JimFormation

Chris. His name was Chris.

My boss hired him and I adopted him as one of my employees. We made custom wheelchairs for people who were paralyzed, or had cerebral palsy, or the like. He was a shop-boy doing everything from sweeping to light mechanical work.

He was a big kid. Tall. Big head. Big arms. Big legs.

Chris was a bit, ummm, terched — as we used to say. You know, loony. Crazy. Really, he was. Crazy. I had to let him leave work early three days a week to go to his shrink or social worker or counselor or whoever she was. I didn’t press him; I just let him go.

Chris once told me, “I’d kill my father, if my mother didn’t love him so much.” I believed him.

Chris tormented the other employees. We were all intimidated by him. He’d go off on a crazy tirade, diatribe, or soliloquy and the shop would become as quiet as a grave yard. No one wanted to be the object of his psychosis.

“Jim, you have to do something. You have to get rid of him,” my employees pleaded.

“I’m not firing him. I have a baby daughter at home. She needs me.”

On one occasion he had Jack, a small retired handyman whose job was to maintain our rental chairs, pinned in a corner telling him about his dad. Chris had a screwdriver clutched in his hand. His knuckles were white. His voice evermore agitated.

Jack was very close to death.

“Jim, do something. You’re the boss.”

“Jack lived his life. I’m just going to watch.”

“Seriously, Jack’s in trouble. Do something.”

Jack really was in trouble. Moving slowly, I got to Chris’s side. He was lost in a world only he would understand. Jack, bless him, just kept his head down and continued working on the axle of the wheelchair in front of him. He feigned obliviousness and never made eye contact. It was his only defense.

I grabbed Chris’s arm and I said the only thing I could think of — a line from an obscure Lenny Bruce skit — “Don’t you move, you Psychotic.”

Chris snapped out of his nutty trance, grabbed my head under his arm, and put me in a head lock.

“Oh-my-god, he’s going to kill Jim,” someone said. I swallowed hard.

“Whatchoo say?” Chris asked.

“I said, ‘Leave Jack alone. He’s old. You’re scaring him.’” Jack just kept tinkering.

Chris’s grip tightened on my neck. “Tell my daughter that Daddy loves her,” I whispered.

And then suddenly Chris’s hold, while still tight, changed slightly. He began kissing my head. “I love this guy! I really love him,” he announced. And then kissed me some more.

I wasn’t going to die.

He let go of the head lock, grabbed my face with both hands, and pulled it close to his. Nose-to-nose, I put my hands on his cheeks too. “Leave people alone, Chris. We like you. We all like you. But you scare the hell out of us. Okay?”

“I love you.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll leave people alone.”

He didn’t really leave people alone anymore. But we were pretty sure he wasn’t going to kill any of us. Besides we hired Woolly Bear shortly after that incident. Woolly was a big, red-headed, lovable giant of a kid. Bigger than Chris, and sane. I was certain he could have taken Chris out with one swipe of his paw if Chris stepped out of line.

Chris didn’t last a year with us. Last I saw him he was making submarine sandwiches at a local sub shop. I went in from time to time for lunch.

He always made me a free sandwich.

I really did like Chris.

If you are anywhere near my age, you’ll remember when you were the channel changer?

“Hey, Junior! Get up and put Channel 4 on. The game starts in five minutes,” your Dad would yell.

And you’d have to get up and mosey over to the television. Click. Click. Click. And twist the dial to channel four.

Sometimes you even had to turn the fine tuner around the edge of the dial. Remember that? Or, worse yet, someone had to go up on the roof and finagle with the antenna.

“How’s this?” The voice would scream down. Your job was to relay the message to Mom.

“Still fuzzy!” She’d yell in return. Back in the day, it was always still fuzzy.

And then came cable and satellite. And we have “the clicker”. The channel changer. Or, as I call it in my house, the penis, because only the men have it.

For the last eight years we’ve let my son handle the penis. And for eight years he’s been irresponsible with it. He’s always wedging it between the sofa cushions. Hiding it. Storing it.

“Dude, don’t do that. You’ll lose the channel changer,” I said.

“I always do that,” he says.

“Yeh, and you always lose the channel changer.”

“We don’t lose it. I know where it is. I hide it so that no one can turn off my channel.”

So if the channel changer is always lost in your house, as it is in mine, maybe what you need to do is get Junior to get up and change the channel. He’ll eventually get tired and cough up the remote.

Cutting Room Floor
Sadly, one joke was edited out. Edited out by the Supreme One, the Wife-beast.

I wanted to say “… or, as I call it in my house, the penis, because only the men have it and Mommy always wants it.”

Okay. Okay. There’s more to that joke too “… Mommy always wants and complains that Daddy doesn’t know how to use it.”

There, I said it. I hope you’re happy.

Once a year my wife volunteers at a local Head Start and makes balloon animals for the kids. The children are between 3 and 5-years-old. Her plan is always to make one type of balloon animal for all this kids; this way no child feels s/he got ripped off.

They could pick whatever color they wanted, but she limited them to that one animal.  This, she figured, would stop arguments and quell hurt feelings before they happened.

Balloon puppies only. Smart plan.

“Many of the boys wanted swords,” she told me afterwards.

“Did you make them swords?” I asked.

“No. I made them puppies.”

“Did they have sword fights with the puppies?”

“Of course they did.”

After having two children, my wife’s sister opted for a boob job. I don’t know the details of said job, I just know that she fills out her shirt a little more fully than she had in the past.

“From my angle, your boobs looked fine before,” I told her shortly after her surgery.

“You were looking at my falsies, perv,” she said. “Hell, they’re still in my closet. I’ll give them to you and you can take them out to look at them any time you want. You’ll be pleased; they even have nipples.”

I’m still waiting for them.

…

I told you that story to tell you this one:

Her oldest son is eight-years-old now. The other day he asked her if she had ever had surgery.

Without thinking, she answered, “Yes.” He was quick with a follow-up question.

“What? Did you break your ankle?”

She knew where this line of questioning was going and was concerned. “No. Not my ankle.”

He started naming suspected surgery sites starting at the ankle and moving north. ” Your knee? … Your leg? … Your hip?”

“No. No. No.”

“Your penis!”

“I’m a girl. I don’t have a penis.”

Skeptical he said, “They took it off, didn’t they?”

Finally he got to her breasts. “Your boobs. Did you have surgery on your boobs?”

Defeated, she just said, “Yes. My boobs.”

He thought about that for a moment and then gave her some advice: “Maybe you should just tell people you had surgery on your ankle.”

My sister’s husband is on his way back to Iraq now. He’s a family guy who is in the Army National Guard.

He’s been home for a couple of weeks. I had dinner with him last night.

Before he was allowed to come home he had to decompress for two days in Kuwait. “They taught us how to be people again,” he said. “They told us not to kill our wives.”

“He reaches under his arm for a gun that isn’t there all the time,” my sister reported.

I have a beard now and told him that I was going upstairs to shave. “I don’t need you flashing back and seeing me as a bad guy.”

“No. They look like us,” he said. “Most of them don’t have beards. You’re safe.”

My bro-in-law is guarding prisoners in Iraq. I think he’s in with the hardest of the hardcore “insurgents.”

He says, “The Iraqis hate us there. But the Sunnis hate the Shi’ites more than they hate us. So at least we have that.”

His lives in a prison cell in one of Saddam’s private jails. “There are no windows; it’s pitch black. On my day off I sleep until I wake up and, because it’s so dark there are no cues to wake up. I have no idea what time it is. It’s not unusal to sleep until 2pm.”

He calls his hole-in-the-wall “home.” Even as he left my house he said, “I’m leaving for ‘home’ tomorrow.” It upset my sister a little, “This is home,” she said gently touching his shoulder. “Yeh, that’s right,” he responded somewhat blankly. Psychologically, all he has when he’s there is that cell. It’s the only place where he has any reminders of his real home. Like “home base” in a kid’s game of tag. Home. Safe.

He works 12 hour days, six days a week.

I asked what he did on his day off. “Most guys play video games. Guitar Hero is the biggie; I don’t play. On my day off, I get a pizza and a movie, and then go back to sleep.”

“Everything else is awful there, Jim. There’s nothing fun. Nothing worth doing. Just ride out your time.”

They like getting packages from home. My sister sends something out once a week. “She’s great that way,” he gleamed.

“Yeh, but tell him about your mother,” my sister rolled her eyes.

“Oh! Man! My mom called this place in the Florida Keys and sent over three boxes of key lime cookies. Oh. My. God. They were the best. I still have guys knocking on my door asking if I have anymore cookies.”

“How many packages has she sent you?” Asked my sister.

“One. But it was great!”

She teased him for a while about that. Mom sends out one goodie and gets heaped praises; while wife diligently and lovingly does her duty and, well, you know the story. It’s a marriage, right?

My wife asked, “What do you guys need? What would you like me to send you?”

“Key lime cookies.”

“Other than that.”

“Pop Tart! We can’t get enough Pop Tarts!”

Bro-in-law ended by saying that he can’t wait to get back to Iraq. “Then I’ll be at the top of the mountain. The rest of my time will be coming back downhill. I should be home, really home, in May.

Godspeed, My Brother.

It’s a classic joke that I’ve heard a thousand times. Sandi hadn’t heard it, so I told it to her:

Charlie is in the third grade and his class is having its first Spelling Bee. When it came to his turn to spell a word his teacher gave him “orange.”

“Orange,” Charlie replied. “O-R-A-N-J-E. Orange.”

“I’m sorry,” the teacher said. “That’s wrong. You have to sit down.”

Now Charlie was very popular in his class and his classmates were pulling for him. The shouted in unison, “Give Charlie another chance! Give Charlie another chance!”

The teacher obliged. “Okay, Charlie. I’ll give you another chance. Spell ‘apple’.”

“Apple. A-P-P-E-L. Apple.”

“I’m sorry, Charlie. That’s wrong. You have to sit down.”

Again the class sang out, “Give Charlie another chance! Give Charlie another chance!”

“Okay. Last chance. Charlie, spell ‘pear’.”

“Pear. P-E-A-R. Pear.”

“Give Charlie another chance! Give Charlie another chance!“

Silence.

I’m done, Sandi. The joke’s over.

“I don’t get it,” my wife responded.

What’s not to get? It’s a great joke.

She shook her head, “Nope. Not clicking.”

Charlie spelled “pear” correctly, but the rest of the class didn’t realize it.

“That’s not funny.”

For a woman with as well a developed sense of humor as you, you have no sense of humor.

“Maybe it’s your delivery.”

Grrh.

I’ve been working with women for the better part of 25 years. By-and-large, they have accepted me into their fold. “Don’t worry about Jim. He’s one of us,” they say.

Others have said, “I like Jim. He’s not like other guys. He doesn’t talk to my chest.” I like that.

So what do girls talk about? Well, they talk a lot about sex. Men talk sports; women talk sex.

And their typical sex-talk isn’t man’s typical sex-talk. It’s more nondescript and nuanced. Their stories about sex and not about the graphic details.

This story was told to me about one of my co-workers. It is my favorite sex-story ever. And I’ll even include my alternate ending. My director’s cut.

One night my husband and I were feeling a little amorous and started doing the things that a husband and wife do. In particular, I was doing what a good wife often does to a good husband.

He happily finished and I laid back, closed my eyes, and awaited the return of the favor. You know, the quid pro quo. But it didn’t come.

Instead he got up and walked out of the room. I thought maybe he needed to wash up or had to pee or something. I knew he’d be back and do his duty. He always did.

Actually, the wait, the anticipation was pretty sexy. I laid there smiling and dreaming good dreams.

Finally, after several minutes, he returned. And my smile dropped.

He waltzed into our bedroom with a piece of cake and a glass of chocolate milk in his hands. Oblivious. Totally oblivious to me lying there waiting.

“Ahem. What about me?” I asked.

“Ohmygod! I’m so sorry,” he said. And then did that which he was required.

End of story. I like it just as it is, but it could be jazzed up. If I were her husband it probably would have ended this way:

“Ahem. What about me?”

“Ohmygod! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking. How selfish. Do you want chocolate or regular milk with your cake?”

On the last day of fourth grade, my daughter came off the bus crying inconsolably.

“What’s the matter, Baby?”

“sob I got an F sniffle”

My daughter was then and always has been a wonderful, prideful student. She’s always gotten A’s, and would not have it any other way.

“An F? In what?” I asked.

With more sobs and sniffles, she handed over the report card. I opened it.

An A here and a B there. No F’s.

“Where’s the F, Baby?”

She took the report card from my hands, closed it and, tears still in her eyes, pointed to a spot on the front of the card.

There it was. Under her name, under her teacher’s name, and under her class room number:

“Gender – F”

Things you need to know:

• When I was 8-years-old, I moved in with my maternal grandparents. From that day, Nan and Pop raised me.
• Nan taught me how to play the organ. One of the songs she taught me was the drinking song, Little Brown Jug. (You can catch it on youtube here.)
• Nan had a radical mastectomy in the early 1970s. A radical mastectomy is a complete amputation of the breast including the underlying chest muscles and lymph nodes. It leaves a cave of flesh where once there was a breast.
• I am a Registered Nurse by education and license.

In nursing school, an introductory lecture on mastectomy started like this:

“As symbols of her gender, of motherhood and womanhood; as tools of her attractiveness and sexual abilities a woman’s breasts are very important to her. Disfiguring breast surgery, especially amputation, can be psychologically and spiritually devastating. A women’s self-worth and self esteem are often intractably tied to her breasts.”

I must have made a goofy face. The lecturer noticed.

“Do you have a question, Mr. McCormick?”

“Well, I don’t mean to disagree, but — Are you sure? Because that has not been my experience.”

And then I went on to tell her several stories about Nan’s boob:

Part I

Nan was not a cut-up, but she was a funny woman. She was never one to tolerate insults, especially from those in her care. And that was all of us.

This is a tough old bird that you never wanted to mess with. However, she and I had a special arrangement. I could needle her and she’d take it. We traded verbal blows with each relentlessly.

One day, when I was in my teens and sitting on the couch watching television and Nan crocheting in her chair across the room, we got into some verbal jousting. I eventually got in a great zinger.

Nan was not one to be outdone, even when she had nothing left to say. She reached into the neckline of her shirt, pulled out her fake boob, and threw it at me. It landed, heavy and warm, in my lap.

A teenage boy, especially one that had yet to handle his first real breast, has no rebuttal for that.

She wins.

Part II

Same couch. This time Nan is sitting there with me. Pop is between us. His arm around Nan’s shoulder. It’s Sunday. We are watching The Lawrence Welk Show.

All is quiet until Nan abruptly stands up and reaches into the top of her shirt while saying, “Goddammit, Herb. If you want it that bad, here. I’m making tea.” And placed her fake boob, heavy and warm, into Pop’s hands. And walked into the kitchen.

A husband of nearly 50 years, especially one with a blank stare and his wife’s boob in his hand, has no rebuttal for that.

She wins.

Part III

As you’ve just read, Nan had a prosthetic breast. She never opted for plastic surgery to remake and remold her old breast. Who knows? In the 1970s this may not have even been an option.

Prosthetic breasts have to be replaced from time-to-time. I guess they wear out, especially when one was as busy with them as Nan apparently was.

My sister once helped Nan order a new boob out of a catalog. When it came in my sister was aghast. Neither she nor Nan realized that the suffix “-BK” stood for black.

Nan opened the box and there, in her hands, was a dark brown prosthetic breast. My sister was so embarrassed that she was nearly in tears, “I’ll send it back! I’ll send it back!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Nan stuffing the plastic and silicone breast into her bra. “It fits perfectly.”

That’s when I started whistling that drinking song that she taught me on the organ: Little Brown Jug.

A woman, especially one with a fake black breast in her bra, has no rebuttal for that.

I win.

Everybody sing!
Ha-ha-ha, Hee-Hee-Hee
Little brown jug, how I love thee

We all have special moments in our lives. Stories in our personal narrative that we reach back to time-and-time again. These stories give us strength and comfort. They are part of our mythology.

This is one of my stories. Stop me if I you heard it before –

It was April 6th or April 7th 1984. I was sitting in my Traction Room surrounded by traction and casting equipment. I was on early break with Tom, an orderly in his mid-fourties. I was 19-years-old and the Traction Orderly at the local hospital.

Through the open door of the Traction Room we could see a four-bedded ward room.

“What do you think of her?” Tom motioned to a young, skinny doe-eyed volunteer making a bed in the room.

“Ah, I could go out with her,” I said, with an air of very false arrogance.

This young lady was WAAAY out of my league. An eleven on my own personal scale of one to ten. An eleven.

“Ha! I bet you five bucks you couldn’t get a date with her,” Tom challenged.

“Five bucks? You’re on.”

“I’ll give you a week.”

And, with a hand shake, the chase was on. Now, mind you, I was totally overwhelmed with the beauty of this girl. An intimidating beauty. If it weren’t for my bet with Tom, I’d never approached her or dared talk to her.

I went into the room and asked if she would like some help making beds. We talked about the news of the day. A space shuttle had gone up.

We made beds. All morning.

I walked her to her car at noon. Got her number. And promised to call.

And call I did. That evening. A dinner date was arranged. I’d won!

Or so I thought. Subsequent calls hit a brick wall. “I’m doing my hair.” “I’m tired.” And so on.

I was rejected once, twice, perhaps three times. All the while, Tom badgered and mocked me as I gave him the blow-by-blow. It was Tom’s arrogance that he’d won that pushed me forward.

Eventually, I wore the young lady out. She relented to going out with me.

We planned on going to a restaurant called “Wall Street” but wound up going to the “Ground Round”.

I’d won my bet. And me and the young woman went to the “Ground Round” countless times since.

Four years later, I married the girl I’d only dare talk to on a bet. We’re still married — over twenty years — with no end in sight.

I love you, Sandi. And I’m looking forward to the next twenty-plus years.