1st Grade Pile Drive!

Oh boy. Is this a true story no one will believe. That is a statement, not a question. No one will believe this, I am sure of that. This DID happen.

I was 6. I was in 1st Grade. This happened in the classroom at James Bickley Elementary School.

It involved me, a 6-year old wanna-be greaser class mate of mine, a fight and a bitch of a teacher.

The year was 1981. I started going to James Bickley in the middle of the Kindergarten school year that January, after my dad was stationed at the local Air Force Base. I had been around long enough to make friends and know who the bullies were. Sometime the bullies in schools are called Teachers.

My first grade teacher was one of those. Another was a kid my age in my 1st grade class who always wore this tiny leather jacket, with his hair slicked back, looking like Stallone from Paradise Alley or Lords of Flatbush.

Slick was always pushing kids around, but I also remember he was a favorite of this bitch teacher. I don’t know why, because he was nothing but trouble. (Maybe that was the reason, he was the hard luck case, allowed to get away with stuff because he needed more attention than others. This is just a thought looking back, I know I didn’t think that at 6 years old).

He was always trying to push me around too. Problem was (still is, for better or worse), I pushed back. One day this broke out into a fight in class.

This lead us to the True Story I call 1ST GRADE PILEDRIVER

Yes, a fight broke out between me and Slick in the classroom. I remember what is was over to – He stole my Star Trek watch. He pulled it off my wrist as he walked by my desk going to his seat, after returning from the bathroom. He yank it so hard, my wrist jerked up and the strap’s pin that kept it in place broke.

I stood up, grabbed him to get my watch back and a shoving match broke out. The teacher told ME to give him the watch. It was my watch!

Then things got weird.

If we were going to fight – she was going to let us. REALLY!!

She had the entire class move their desks to the right, opening up an area to the left of the classroom. There was already a ‘play area’ with toys and books, for use during lunch and recess. She had Slick and I go to this area, and told us to get it out of our system while she went back to teaching the class.

SERIOUSLY. THIS HAPPENED. She urged us to fight.

We did.

At that time I was nowhere near the Pro Wrestling fan I would become, but I did watch it when my parents did, and I remembered some of the cool moves. So, guess what? I decided to do the smartest thing I could in a fight . . .

We were wrestling on the ground when I got to my feet and he was still on his knees, then I did it. Just like on TV. I put my legs around his head, lifted him up . . .

The Teacher screamed her head off at me . . . Too Late!

I spent the afternoon in the principal’s office, being punished. Of course my parents were called. I really had no idea what ‘suspension’ was I just knew I got out of school the next day. Slick was never called in to the principal’s office, and the principal’s never believed the story about the teacher.

Suspension or not I was at school the next morning, my mom brining me to school to confront the teacher and principal. Who else was there waiting outside our classroom? Slick and his grandmother whom he lived with. A little old Italian lady. A pissed little old Italian lady.

I thought there was going to be trouble. There wasn’t. She was here to talk to the teacher too. Slick didn’t tell her the entire truth (stealing my watch), but told her about the teacher making us fight in class. She was pissed. My mom was pissed.

A lot of parents were pissed. Turned out a number of our class mates told their parents what happened, and in turn they called the school and district to complain.

We never did see the teacher that day, but the principal was another story. Apologizes were made, my suspension was lifted and for the next week we had a substitute teacher – our regular bitch teacher was put on some sort of disciplinary leave.

The good news in all this, I got my watch back.

The better news, fortunately I had no idea how to properly do the Pile Driver.

CHUG, CHUG . . . STUPID

I’ve written true stories about JAG before, where I used to work.

Well, here is another one. This is the tale of a time when a teenage girl at the center challenged me to something I ‘couldn’t do,’ and even bet me I couldn’t do it. Two other kids there jumped on and so did my Co-Worker.

Big mistake, but I am not sure for whom. Why? Well, when I’m challenged and told I can’t do something . . .

This is a True Story I call CHUG, CHUG . . . STUPID

On this fateful night we already had two kids in the center when a third, a young teenage girl, was brought in. It was myself, my co-worker and friend and an intern from ASU working that evening.

My co-worker and I were constantly playing Domino’s. He was actually a very good player, and taught me the game. I was constantly determined to beat him. We often engaged the kids brought into the center as a way to spend the time.

We also kept the fridge stocked with snacks, food and soda (Coke!). Well on this night we made a good time of it. We had a big game of Dominos, ordered Pizza and had a mini party.

Then a challenge was made – the teen girl made a comment about how much I must like Coca-Cola, and dared me to chug the can I just opened. Just a can, no big deal. Chug done.

Then she pressed – daring me chug a bottle. No biggie, I grabbed a 12 oz. bottle from the fridge. “Pussy,” she called me and grab the full 2 Liter (67.6 oz.) bottle.

She dared me to chug the whole thing.

Was I up for the challenge? Was I that stupid?

She dared me, and laid a $5 on the table. Made it a straight up bet and trying to punk me out. In fact, everyone got involved. $25 on the table, betting I couldn’t do it.

Well . . .  guess what?

I burp so hard and loud and for so long almost everyone, except for the girl, was concerned for me. I thought the pizza and my internal organs we going to fly out. I literally had to sit down and recover from the burp.

Her response? “COOL!”

Ghost Not

I used to work at a place called JAG (Juvenile Alternatives in Glendale). I was considered a counselor, and did intakes, outtakes and monitoring of Juveniles for a 24-hour Time Out. At least that was the job description.

I’ve written about it before.

It was hit or miss as to whether I liked the job. It wasn’t a job I wanted or applied for – but that is a story for another time.

It was claimed that the JAG building – a single story converted bungalow that use to be a house – was haunted. Lots of people claimed it. My Co-worked claimed it. Many of the kids who stayed there claimed it.

I never believed it.

This is a True Story I call GHOST NOT

I worked the 12P.M. to 10P.M. shift. After 5P.M. only two of us worked, so every night it was me, my co-worker and anywhere from zero to ten Juvies.

Many times my co-worker would tell me the place was haunted. Many times the Juvies would claim it as well.

The most common claims were simple: voices, weird noises and shadows. All easily explainable. JAG was on a very busy street corner, just off a housing area, and across from a car shop. All noises explained.

No one bought that. Why? The one big thing that kept happening. The TV.

The TV in the meeting room kept turning on by itself!

Keep in mind this is 2005/2006. The TV was an old counsel CRT TV. Not digital and defiantly not HD.

Now, I did experience the TV turning on by itself a few times. Much to my co-worker’s delight, who used it to prove the place was haunted. Some of the Juvies who spent more than one time out at JAG did the same.

TV on. Place Haunted. Ace Wrong.

Well . . . not really!

I noticed very easily that if there was a power surge, the TV came on. Sometimes the TV came on when a switch was flipped, or a door closed very hard. Obviously there were some wiring issues in the house. There was also something else.

I check over the TV one day – yes being a jackass to prove my point – and guess what? The push button to turn the TV on was loose. I took the TV apart and found the switch was broke and loose inside, the slightest movement could jiggle the switch on and off.

I fixed the switch and like a miracle the ghost was gone! JAG no longer haunted!

My co-worker moped for a while, he liked the idea of the place being haunted.

The boss was glad I did it. He could now use the TV in meetings, and it put an end to the Haunting idea he hated.

Simple, huh?

Ace.

TIE ONE DOWN

Man, you know, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs. That doesn’t make me boring. It makes me, me.

Things is, I always get the ‘You’re boring,’ thing from people, even though I often do more than they do. But once in a while I come across someone who really doesn’t like the fact that I won’t have a beer or drink, or smoke with them.

The kind of person that threatens to MAKE ONE do it.

This is a True Story I Call TIE ONE DOWN

This happened many years ago, around 1995/96. I’m out of college, looking for work and struggling with my writing. I have my degree in Business and Work Study experience in one hand, and my writing resume already filled with dozens of published credits in the other.

While working a part time job at a mail processing company (I worked there during my last semester in college as well), I made friends with an artist co-worker. We both wanted to work in comics, so we clicked.

His artwork was passable, but not great and needed to be refined. It didn’t really suit any of my stories, but it worked fine for his. We agreed that I would write the comic book series based on his characters and original idea, he would draw it and we would submit it out.

Through him I made some other friends and we all started to hang out on a regular basis. Unfortunately nothing ever really happened on his side of the deal. I wrote stuff, but the art was very slow forthcoming.

He liked to drink – a lot – and was always trying to get me to have a beer. I never did. It started to take a strain on what I thought was a friendship. He really didn’t like the fact that I didn’t drink, and somehow thought I was disrespecting him by not having a beer with him.

It came to a head during his birthday party at a club his uncle managed. I don’t even know if the place still exists, or what the name of the club was.

It began about two weeks before the party. He told me about the party and invited me. All was good until a few days later when he told me that if I was coming I was going to have a beer. I told him I wasn’t. End of story.

A couple of days before the party he brought up the beer issue again. This time telling me that he’d make me have one if I didn’t do it myself. That should have been a clue, but I was being a friend, and thought he was.

I went to the party, had a good time for a little while, then it happened. Stupid of me to go to the party in the first place. I was sitting at a table with a few people when he walked over with two beers in hand. One was for me.

I don’t drink.

He was really FUCKING serious about this. Two of the bouncers that worked for his uncle came up to either side of me. Both encouraging me to drink the beer. Before I answered, he told me that if I didn’t, he’d force the beer down my throat.

The people at the table didn’t like this. Some just said for me to drink the beer. Two girls told him to leave me alone.

I was pissed. I slammed a fist to the table, grabbed the beer, stood up . . .

He raised his glass, expecting a toast . . .

And I emptied the beer into his face. He froze in shock. I grabbed the beer from his hand and poured it out over his head and into his lap.

The bouncers didn’t do anything as I backed off from the table. They thought this was just some game between friends, they didn’t realize I don’t drink and his threat wasn’t a joke.

The little fuck that he was recovered from the shock of what I did and started to make threats and tried to jump me. Now the bouncers did their job.

His shouting brought out his uncle. Some quick words of explanation and his uncle lit into him. Ironically, the bouncers backed me up. Turns out his uncle didn’t like him very much, but he was blood.

I really tried to hold back my anger at this point. I didn’t want to pour the beer on him, I wanted to put him through the window and into traffic.

I left the club, never to see the guy again. I later heard from someone I am still friends him that he was arrested for assaulting someone at a gas station.

Moral of this story: I DON’T DRINK.

Oh, and Friends (REAL FRIENDS) don’t force friends to do stuff.

Ace.

DARK MIRROR

Years ago, between jobs, I would do side work from some people. Computers, handy work, errands, I built a small clientele in retirement communities. There were was one lady I never really liked, but she was never home when I would do stuff for her.

Her house was on a manmade lake in the far North West Valley of Metro Phoenix. The back yard was about ten feet deep, ending at a walkway with stairs down to the lake’s edge and a paddle boat for use on the lake.

On this day I was to pick up a couple of mirrors and hang them up for her.

This is a True Story I Call DARK MIRROR.

I picked up two mirrors for this lady from a no-longer-in-business store, and went to her house. She was out, but a key she gave me let me in. The mirrors were fairly large, but I had little problem in hanging them.

The living room one went up without a hitch.

The dining room had an even larger mirror on the wall she was replacing. The good news was I found out when I took the mirror down, I could still use the hooks there to put up the new mirror. It fit perfectly.

The dining room was adjoined to the Kitchen, like most houses built in this era. No separation at all. In the mirror was reflected the kitchen, kitchen window and the lake beyond. As I looked into the mirror I blinked and . . .

There was a black figure reflected in the mirror. I looked behind me, out the window: nothing. I looked back, the figure was still reflected in the mirror. It was the silhouette of a man’s upper body – as if someone was standing outside the window.

For the first time in my life I felt an icy chill run over me. It wasn’t my reflection, I know that. The figure stood off to my right.

I glanced back again and again nothing. The figure was now gone from the mirror as well.

I ran out back and looked around. I even went to the walkway and there was no one.

I have no problem in saying I was freaked by the moment. I tried to figure it out, but nothing I did brought the figure back. There was nothing that it could have been a reflection off.

This happened long before any show like Ghost Hunters ever hit the air, so there was no influence from that.

All I know is that briefly there was a figure in that mirror, and there was nothing there it could have been.

It only happened that one time. I was back there a number of times after that, I even looked in the mirror again, seeing if the figure would reappear. Or, if I could see something that would have caused it. Nothing.

The figure had no features, only the shape of a man. It was pitch black, not transparent and never moved. Yes, I know the different ideas of what it could have been, and what it could have meant.

Fortunately, none of those ideas have come to pass.

Ace.

This Is Another True Wal-Mart Story I Call WHY I HATE . . .

I really don’t like Wal-Mart. In fact I hate it. I only shop there when my mom asks me to pick something up, or one of my clients insist I get items they need from Wal-Mart.

Once again, I had an issue at Wal-Mart with one of their employees. I have never had issues like this anywhere else.

This is border line wrong to say, but sometimes it is hard to not say I hate people who work at Wal-Mart. I don’t hate them, in general. However I know the negative atmosphere that Wal-Mart creates, and that often seeps into how their employees treat people.

This is a True Story I call WHY I HATE . . . .

I went into a super Wal-Mart to get food and items for a client. This bitch nice lady insist that is must be from Wal-Mart. In fact she’ll refuse to pay if the receipt is from anywhere else, even if it is cheaper.

Any, I went to the Super, I picked up her stuff, and a couple of things for me. Two DVD’s and a bottle of soda were my stuff. At the self-check I scanned all of my client’s stuff, leaving mine on the side. Her stuff came to over a hundred dollars.

As I started to pay, the clerk there came up to me and she said, “You know you have to pay for this stuff.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.

I told her I would, in a moment.

She grab the stuff and started to walk off with it! Seriously!!

I told her I wanted it. She again told me I needed to pay for it. I told her I am going to, but I am paying for the stuff separately.

I paid for my client’s stuff. This bitch clerk stayed there next to me, ignoring others, watching and making sure I scanned and paid for my stuff. The whole time she talked about how this was stupid, she’s never known anyone to pay separately.

Once done, I held both receipts up and asked if she wanted to see them. She said no, she knew I paid.
I left, put my stuff in the car, but I couldn’t let this go.

I went back in, talked to her and asked her out. Yes, I did. To my surprised she said ‘Sure.’ That worked out nice for what I wanted to do.

My response, ‘Do I have to pay first?’

She didn’t like that. :-(

Ace.

This is a True Story: NAILED IT!!!!

My mom might not be happy with me sharing this story, considering how she reacted to this event.

This event being me coming home at 9 or 10 years old with a nail through my finger in a True Story I call NAILED IT.

During this time my dad was stationed in England (US Air Forces) and we lived in Base Housing in Biscter, in a community called Glory Farms. I liked the place, except for the fact that our house was across the street from my school. (Boo!)

That made it hard to skip out, or even get out of school being sick. And I sure couldn’t miss the school bus. However, it did mean that I could go home for lunch! Which I did every day to a homemade lunch courtesy of my mom.

Well, one day I came home, crying my eyes out and screaming in pain. I had a nail through my middle finger, blood ran down my hand and stained the nail. My mom freaked out, unsure what to do at first. She sat me down, put a wet cloth around my hand, and tried to calm me down as she grabbed the phone to call an ambulance.

That is when I took the fake plastic nail off my finger and showed it to her, laughing. The nail and the blood were fake! I was acting and got one over on my mom big time. She truly believed I had a nail driven through my finger.

PERFECT.

Until she almost knocked me the hell out. She was pissed and didn’t find it funny. She went to hit me, but stopped herself and didn’t (she NEVER hit me no matter what I did.).

I felt bad at that point, and tried to apologize, it was just a joke. (A good one). Turns out, she was more upset with herself for her reaction, then me. All good.

When I got home from school later that day, it was my mom’s turn. She told me to pull the same prank on my father, she even went along with me.

My dad’s response? “Nice nail.” Dumb dad.

This is one of my fondest memories because it worked. Not so much my mom.

Ace.