Defining Stupidity (Now Where Was I?) Entry: Defining Stupidity (Now where was I?) June 14/15, 2001 Chill. Light on my sight as my ego becomes A funky child with some words on my tongue Be like intake of breath and my mouth gets loose While I scatter my spit I dream of juice Have you ever made out in dark hallways Displayed a kiss that made your day or say Play a track from your record collection It's your mix, congratulations We've changed a lot and then some some Know that we have always been down down And if I ever didn't thank you you Then just let me do it now � Down, 311 In tenth grade, during a particularly rough (or maybe just confusing) time in my life, I took a creative writing class so I could have pretty much a free period to write songs for the band and pass them off as poems to my teacher, Mr. Phillip Roth. Not being an idiot, Phil caught on pretty quick, and instead of being angry he took me under his wing, seeing as he liked my songs anyway. �You have talent for storytelling Mackenzie. Even with just these lyrics, I can tell your writing style is similar to my own.� �Seriously?� Mr. Roth nodded, �Have you ever tried writing short stories?� �No.� �Well, maybe you should.� �I doubt it, I�m not a very good writer for that kinda stuff.� �No one is right off the bat Mackenzie, it takes a lot of practice writing to get really good at it. Then again, I guess there are exceptions to every rule.� �But what would I even write about?� I asked. �What do you write your songs about?� �Stuff that happens in my life, just little stuff though. Not something you could turn into a story.� �You�d be surprised.� Mr. Roth laughed. I smiled, having no idea what he was talking about. �Besides,� he continued, �You put it in a song you can put it into prose.� �I guess so.� I scrunched up my face to simulate the look of one in deep thought; he bought it. �Tell, you what�take this.� He reached into his desk and pulled from it a small, artsy type, black notebook and held it out to me. �It�s blank,� Mr. Roth informed me, �I was going to keep it for myself, but I�m giving it to you instead.� �What is it?� I asked. �It�s writing notebook. I have a million of em. I use em to write journal entries in. Helps me sort out my feelings and seemingly gives my pathetic life a purpose.� He smiled. I looked at him in shock. �But you�re a teacher!� �I�m also a human being.� He paused with the little smile still on his face. �You mean to tell me you always feel as if your life has meaning and purpose? That you matter?� �Of course not. I�m in high school.� He laughed again. �Exactly. So here you are.� �Umm�I dunno Mr. Roth, it just seems like a waste of time man.� �Ok then, how about this: you write in the journal, let�s say ten pages a week. You don�t have to do any of the other assignments.� �Ok then, that�s cool.� Hell yeah! �But still, what do I write about?� �Anything you want, that�s the beauty of a journal. You can just write about life or do a little short story or whatever you want.� �And you�ll read it every week?� I asked. �Mmm-hmmm.� �Whatever.� �Exactly.� Needless to say, I thought Mr. Roth was a God. I kept up the journal writing, and started buying them wholesale myself. Plus, I kept taking Mr. Roth�s creative writing classes up till graduation, cause he really helped me with my writing. Even my songs got better. After the whole graduation shebang thing (including my shining moment, the swan dive off the stage), he sought me out to congratulate me (on graduating), and then he handed me a bag, smiled and walked off. Inside was this damned journal. A leather-bound writing journal. I decided to use it as a sort of summer edition to my life, chronicled in this book. Old Phil had been right, it did sort of give my life a bit more meaning. Makes me feel less insignificant in the whole grand scheme of things, with the constant running commentary (in my head) given some release here on these pages. And with that other form of�torture�I mean school coming up in a few months, the entire summer has felt like some sort of rite of passage. But whatever. Enough about that, I�m flying high from the adrenaline rush that I got from laser tag and nearly getting my ass kicked by a buncha girls so I�m just rambling. I gotta lot of stuff to put to paper before it wears off so here I go. Now where was I? Madison and I had just paid for the room (with the attendant guy avoiding direct eye contact with Madison the entire time) and were heading out to the parking lot when I remembered something. �Shit!� �What?� �Do you have your cell phone with you?� �Of course. Why?� �Cause I forgot. We can page Randy inside the room.� �Jesus fucking Christ, Mack. We should have done that first.� �I forgot. Aurora mentioned it to me before she left, but it went in one ear and out of the other.� �Fucking, men.� Madison spat. I didn�t take offense. After a pause she snapped �Well?! What�s the goddamn number so we can get this shit straightened out and I can go to sleep?!� She was a little upset I think, but since it was 2:30 in the AM, all was forgiven. I gave her the number and the three digit code, 007, to let him know it was me. Madison made a face. �Seems like it doesn�t matter anyway. According to the annoying machine voice, his pager is either turned off or not working.� Damn Randy. �Guess I�ll get the bags then. Go up and open the room, and I�ll be up in a sec.� �Ok.� Madison�s expression softened. �You�re such a sweetie, Mackenzie.� �Right.� �And don�t forget I want to see that song you wrote about me.� �I won�t.� Madison turned her back on me and walked toward the stairs to the second floor where we were to stay, in room 2-69. Hmmm. For my own safety, I took the beer case (a 24 pack of Bud Ice) out of Madison�s suitcase (leaving it in the trunk) before I came upstairs. The door was open, and I stumbled in, with the (heavy) suitcases under both arms and my song notebook in my teeth. Setting the luggage on the floor and the notebook on the nearby dresser by the door, I scanned the room. It was decent, I guess. Your average motel room. Crappy 20 (or less) inch TV on a large dresser that spanned half the length of the room. Two windows on the west side of the room, one in the bathroom, the other next to the far bed (with an air conditioning unit in the space between the window sill). Another small little nightstand with a single drawer (inside of which was undoubtedly a bible and on top of which was a lamp) separated the (TWO!) beds in the room. Thank Christ. Thank merciful Christ. Madison was fiddling with the air conditioning controls when I crashed in. �Jesus, are they trying to fucking freeze us to death?� she asked. It was a bit cold in the room. �It doesn�t matter to me, I�m too tired to care.� I said. �The drive take it out of ya?� �You have no idea.� Madison laughed, then noticed the notebook next to the TV. �Is that the book?� �Yes.� She bounded over excitedly towards it. She�d thumbed through several pages before she asked, �What was the name of the song again?� �Victoria�s Secret.� �Right.� She laughed. �Wait, I found it. Here, I�m gonna go change into my night clothes, I�ll read it when I come back.� She put the book down on the nightstand in between the beds and dragged her suitcase into the bathroom. Whatever. I took off my pants and lay them on the big dresser, and dressed in a pair of boxers and my DRAGONBALL Z T-shirt, got into the bed closest to the air conditioner. I stared at the ceiling and listened to Madison do�her thing (or things) in the bathroom. God knows. Then I looked at the bathroom door directly in front of me, the implication of Madison�s announcement finally hitting me in the head. Changing into her nightclothes, she�d said. Madison who was a sex-kitten. Madison who worked at Victoria�s Secret. Madison who hadn�t gotten laid in two weeks. Lord no. Please God be with me. She came out wearing a tank top (with no bra) and pair of shorts so small they were squeezing half of her (plentiful) ass cheeks out of the damn things. My God, why have you abandoned me?! She got into bed right beside me. Come back God! Come back dammit! �Umm�Madison, aren�t you going to sleep in the other bed?� �Umm, no, it�s fucking cold in here. Besides, we�re both adults. We can handle it, right?� She gave me the innocent smile; it looked like a shark bearing its teeth. �Right.� �Good.� She reached over and grabbed the notebook and began to read. I lay very still beside her. The next thing I knew, it was morning. At 9:00 am, Tuesday morning, June 12th 2001, I woke up next to the most dangerous woman alive. The realization of which caused my eyelids to snap open so fast my eyeballs got friction burn. Don�t panic, it�s nothing to be scared about�hell a lot of guys would kill to be in your position� Madison reached over and draped her arm across me in her sleep. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to jump up screaming like someone had thrown a grenade between the sheets. I just lay there, afraid for my well being. Try to understand, there are lots of issues to consider when you actually just "sleep sleep" with a woman: morning breath, morning wood, whether or not you think she�s gonna hog the blanket. That�s just normal stuff. But with Madison you had a whole other set of issues to deal with: 1. Her overtly friendly bedside manner and sleeping habits 2. Her sleeping attire. 3. Her explicit sexuality that was never dormant (even in sleep). 4. She slept against the morning wood. Then she draped her arm over me, and I felt her chest�her now very bare chest�press against my T-shirt and I realized what little fabric separated us from very intimate contact. Thankfully she was still wearing shorts (I wouldn�t even guess about underwear), though we were crotch to crotch with her practically grinding against me in her sleep. I moved, she moved, I shifted, and she shifted. I tried not to freak out. I tried not to scream. But it came out anyway. However, instead of an actual scream, it came out as high pitched, nervous humming to the tune of Enter Sandman. I just lay there, humming and freaking out in my head, occasionally looking over to watch her sleep for nearly a half hour. I was amazed to find that Madison looked almost angelic in sleep, genuinely angelic, not the fake �innocent angelic little girl� look that she used for her own twisted purposes. Maybe she wasn�t so evil after all. Another grind against my crotch. Maybe I was kidding myself. The alarm rang at 9:30 (she must have set it). I was still humming, just louder now as she stirred next to me. Madison purred like a cat as she�came online is the best way to describe it, with the yawning, groaning and shaking against my crotch. I hummed louder still. Madison hit the alarm. �I didn�t know you were a Metallica fan.� She said to me, draping her arm over me again. �Neither did I.� �Then why are you humming Enter Sandman?� �I dunno.� �Well stop it.� �I�m trying.� I told her. She kissed my neck. Amazingly, the humming stopped. Madison laughed, �Only you, Mack. Only you.� �Right. Umm, Madison?� �Yeah, babe?� �What happened to your shirt?� �I took it off babe.� �I know that, but why?� �Cause it got hot.� �Oh.� Pause�thinking, must keep hands to myself! �Don�t you dare.� She warned me. �Do what?� �Start that humming again. It was in my dreams while I was sleeping.� �Sorry.� Phew! �Don�t be, it was a cool dream. Just don�t start it again.� �Hmmm.� I commented. Madison snuggled tighter with me under the covers. �Madison�that�s my crotch.� �I know.� She smiled. �I�m�uncomfortable.� �Do you want me to help you out?� Oh sweet Jesus, how to answer that question. �No, it�s just that�don�t you feel�weird?� �No.� �Oh.� �Why, do you?� she asked. �Yeah, I do.� �I�m sowwwy.� She pouted and then kissed my neck again. �I don�t mean to make you uncomfortable.� Yeah, right. �It�s just that�we�re friends y�know?� �Oh c�mon Mack, I�m just playing around.� Madison was always �just playing around.� She ruffled my hair and then looked at the clock. �Shit, we gotta check out in a few or we�ll get charged for the room again. I�m gonna go take a shower, ok?� �Okay.� Was that an invitation or a statement? And then she got up, topless, and walked into the bathroom, dragging her suitcase inside once again and giving me a wink before she closed the door. In my head, I pulled a gun and blew my brains out. In real life I laid in bed till I found the strength to get up and change into a new pair of boxers. I never really liked that pair anyway. I�d decided I�d been wrong about that whole God thing by the time Madison and I stepped out of the room a little after 10. Anyone who was on my side, would NOT have seen fit for things to have turned out the way they had last night and this morning. Nope, I�d decided: God was out to get me. Out to break me. My spirit, my resolve, or maybe just my sunny disposition. Whatever I had, he wanted it, but I�d be damned if I was going to let him have it! He could send a hundred Madison�s to rape me in my sleep, but neither He, nor my father was going to ruin my goddamn vacation! I was going to have fun if I had to sell my soul to Madison just to do it! All Powerful my ass. Mackenzie Morgan, defying deities everywhere. Hardcore by nature, bad-ass for hire! �What�s so funny?� Madison asked me. �Nothing.� I chuckled. �Just something stupid I was thinking about.� We were walking down toward my car to drop our suitcases off when I heard it. It stopped both Madison and I in mid-step and we turned toward the pool, the source of the sound. �IF IT ISN�T THE BIG BLACK MAN!� Randy was yelling across the parking lot. There was a big grin on his face, and he was in a pair of swim trunks. He looked well rested�like he�d been having fun. He was a dead man. �RANDY YOU BASTARD!� He waved at me. I lunged forward, but Madison held me back. �Mack, babe, maybe we should find out what happened before you kill him.� �Why?� �Cause I�m asking you nicely.� Oh no not the eyes! Too late. Randy was still all smiles when he met us at the hotel management office after depositing our stuff in my trunk again. It wasn�t a normal Randy smile either, it was different. Genuine. Authentic. The kinda smile that comes from the release of any and all stress. He looked happy to be up, out and alive. I envied him, myself being wound tight enough to snap. I still wanted to kick his ass, but my brain wasn�t functioning right (after Madison�s look) and I was shaking my head to clear it when we walked up. �What the hell happened to you last night?� Randy asked. I gave him a look, glanced at Madison, glanced at my car, looked at the road, and rolled my eyes. Randy laughed. Madison looked pissed. �What the fuck was that?!� she demanded. �Guy talk.� �Bullshit!� she spat. Then she laid down HER version of what happened last night, leaving out all indiscretions committed against me including certain conversations remarks, etc., etc. Madison was like that. Then again, a lot of girls are like that. �Did you leave your pager off?� Madison asked Randy. �No,� he looked confused. �I left it on all night, on the loudest setting cause Bobby and I went to sleep about one cause we were really tired after running around all day.� Randy paused thoughtfully. �It never went off.� Another pause. �Huh. That�s really weird.� Well at least I didn�t have to kick his ass for that. �But wait a minute!� I started, �We knocked on that damn door pretty (not really) hard last night. Nobody answered.� �Well Tom and Aurora and Tom went to visit some of Tom�s peoples and were staying all night. And I told you Bobby and I were pretty much wiped, so that�s not surprising.� �Bobby who?� Madison asked. �Makris.� Randy and I answered in stereo. �Don�t know him.� She said. It didn�t surprise me. Bobby and Madison didn�t exactly run in the same circles. * * * Bobby Makris. What can I say about Bobby? Bobby is either the human calculator or the human hormone, depending on what kinda mood you caught him in. Bobby was the kinda guy you liked to bring along in a restaurant cause he could figure out a fifteen percent tip in his head without blinking, but you hated to bring him along cause he�d hit on the waitress, unnecessarily, unmercifully, and unfortunately. Bobby was a smarty pants. Pre-calc, GT, AP classes. Did his homework and all that, you know how the smart kids do. Massive amounts of homework that would take weeks for normal people were done in the five minute breaks they give you between classes. Give em a lunch period and they could write you a five-page paper (that made coherent sense) on the economic history of the Gross National Product. In Columbia, the smart kids were usually pretty preppy, and aristocratic in nature. Being artistic meant that they could ramble their faux-elitist opinions in the school newspaper, which they worked on to make �a difference� in the school. As if the majority of the students read the newspaper. As if the administration (or even the faculty) really gave a damn what was written in a SCHOOL NEWSPAPER! As if they were better than everybody else. As if they weren�t doing it to just to put it on a college application. Ugh. Bobby toted the line between smarty and preppy. Because not all the smartys were preps, but they had a lot of preppy compatriots. For example, Bobby was on the soccer team (preppy), but he was also in Jazz ensemble with us. * * * Randy and I were jamming in our little corner of the room, working on a new song I�d written in third period, when Bobby approached us four years earlier. �So I hear you guys started a band?� he asked. �Yeah, we did.� Randy said. The two of them knew each other from way back, like pre-school and all that, but had fallen out of touch with each other during the precarious upgrade from Middle to High school. Such is commonly the case in a lot of friendships. To be honest, I was kinda happy about it, cause the two of them together (in Middle School), drove me nuts. They argued over the stupidest things you ever heard of (their latest is APR financing) and reverted back to age of nine whenever they did so. Bobby would start talking about Randy�s mom and Randy would try to beat the crap out of Bobby cause he�s a lot bigger. Jesus Christ. �What type of music do you play?� �Not really pop, but kind of weird alternative rock stuff.� I told Bobby. �I would describe us as a cross between Weezer and 311. �Mack calls it Metapop.� Randy added. �You guys need a trumpet player?� Bobby played the trumpet. �We don�t do much ska.� I said. �We don�t do ANY ska.� Randy was trying to start an argument (about one of his pet peeves) but I let it be. It was best to just let Randy believe he was right. All the time. Bobby smiled. �How about a keyboard player?� And that is how Bobby became the fifth member of What�s Wrong With This Picture?, as our keyboard player, although his stint was short lived. He and Tom had �creative differences� over where they thought the band should be moving musically. Bobby wanted to experiment more with different styles and Tom liked our sound the way it was, so Bobby quit. I personally liked the way we sounded with the keyboards but Tom �started the band� as he was fond of reminding us so whatever. Plus, Bobby hit on Aurora all the time and it pissed Tom off something fierce. In life, most things come down to women in the end. Bobby came back into the band two years later when Tom got into Orange 9mm, Limp Bizkit (to a certain extent) and Rage Against the Machine (after we started working at Record and Tape), got really political and started writing all these �Rapcore� songs. Bobby came back on as our DJ. But again, it didn�t last long. Same reasons as before. Randy would always threaten to quit whenever Bobby would quit because he had �had it� with Tom and he and Bobby were best pals again. Mostly he was jealous of Tom�s relationship Aurora and she was mainly the reason why he stayed both times. Besides which, Randy liked being in the band, playing music and writing songs. Everybody did. Why else would you get into music in the first place? Ah, the life of a garage band. * * * �Where is Bobby anyway?� I asked Randy. �Went to Sunsations to get some sunglasses. Why?� �Cause I need him to help me get my goddamned money back for this room we paid for last night.� �You got another room?� asked Incredulous Randy. �Where the fuck were we supposed to sleep?� I shot back. �In my car?� �I dunno, I just know I wouldn�t have paid for another room.� I lunged at Randy again, but Madison saw it coming and held me back. Damn Randy. �HEY MACK! DUDE WHERE YOU BEEN?!� Bobby was yelling across the parking lot and broke into a run toward us. He was wearing the same idiotic grin as Randy. He was now second in line on my hit list. The introductions, the �hey dudes� and all that. Bla bla bla. Though Bobby gave Madison a really weird look when she shook his hand, like he was afraid she was going to bite it off. Then he gave Randy a look that asked �Is she the one?� and Randy gave him the affirming nod. Madison missed it though, she was adjusting her thong. I guess Randy had warned Bobby in advance. Better safe than sorry I guess. �Sure I can help get your money back.� Bobby said. �Let�s go in and talk to them.� I should explain. The biggest reason why Bobby and Randy got along so well is because they were both Jewish. Well half-Jewish, the both of them. Randy was Catholic and Jewish (meaning he was naturally mixed up), and Bobby was Greek and Jewish (meaning he was horny and Jewish). They�d gone through Hebrew school together, whatever the hell that was, and some other Jewish things and rituals. Besides which, they were both hardcore about money and finances. Randy less so than Bobby, but it was a bad idea to owe either of them any money at all. The stress Randy put me through to pay for my half of our Condo could fill entire Journals themselves. I shudder to think about it all now. But Bobby was worse�way worse. Sometimes we called Randy �The Accountant.� Bobby�s nickname was �IRS.� �You gotta give my friend back his money!� Bobby was arguing with the manager/owner of The Sandy Beach motel. If you ask me now I still couldn�t tell you his name, but I remember what he looked like three days ago. Obese. The man was extraordinarily obese. Sitting on a couch in the back of the office that had long since lost any sort of shape under the immense weight of the man�s insanely large ass. His clothes: he was dressed like a Klondike warrior (in the middle of the summer) with a heavy fleeced jacket, long pants and a t-shirt under the jacket that had a picture of a husky dog on it that very well could have been the dog napping at his feet. He was holding a leash (to which the dog was attached) in his hand for some unknown reason for the dog was obviously napping, and wasn�t going anywhere. I studied the clothes stretched across his massive form and decided that it was the same dog on his t-shirt that was napping on the floor. Jesus. But there was Bobby, standing with his hands on his hips, not ready to budge from his spot till he got justice. �We put their names on the list and whoever was working did not make a note of it. It�s not our fault, and they should not have had to pay for another room last night.� Bobby narrowed his eyes, Madison and I standing silently behind our half-Jewish champion, hoping for a miracle. The man narrowed his eyes at Bobby as well, sizing the 18-year-old up. Glancing at his brand new sneakers and semi-preppy gear: American Eagle shirt, shorts from the Gap, to his Tupac baseball cap (Yes Tupac, Bobby�s favorite top two artists: Tupac Shakur and Guns and Roses, go figure) From the hat, back on down to Bobby�s nose, undeniably Jewish. His face clenched. He knew he had no choice. So we got our money back--well my money (being a gentleman and paying for the room), albeit not the way we wanted to. They were going to mail it to my house, they said, and took my name and address when we registered for the room so they wouldn�t send the money to Randy�s house by mistake (the condo was in his name). And just like that, 80$ of my Senior week spending money was gone. Reducing me to $179 dollars and eighty cents. I grew cold at the fear that I would run out of money, and worse, have to borrow from Randy. Oh sweet Jesus. I�d rather be audited. I was still contemplating my possible fate when we stepped out into the parking lot at 11 am, the whole day ahead of us. Bobby asked, �So what do you guys wanna do?� A very good question indeed. But I�m tired now. It�s after 4am and I still haven�t gotten any closer to the really good parts of senior week, cause I�m so concerned over the little details. Jesus, you�d think I�d be good at this journal writing thing by now, but I�ve never been this structured (or coherent) in my journals before. Usually I write in code, but I dunno, I�ve never written in a leather-bound journal before, and I don�t want this to look like one long dumb ass conversation over Instant Messenger, which I hate. Tell you what though, I�ll get up and finish the whole thing before Rosey calls tomorrow at like one or two, and before we start practicing for our little concert/gig thing on Sat. I just gotta sleep now, I�m starting to feel weird again. Ugh. G�nite, or morning�. Whatever.
Copyright © 2001 MacKenzie Morgan |