[Previous entry: "Canadian TV Programs of Olde; A few New Greats"] [Next entry: "New Review"]
01/21/2006: "Random Acts of Vandalism #2: Gladys"
This entry will find its way, in slightly altered form, into the novel I’m working on now, tentatively titled “The Interventionists.” It will appear altered in the sense that the acts described shall be performed by the novel’s characters, rather than me and my numbskull highschool buddies. And I think it will probably end differently than it did in reality—the wonders of fiction! Of course, as this novel is un-contracted, this scene may never see the light of day. Perhaps, having read it, you might find that prospect a comforting one.
Anyway, Gladys. It is not simply a name of a bygone era—along with Gertrude, Hester, Wellington, Adolf, Prudence, Prunella, Hazel, Phinneas, Thurston, Theobald, Hettie, Archibald, Cotton, Olive, Greta, Spaulding, and others. As an aside, if any of you are about to have a child and are thinking about giving them a name from the above list (or a fruit-themed name such as Apple, Tangerine, Prune, Apricot—or a hippy-dippy one such as Moonbeam, Eagle Feather, Stardust—or a superhero-type name like Aquaman or Typhoon Helix or Gargantua), well, my only advice is: don’t be perverse! Name your child responsibly or he or she will grow up to hate you. I know if my folks had named me “Grapefruit Wolverine Davidson” or “Finnegan Jupiter Davidson III,” I might not be on speaking terms with them.
Anyway. Gladys. This was the name of a 300-pound fibreglass cow that sat in the backyard of my classmate Barry Fietsch (this is not his real name; readers who have been following this blog since its inception perhaps recall an incident occurring when I did use real names—anyway, I’ve decided to change some names.). Barry was a good guy; basically a sweet, goodhearted guy. In high school terms, this rendered him tragically unhip and open to mockery (though, in fairness, pretty much everyone was open to mockery at our highschool). Barry, as I recall, was the chief target for the dreaded “Bionic Chicken”: the Bionic Chicken—don’t ask me why we called it this—was a wrestling-type move we practiced upon one another for a three-week period in grade eleven: its heyday came to a close when all of us were too bruised or otherwise debilitated to continue. Basically, a Bionic Chicken was a double axe handle: you laced your fingers together, made one GIANT fist, then attacked somebody with it. The best Bionic Chickens were, obviously, those administered sneak-attack-style: you’d fly off the stairs and hammer your unsuspecting buddy in the back, or wait around the corner and hammer him as he came out of the cafeteria, sending him face-first into the trophy case. My buddy Adam—a scrap of a guy, at the time—administered the all-time killer Bionic Chicken to a guy named Andy Marascotto (Andy MaraSNOTto—hah, hah!); Adam blindsided Andy while Andy was getting something out of his locker; he whacked him so good Andy’s shoulders got shoved though the narrow locker door and his head hit the back of the locker. Man, that was a be-all, end-all Bionic Chicken! Poor Andy probably still wakes up from nightmares where he hears Adam’s gibbering, triumphant shriek before his head slams the back of that locker.
If any high school guys are reading this, why not start up a Bionic Chicken club at your school? Like a Fight Club, but Bionic Chicken-style! Actually, I’m sure if any high school guys are reading this, they’re like, “Bionic CHICKENS? What were those guys, idiots?”
The answer---though I'm sure it needs not be spoken---is yes.
Anyway, Barry absorbed a lot of Bionic Chickens. And he absorbed them in the way a lot of us, including myself, did back in those days: “Ha ha, guys, very funny.” No retaliation—which, unfortunately, just gave us license to do it again and again. But make no mistake: it was no just Barry. I received my fair share of Bionic Chickens, and bootslaps, and other physical abuse. In grade ten I had this annoying habit of carrying a long wooden ruler around with me, which I’d pull out of my binder and whap people with, exclaiming, “You’re serving HARD TIME, punk!” just like The Big Boss Man, a wrestler I adored. Me and that ruler had a good run until I hit [name withheld] and he chased me about the hallways until collaring me near the library and busting the ruler over my head. I relate this story only to get across the point that it wasn’t just Barry getting beat on.
What was I talking about? Oh, yeah: Gladys. It became the habit of a very dedicated group of us to, when we got inebriated, try to steal Gladys. The main group of guys who’d go out on these Gladys pilfering missions was:
ADAM COLES: I’ve already given the rundown on this notorious fellow (see archives, 11/09/2005).
IAN RITSON: aka: Herman. aka: Herman the German (even though he’s not German) aka: the cheap Scot (he is Scottish). Physical: 6-foot-4, 180 pounds. Known acquaintances: Adam Coles, Steven Gibbons, Sjariffin Ganeif, Ian McTaggart (aka: Klinefelter).
KENNETH EDWARDS: aka: Kenny. Kenny was a good guy; I haven’t seen him for years. He was the school’s resident troublemaker; if anything, I was his acolyte. Initially, we didn’t get along. I arrived in St. Catharines, my then-hometown, in grade 10; I endured about a year of mockery at his hands. Ken used to hack me mercilessly. I made the mistake of wearing this “Magic” sweatshirt—put out by Magic Johnson—and it was purple; well, LAVENDER if you want to know the truth. That whole year Ken called me “Magic.” And not just “Magic” in a normal voice: he’d put on this wheedling, trollish voice, stringing the word out—“Maaaaaaaaaagic.” He used to sit behind me in some classes, and I’d always get it: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaagic.” Or else he’d say it really quick, like a hiccup: “Magic!” Everyone found this highly hilarious—of course, it was the same group who found MaraSNOTto funny; and another kid who lived beside a graveyard, we called him “Gravestone Jeremy” or something (as if living next to a graveyard wasn’t shitty enough)—all this is to say, it didn’t take a lot to get us laughing, so long as it was at someone else’s expense. Along the way something changed and me and Ken became buds; suddenly things were a lot funnier.
Okay, so, we’d try to steal Gladys. Barry lived out in the country—his house had no back fence, as it ran along a grape field—so we had easy access. And we’d always be drunk—always. We were big into ice beer. Ice beer was very big in Canada at this time. Labatt’s, the main purveyor of ice beer, had this commercial where a big Nordic-looking dude—a modern-day viking in a long leather coat, like the one Leonardo DeCaprio wore when he went nuts in THE BASKETBALL DIARIES—anyway, this guy was on an glacier or something, or maybe it was an industrial goth-y club set on a glacier...anyway, he reached his hand into this big frosty vat and pulled out an ice beer and said something like, “Ice. Mother nature’s cooling system. It’s what makes ice beer so good.” He probably didn’t say that, exactly. We felt it was a highly effective ad campaign–especially as viewed by 17-year-olds looking to get as drunk as we could, as fast as possible.
So we’d get hopped up on ice beer and before long one of us would say, “Let’s steal Gladys!” We had grand plans for her, if we ever managed to steal that damn cow: we envisioned a huge scavenger hunt, the poor Fietsch family running around the city, hunting up clues, all of them wounded and aggrieved-looking, crying out, “Give her back, you MONSTERS! We just want our precious Gladys BACK!”
Of course, in the drunken hour we wildly overestimated both our strength and dedication. I’m convinced to this day that the cow itself was not that heavy—it was the 200lb block of cement it was anchored to. I mean, in retrospect, it’s totally pathetic—we tried to steal that cow, like, 5 times. The same result each and every time.
We’d get all fired up—damn you, ice beer!—and hop into a car or ATVs and light out for the ole Feitsch homestead. And yes, I know it’s totally irresponsible to be driving in the state we were in; I’m going to assume that you all did stupid things when you were that age, too. Don’t be Captain Bringdowns, okay?
So we’d get out there and sneak through the grapefields to the house. We were so drunk I’m sure we were loud as hell; thinking we were James Bond, we were probably more Inspector Clouseau. Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Fietsch even watched us though the window:
Mr. Fietsch: It’s those idiots come for Gladys again.
Mrs. Fietsch: Oh, don’t worry. they’ll never lift it.
Mr. Fietsch: Idiots. Is that what our tax dollars are going to educate?
Anyway, we’d bumble into their backyard, grab some portion of Gladys’ anatomy—Ian loved to grasp her udders, for some odd reason—and, on the count of three, LIFT!
Of course, we never got her off the ground, as hard as we might try. I’m fairly certain that the youthful tension of my 17-year-old sphincter was the only thing that saved me from shitting my pants from the exertion. Suddenly it would all come back to us: we’d tried this before, hadn’t we? Tried and failed miserably, right?
Afterwards we’d skulk back into the grapefields like whipped dingoes. Except for one occasion where Mr. Fietsch, rightfully pissed, chased us down the street. We made it into the car, but he managed to rip the rear windshield wiper off Adam’s VW Fox.
God, man, those were good times. Strange to say, but I speak without a hint of sarcasm. Strange, foolish, great times.
Anyway, I realize I haven’t written much of the actual stealing procedure. That’s okay; it’ll go in the novel. You get the gist, right?
We were idiots, is the gist. Mr. Fietsch had it right.
All best, Craig.