and I cried. For about ten minutes.

Then I started thinking about Leo still being alive. I started thinking about prosthetics. I started thinking about how wonderful our lives had been and how we could still do so many things, and if not, we still had each other.

When I returned to the hospital, I discovered Leo was already thinking about prosthetics, too. And he was laughing. And I was laughing too. And that is the biggest blessing of all, to have a good attitude and grasp of what is important. I didn't always have that.

You see, I suffered from depression since my teenage years. It wasn't constant, but when it would hit, it would bring me down for hours, days and sometimes months. I attempted suicide twice in my late teens. However, I learned I could work. I could function. Just at times the darkness would settle over me. Leo would wait patiently for me to snap out of it. He would always say, "I don't know how to help you, and it makes me sad." I of course, never sought medical treatment, because I figured it was something lacking within myself and I should just buck-up and get over it.

And then the weirdest thing happened. One morning in 2005, I got out of bed and opened the curtains in my bedroom. As the sun warmed my skin I suddenly had a revelation, an epiphany. I immediately called Leo to tell him I just realized the crushing weight was gone. In fact, it had been gone for weeks! I don't know why it left, maybe it was hormonal all along and I outgrew it. No idea. But its gone, and it hasn't come back. Every single day I thank God for my home, my family, my friends, my dog...for everything. And I mean it because it is true. The depression always told me true contentedness or happiness would never happen for me. That I threw away my chances. That I was a bad father. That I was loser who waited tables for a living (what Man does that?) That I was a loser hanging unto Leo's coat tails. But I finally realized the depression lied.

So as we sat together in the hospital, staring down the possibility of an amputation, I should have gone into the hole, down the alley. But it didn't even occur to me...we were telling jokes instead. And that is when I knew what my blog post should be about. That my life really is amazing. And I am thankful for every single day. And whatever happens from this point forward, I will always be thankful for what I've already been given.

See? Isn't this a way happier post than the alcohol infused blabber from last night? I'll leave the other post if you want to compare. Besides, the thanks at the end of it are sincere and I want to shout them to the world. It's a good learning curve for me. Don't hit Publish Post until the hangover has passed. HAHA.

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Last night's post:

This is not the post I wanted to write, but it is the post I am writing. I want to give thanks for my life.

The long review: I am thankful:

I have fished in a canoe on the Han River in Korea.

I have danced with thousands during Mexican Independence Day, September 16th, in the streets of Mexico City.

I have watched the sun rise at the Coliseum in Rome.

I have kissed the man I love in a gondola in Venice.

I have watched a bullfight in Madrid.

I have visited with an indigenous tribe in the Andes Mountains.

I have gambled in Vegas, stood at the Continental Divide, climbed the Arch in St. Louis, teetered at the Hoover Dam, seen the Grand Canyon in snow, cried at the Vietnam Memorial and contemplated the Lincoln Memorial.

I have been to Disney with everyone I have ever loved, except my daughter. She was conceived during a Disney trip, but we haven't been to Disney together. There is no reason she should be sane after her childhood, but she continues to succeed at school and with her fiancee. I don't know if its correct to say Thanks to your child for being so wonderful. But I am thankful!



My family teaches me too.

And my husband. After sixteen years, I still have no idea what he will say. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. And when we don't see eye-to-eye, he gives me space. He encourages me to learn, and he encourages me to be a better person. I am thankful for that.

I tried to commit suicide twice. Once I swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol along with a gallon bottle of wine. Once I tried to cut my wrists. I still have the scars on my arms. Later I might learn about the scars on my liver. But I failed both times, and for this I am thankful.

Here I am. And I am talkative. I have been handed a unique life. The depression that followed me for years suddenly disappeared in 2005. I don't know if it was a hormone change or age or maturity, but suddenly I am ready for anything. The depression is gone. Oh sure, sometimes I worry that I don't live in the biggest house or the cleanest house. Yeah, I stress too much. Still. But the depression is gone.

And I am so thankful to be here today. I live one of the most blessed lives EVER. I do not deserve my life, my child, my husband or family, my travels or happiness.

(There is so much more with Leo's leg, I am just not ready to address it. This isn't the post I wanted. I just needed to write.)

Sweet 16

All of the stories on my blog are true. But the story I am about to relate may be the most difficult to believe. This story, word for word, is indeed true. I have been waiting sixteen years to tell it, and you shall understand why in just a few moments.

Bonnie Biggs and I met in the fall of 1979 as freshmen in high school. I had been moved around the country so many times at that point, and I was so physically small, I was terrified of entering the cafeteria. So I took my brown bag lunch and found an empty classroom to hide and to eat. Bonnie was there, too.

Our friendship blossomed immediately. Over the years we would laugh and cry and love each other and hate each other. I lost my virginity with Bonnie, and she is still the only woman I have ever been with in a sexual way. Ironically, Bonnie took me to my first gay bar, witnessed my first gay kiss and set me up with my first boyfriend.

Bonnie was a member of the Baha'i Faith and struggled with her own relationship issues and sexuality. It was almost unbelievable that the two of us would find God at an Assembly of God church and subsequently marry. A few months later, after an exorcism and a very significant prayer session, Bonnie was pregnant with our wonderful daughter, London.

Many people ask how I could possibly have been married and had sex with a woman if I knew already that I was gay. Yeah, good question, but that is a completely different blog posting. Complicated and weird, it happens more than you think, and I am sure everyone has a different story. For me, I just figured ALL men, straight or gay, had to make a decision to be faithful. So I put on my horse blinders and went forward with my life. I loved (love?) Bonnie with all my heart.

Disappointing then when our relationship soured.

People can argue in my face all they want, but it wasn't a sex thing. We divorced over the same thing almost every couple divorces over... money. Plain and simple. It was bitter and hateful and angry and horrible, and it continued to get worse after we separated.

A year and a half later and it was summer of 1995. I rented a room and bathroom in Williamsburg. No living room, no kitchen...just a bedroom and bathroom in a house of strangers. I had no car. I lived three blocks from Bonnie and London and I was at their house almost every day. Sometimes people would ask me if I was straight or gay, and I would just tell them, "I am nothing. I am just a father trying to make things work for my daughter. I can't date, I want to be alone."

One night after work, my friend Jim asked if I wanted to ride with him to Norfolk to hang out at the Garage, a gay bar in downtown. We had not quite finished our sidework, and I agreed to go. As we pulled onto Route 60, I mentioned to Jim that I was tired and should just go home. He didn't want to go to Norfolk by himself, so he tried to talk me into going. I kept refusing, even telling him to pull over so I could walk home. Just then Jim pulled onto Route 199, and there was no way in hell he was going to turn around and let me out of the car.

Jim said, "What is wrong with you? Let's go have a beer and have fun."

I replied, "It doesn't matter, Jim. I have known Bonnie for 16 years now. If I go out tonight and meet someone tonight, it will be 16 years before I know someone like I know her. It's too hard, I don't want to do it again."

Do you see where this is going? Do you understand why tomorrow is so important to me? A self-fullfilling prophecy. A glimmer of hope for all my single friends who are looking desperately for the love of their lives.

Jim and I arrived at the Garage about an hour later. I was fairly pissed at being forced to go, and of course I immediately started complaining about wanting to go home. I even checked my wallet to see if I had enough cab money to get back to Williamsburg. Jim was chatting with a group of guys that I didn't like. I just sat on a bench, sipping my beer and stewing about how awful my life had become. Eventually I had to go to the bathroom, so I stood up and got in line.

Some dude behind me asked if I wanted to play pool. I didn't even look at him! I just said NO. I peed and went back to pout on my bench. Jim, being the asshole that he was, ordered another beer and continued to talk with his snotty friends. I continued to mope. Somehow, (THANK YOU GOD), I realized we weren't going anywhere fast, so I might as well play pool with that guy...um, who was it again? And then I saw him.

"Hi. Were you the guy who asked me to play pool? I'm sorry, I'm just in a bad mood, but if the game is still open, I would like to play. My name is Kirk."

"Hi. My name is Leo."

The heavens opened, the angels sang. You could hear the puzzle piece snap into place. Have you ever put together a puzzle? Do you work on the outer rim first? This was like the last piece of the outer rim, a joy that says, "You are on your way now." All the other pieces have been filling in my life, the perimeter was set at that moment. Nowadays we are adding clouds, and parts of the house, and flowers in the lower left corner. There are some unknown parts in the middle, I guess I could look at the box. Or maybe not. Its going to be beautiful when its done.

16 years ago I met someone on my darkest day. It has been incredible.

A Strange Story

For years I worked for Anheuser-Busch at Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg, Virginia. If you are not familiar with this property, it is a gated community on the James River with a conference center, boating facility, tennis club, sports club and a golf clubhouse with three full golf courses, as well as a nine-hole par-three course. For many years the celebrated River Course was part of the PGA tour, occurring yearly, one week before the British Open.

Golf lovers will know the British Open occurs each year in the middle of July, which put the tour in Kingsmill sometime around the 4th of July...a miserable, hot, humid time to be in Williamsburg. So much so, that many of the golf stars would skip this competition altogether and just fly away to cool, breezy Scotland. But we would get enough second stringers to justify a generous amount of hoopla.

Most of the staff hated this week at Kingsmill, but I loved the excitement!

On Monday, the parking lot nearest to the Conference Center would be cleared out. The overnight guests had plenty of parking at their condos which served as hotel rooms all year round. So the large lot near the Conference Center was used for conference attendees, of which there were none during this week, and also as an employee parking area. The empty lot was then filled with dozens of rental cars used by the celebrities and press. The employees were forced to park about three-quarters of a mile away in a dirt field. Not too bad, because a shuttle would run all day to bring us to our work stations.

Monday night we would have a reception for the press and the celebrities.

Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn we held a breakfast for the press outside of the golf clubhouse, starting at six AM...which meant we had to be at work around four. The wives then had a luncheon at noon , and finally Tuesday night there was the big welcoming reception out on the golf course, which included fireworks. This event was over about ten, but there was still a few more hours left of clean up for the staff.

We were back to work early on Wednesday to set up and serve breakfast before the Pro/Am challenge.

Three days into the tournament, and most of the staff had worked more than 40 hours, most of it outside in July in Williamsburg, and most of it lugging equipment: dishes, chafers, food. But our week had only just begun. Thursday through Sunday we had to staff the bars on the golf course, in the locker room, in the press room, and especially on top of the bleachers erected at the 18th hole, accessible only by the very uppermost tier of VIPs. We also provided all the liquor and food for the hospitality suites in the condos along the golf course. Day after day of deli trays, keg beer, liquor, margarita machines, desserts, trash liners, disposable plates and silverware and of course, Solo cups.

On Sunday evening, sometime around five or six o'clock, the last golfing foursome would arrive among the cheering masses to aim for the 18th hole. Shortly afterward a winner would be announced, a check would be presented, and the crowd would disperse. I mean flee. I mean DISAPPEAR! How in the world all those people got off property so fast, I will never know. But everything, I mean everything, had to be cleaned before Monday morning.

The staff was divided into teams of four, each armed with a van and numerous trash bags, and we were sent forth to empty those hospitality suites of all food, alcohol and trash. It was a daunting task, especially if you take into account all the empty, half empty, and sometimes full kegs that had to be pulled from the rooms. On the flip side, after working like hell for a week, and being completely unsupervised...did I mention that along with the guests all the managers abandoned the property too?..after that we "may have" enjoyed a few of those beverages left behind. After one or two condos of cllearing the liquor, the rest became quite enjoyable.

One of my favorite memories of the PGA tournament was working the VIP bleacher-bar on the 18th hole. The stress was intense. As the bartender, I had to try to balance the demands of these horrible VIP rich people who wanted everything "right now" against the need to NOT MAKE A SOUND when the player was putting. This meant no dips for ice until the signs were lowered. Do you understand how people can be if they have to wait an extra moment to have their drink poured?

On one particular Saturday afternoon, a severe thunderstorm approached Williamsburg during the tournament. Play was called off and the field was emptied. I was instructed to ask all the guests on my VIP bleacher to exit and enter the clubhouse about 400 feet away. Everyone complied so beautifully.

I secured the bar and came down the stairs to look for shelter for myself when a woman came scurrying toward me. Does a rich woman scurry? Maybe there is another verb for the rich which doesn't make them sound like a cockroach looking for shelter, but she was scurrying and looking for shelter. She demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. (If you are having a hard time envisioning this, let me remind you the bleachers were for VIPs. Of course they were large with a large covered roof.) I told her it was closed.

I don't remember the exact conversation that followed, but I remember she demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. She told me she had paid too much money for the privilege and she wanted to have a drink while the thunderstorm passed. And she had a point. She was wealthy and powerful and I was just a kid blocking her from her choice of scotch or bourbon. I felt very alone in a dangerous situation.

I would again feel this way years later, when I worked at the Marriott in downtown Norfolk. For many years I worked on the 24th floor as concierge. This floor was not available to all Marriott customers, only the privileged and Marriott elite members.
At times, the fire alarm would sound (always false alarms), but I would have daydreams worthy of Walter Mitty: knocking on the hotel doors, providing the inept with wet towels and then leading them down the twenty-four floors to sunlight and life.

Always in my dream I would be interviewed by the local media, and possibly nominated for some type of national award which would put my picture and name into Time Magazine's 10 Most Heroic People of the Year. Indeed, Mitty and I could have been close friends!

Before I took that job on the 24th floor, I worked both front desk and the phone. Yes,the phone! A tiny cubicle tucked away deep in the hotel from which all telephone connections were made. A boring job, but as operator, you had many responsibilities, including advising guests during a fire. As I have suggested, fire drills come often in a hotel, usually caused by teenagers pulling a handle, but our hotel had a system in place.

As operator, once the alarm was sounded, I was to tell all guests there was no need to evacuate yet, as security would investigate the problem. If this was an actual emergency, a new siren would alert all guests to leave the building. This was an actual emergency. Everyone needed to leave the building. I continued to answer the phone as the front desk continued to ask people to leave the lobby.

While fighting the fire, other firemen came to clear the lobby both of stationary guests and also the employees. As everyone was leaving, including me, a strong arm came down on my shoulder and a voice said, "You need to stay. Keep answering those phones. Tell everyone to get out of the building." And then he was gone. And I was alone.

Eventually the phone stopped ringing. Eventually the noise in the lobby stopped. Eventually I was sitting in a quiet hotel, in a quiet cubicle, watching smoke seep through the ceiling. It was a little scary and I had no hope of a Walter Mitty's Rescue of the Innocent, just a thought of leaping the front desk and racing outside for my survival.

Sorry. I digress.

So this wealthy socialite and I were arguing about survival and liqupor costs at the bottom of a steel structure during a thunderstorm. She wanted beyond the chain I had just secured. She asked me again why she could not take shelter atop the bleachers where her bar tab was previously paid. I meekly replied the bleachers were made of steel and metal and were the highest point on a very low golf course and that anything standing on top would be absolutely fried if lightening struck.

Again, I am not making this up, but God in all His wisdom decided to let out a lightening bolt and thunder boom just as I finished my sentence. I have no recollection of that woman's face because I was at least ten feet in front of her as we ran for the clubhouse.

She may have died out there. But there was never a complaint filed against me.

Another favorite memory involves my good friend, Venus. Yes, that is her real name! She gets so much grief for that name. I know this because everyone who I tell about Venus asks about her name.

Venus and I worked late one Friday night during the PGA tournament at Kingsmill. We left the conference center, but the shuttle had stopped for the evening, so we were forced to walk the three-quarter mile to the dirt parking lot with our cars. It was fairly dark out there, but we helped each other through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.

Not surprisingly, considering the long hours of work required, we had to be back at work the next morning at ten AM. We both arrived in the parking lot at the same time. We also both watched the shuttle pull away from the lot as we parked our cars. After the initial greeting and small talk about how tired we both were, we decided it would be quicker to retrace our steps form the night before than to wait for the shuttle bus. So off we went through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.

Over the wires? You mean the ones that keep people from walking on the FAIRWAY? Yes, Venus and I walked arm and arm onto the fairway during a PGA tournament which was broadcast on ESPN. The only reason we knew we had failed was due to the THOUSANDS of people who were screaming at us to move out of the way.

Beautiful. Boo-ed off TV in uniform. I would love to have the tape of Jim Nantz ranting about that one!

(P.S. I love you Venus!)

Ricky Raccoon or How My Name Got on the Sexual Predators List

My house is a haven for animals. Mice, raccoons, squirrels, birds, stray cats, loose dogs and even a two-foot lizard have all made it into my home. My neighbor insists this particular house has always been a draw for God's creatures, but I don't believe him for a minute. It's me. And it's Miss Pine's fault.

Miss Pine was my babysitter when I was four years old. A lovely and kind woman, she was also a Jehovah's Witness, and that is where the trouble started. No, no, no... her religion didn't factor into the equation per se, after all at the age of four I wasn't really included in the discussion of the differences between Methodists and Jehovah's Witnesses. All I knew was that she didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas, and as a matter of fact, that is all I really know about that faith today. That fact and the one about the missionaries knocking on the door at the most inopportune times, but hey! worse could be said about others.

Miss Pine always carried around a small book, which since I couldn't read I instead obsessed with the pictures. One picture in particular showed an idyllic drawing of the Chosen Saved entering into Heaven surrounded by a bunch of very tame, happy animals. You know, the lion nuzzling the lamb type of thing. The people in the picture did not have fluffy white robes or wings, they were all dressed in poodle skirts and suits and I think this is why I have always identified the 50s as the most angelic time in Earth's history.

Anyway, back to those animals: Doctor Doolittle and the Beastmaster can talk with animals, pure virgin spirits can attract unicorns and the people in Miss Pine's Watchtower can pet lions and tigers...of course I would dream about achieving the perfect point of meditation wherein all the wild animals would lay by my side and live in peace. Even when I sun in my backyard today I still drift away into this fantasy, so I have no doubt God gets a giggle by sending a few whiskery friends my way from time to time.

Is it ironic I try to think of new and tasty ways to eat the animals? No, it is not. Those animals come from farms, and we all know the animals on farms are not real. Only the wild ones are invited to my love fest. (As if a bear is going to wander into Norfolk and stop by my backyard to say Hi. Or a Bengal tiger. Ah, a boy can dream...)

The raccoons in my attic have certainly said Hi a few times. At least I think that was what the hissing was about. But for now those raccoons have been removed and their nest cleaned out. This story is about another raccoon, my friend Ricky.

Leo and I rented a second-story apartment in which the kitchen window faced a parking lot, dumpster and thin strip of woodland. At some point while washing dishes, one of us noticed a raccoon making a dive from a nearby tree into the dumpster, and emerging with dinner in hand. As you can tell, I am an animal lover (not always as food) and I was taken aback by this very cute, silly bandit.

Standing by the window for an hour watching him eat was a lot of fun, but taking eggs and nuts and berries was even more fun. After a time, I nicknamed him Ricky Raccoon, and other than Zeus, he was my furriest friend. Again, with all the hissing and baring of teeth, the love may have been one-sided, but my heart beat fast and true every time I saw his darkened eyes over the top of a half-eaten corn cob.

One evening, arriving home late and tired from work, I pulled the car into the parking lot. The passing headlights revealed Ricky to be sitting in the window of the left side of the dumpster, eating something delicious. I parked the car, gathered my belongings and stepped out quietly. This was the closest I had ever been to Ricky. He eyed me, distrusting me...I guess he didn't really realize I was the one who was leaving all the snacks.

"Hi there, " I said, hoping to calm his nerves. "Hi there, you cute little thing. Don't you know I won't hurt you? Don't you know I think you are adorable? If you would let me come closer, I would kiss your little ears. YES! I would kiss your nose, I would kiss those sweet lips of yours. YES I WOULD! If I could just touch you, we would be friends..."

Ricky stopped staring at me and suddenly looked to his right, through the dumpster and out to the other side. My eyes followed to see what had caught his attention, and there stood a lovely teenage girl, trash in hand, who unable to see Ricky Raccoon thought all my devotions were intended for her. About that time she dropped her trash bag and ran. So did Ricky. And I was left with a lot of explaining for her parents, which I don't think they bought for a moment.

You see, these animals are always getting me in trouble. When I get to Heaven in my Fifties style suit and can finally talk to the animals, I am going to have so much to say.