I read this piece by Steve Novak last night, and it got me thinking. In his story, he describes sledding down into a junk strewn pit and ripping himself a new hole in his backside. He describes how he was goaded into actually taking the plunge by boys who accused him of having a yoo-hoo where his peepee should have been. Apparently for Steve, this was the push he needed...
And then this morning, I read where Lizza had mentioned my last post about Margaret in her Saturday round-up, and how four disparate elements in my story were all interrelated, which seemed surprising to her.
And this got me to thinking too.
So now I had yoo-hoos and peepees and the interconnectedness of disparate things on my mind while I worked today, and it reminded me of how my friends’ enormous penis made me like my step-mother more.
True, his giant specimen-- so big his nickname was Pony and people thought it was an understatement-- broke the ice between me and my then recently acquired step-mom, and today I was thinking about that because Steve Novak once ripped up his backside sledding into a pit full of garbage and Lizza wrote a blog entry about blog entries...
Funny how it all just folds together like an omelet, don’t it?
No? Well it does, believe me. Let me explain...
Mum and Pops had troubles in their marriage near their twentieth year. Big troubles. Pops had been a pilot and was gone as much as he was home. Mum had been the good pilot’s wife, and had done her best. Mum had had enough, though, and Pops was afraid he didn’t know how to do anything else, and the result was that they divorced when I was finishing the sixth grade, and they both remarried within the following three years. Pops had met his current wife while he was stationed in Florida flying for Pan Am and he married almost immediately after the divorce was finalized. Mum took about three years and then met her current husband and got remarried. When I was 13, my brother Steve and I went to Miami to live with Pops and his new wife and her three children.
If you know anything about these situations, you’ll know that teen-age boys aren’t going to take readily to having a new Mom.
Especially a Hobbit Mom.
Now don’t get me wrong, over the years, I grew to actually like my father’s second wife (well, to a point), but back then she wasn’t my Mum nor anything like my Mum. P was short and had short brown curly hair and short legs and extremely boring features. She looked like a small Mom with three kids. Plain, not pretty, not striking, unimaginative, staid, boring and common. That was what I thought. She was housewifely and reminded me of those Hobbits that all spoke in hushed whispers about the Hobbits that ran off and had adventures. One of the Brandywines, I believe they were. The Hobbits who never ventured out of the shire.
That was how I saw P, and while I was never really mean and disrespectful of her or TO her (Pops could lift me with one hand still, digging his thumb into the bone of my upper arm) I was aloof and cold and we simply tolerated each other’s presence within a fairly large house. I had school and soccer going for those years, and I saw her at dinner and that was that.
Penises? Big penises? I’ll get to that. Hang on.
Fast forward three years. Pops had been laid-off from a financially struggling Pan Am. Steve and I wanted to be back in California and Pops preferred it as well. P and her kids followed us back to California and the aloof and cold relationship continued between P and my brother Steve and I. (The opposite was occurring between her kids and Pops, but that is another story for another day.)
So I was sixteen, almost seventeen, winter was around, and the family rented a cabin in Tahoe for a week of skiing and messing in the snow.
I invited my friend Rolf, who I’ve written about before. Rolf’s most salient feature was his SIZE. Not his height, not his weight, but the schwinggggg of the thinggggg....
I am not kidding.
Rolf was already contemplating a career in porno and he’d had his driver’s license maybe six weeks. When he bought pants, he looked for extra crotch room, because he needed it. Being an athlete, I felt bad for him in many ways, all that out-of-whackage in his balance, all that flippety flippetying around when he ran and did activities. He was like the male version of the hugely chested girl. The reality was, being that big had more downsides than upsides. At least when it came to actually doing anything.
He could swagger with pride, but he had trouble playing tennis. See my point?
And he came with us to Tahoe and one night Steve and I and Rolf left the clan and met up with some friends of my brother’s and we pulled into a closed ski resort parking lot and pulled out a bottle of something alcoholic and sweet and chugged on this bottle and passed it around. The night was clear and cold, and the moon was out, and one of my brother’s friends produced two silver saucers and we took turns climbing up the barely bigger than bunny hill and went for evening slides...
Well, sort of.
Rolf and I decided that we were not getting enough speed for our thrills. We needed to be higher. We needed to be steeper. We needed to be OVER THERE. We took the two saucers and headed up the steep black diamond mogul run, which was freshly groomed, and every time one of us would stop and say “Think this is high enough?” the other would keep walking and say something akin to “What are you, a pussy?” and we ended up at the top of the hill where the lift dumped off skiers during the day.
SO THERE WE WERE, Rolf and I, looking down this very steep incline in the haze of night time, looking WAY DOWN the hill and spotting my brother and his friends still swigging and talking, WAY DOWN there standing in the snow just twenty feet or so from the parking lot. WAY DOWN there completely disinterested in where Rolf and I had trekked to, and unsuspecting that we were about to barrel down on them.
Can you imagine that this moment brought me closer to my step-mom?
It did. I swear it did.
Rolf sitting down in his silver snow disc. Me doing likewise. The look of two young men, about to do something we both knew was insane.
The profanities thick like expletives as we argued for several minutes on who would go first and then agreed that simultaneously was the only fair solution, and we each lifted our heels and built up speed.
Lots of speed. Too much speed to be quite honest about it.
Now I am gonna tell you, I was scared. I climb mountains, rocks without ropes, free-dive down to thirty feet in kelp beds where sharks look for seals. Those things don’t scare me.
THIS RUN SCARED THE CRAP OUT OF ME.
It wasn’t when I hit forty mph that I got scared. Shit forty is a walk in the park. Fifty got me a little worked up, but I seemed unsoiled. I passed sixty and headed up into the seventies, the wind blinding my eyes and the seemingly smooth snow sending me in low flying arcs across huge distances before landing me down hard and flying and bouncing again and again. There are two loops you hang on to on these aluminum things, and I pulled those to my ass with everything I possessed in my arms. I was not going to lose that snow disc if they buried me.
Ever watch those nuts who luge?
I was nuttier. Ever watch those downhill racers in their tuck and think-- holy shit!?
I thought ho ho ho ho ho ly ly ly ly sh i i i i i itttttttt tttt ttt tt t !!!
The ride of my lifetime. I kept trying to dig my heels in to slow my ass down, but it just made snow spray up like a face full of saltpeter and spun me crazily around.
“O ooo ooooo mm my myy fu fuf ufff fffufffff kinggggggg ggggggggg g ooo oo dd d d d ddddd....”
Yeah. I said that. And held on to those straps, knowing it was over and I was fooling myself, knowing that the end would be abrupt and intense and FULL FORCE nasty.
But PDL saved my ass again.
I went UP a large pile of snow, which slowed me down some, and then I FLEW into a whole array of evergreen branches, which raked across me gently and soaked up huge amounts of energy and then I landed with a Pfffft!! in a very soft pile of snow.
SAFE! Yeah, baby!
The night was as quiet as a pile of down pillows, all of a sudden.
I don’t know about anyone else, but when I fly down a mountain on my ass on a silver disc at suicidal speeds and then hit a pile of snow and launch off of it BETWEEN a bunch of tall evergreens and then land with a Pfffft! in a heap in a pile of soft snow, I expect my brother and his friends to run over and see if I am OK. At least run over and give me a “Yeah, baby!” Or a “Woohoohoo!”
I got nothing. The ride of my life (to date) and no attention whatsoever came my way. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
This was not right. What kind of friends did my brother have, anyway? It took me over a minute to get myself out of the huge snow hole I had blown, and I dragged my snowman self out onto the flats just above the parking lot and looked around and thought “I’ve been ditched.”
No. There they were. They were all down in the parking lot wandering around like weirdoes. I had no idea what they were doing. There was a moon, but it was still dark as night. They looked confused and I thought they surely must be, as they had not come to tell me how absolutely insanely great I was and had, in fact, completely ignored my greatest thrill ever.
It was then that I thought of Rolf? Where was Rolf?
I saw my brother and his friends, but I saw no Rolf. In fact, my brother was calling out “Rolf? Rolf! Rolf!!” all of a sudden and I gathered that they had lost him. But where was he?
I took my disc down and joined my brother in their “search”. They had seen our runs from a distance. Rolf and my runs. They had been absolutely amazed. They had been walking over toward the ski lodge and had heard our cussing as we started. They saw two streaks of snow and silver, and they heard a loud “BOINGOGBOINGOBOING! and had run back to where they thought they last saw Rolf, but he was not there.
The mystery had made them forget about me for the time being, (my brother swears that he was gonna go check on me once they found Rolf), but here we were, in a ski resort parking lot, wondering where the hell he had gone.
I started in too. “Rolf? Rolf! Rolf!!”
We heard Rolf yell out. It sounded weak and far.
It sounded like someone yelling into a garbage can.
“My fucking hip!”
It was coming from over there.
This ski resort took its snow from the parking lot and pushed it toward the mountain where it was piled up just like a ski jump all along the parking lot perimeter. I had hit a big pile of it, over to the side of the parking lot. I had flown at high speeds and hit tree branches, and I had slowed down and stopped.
Rolf had hit this pile toward the edge of the parking lot, and he had flown; and he had not slowed down for quite a bit. He must have flown forty, maybe fifty feet in silent aberrant form, and then he struck THE FARSIDE OF THE INSIDE of an open green dumpster box with a Boingoboingoboinggggggg.... and fell to the bottom of it, beneath large piles of trash. And there he lay, unable to think or hear, for several minutes. He wasn’t knocked out, but he was in that “assessing” mode, where the mind goes through a checklist before moving parts, and the garbage piled atop his head kept him from hearing my brother and his friends for quite sometime.
We pulled the garbage off of him and found him in a heap, at the bottom, all twisted up and holding his hip which he kept talking about.
“My hip! My hip! My hi iiiiiiiiii pppppp!!”
Something was wrong with his hip.
We talked it out. Should we move him? Are you injured anywhere? Can you move your arm? Your leg? What hurts?
“My fucking Hhhhiiiiiipppppp!!!”
“No! Get me out of here!”
The four of us got into the big green dumpster and got him out. His hip was messed up. You could tell. We all thought he broke the joint. But what did we know?
Some guy came by and told us he knew some first aid. He looked into Rolf’s eyes. He looked worried.
“His pupils are dilated. Has he been doing drugs?”
“Dude,” I said. It’s dark out.”
We took Rolf to the ER in Tahoe-- experts in broken bones and stuff due to all the ski resorts-- and then called Pops and let him know what was going on.
OK. Now this is the part where I learned to mellow out with my Hobbit step-mom. I saw a side of her that made me laugh. That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. That made me realize that she was just another simple human-- no big deal-- and not worth disliking or being aloof toward, just because she married Pops and was unable to be my Mum.
It was after midnight and P and her three kids were with my father, as we all waited in the waiting room to get the verdict. What did Rolf do to himself? How bad was it? Pops had the added worry of being the parent in charge, the one who let us go out on our own, who had the ultimate say and all that. You could tell he was worried.
The verdict-- A severely bruised hip and nothing more. Nothing broken. Yippee!!
They had given Rolf crutches and pain meds and he hobbled out from out of the back room a little out of it but functioning, and he approached all of us with the front of his jeans unzippered because the swelling and the pain had made zipping them impossible.
And guess what was hanging out of them?
Pony himself. Well OK, it was restrained by a thin cotton pair of your basic fruit of the looms, but it had decided to hang straight out and straight down, the zipper squeezing Rolf’s nuts up and forward, giving the whole package an elephantine predominance in the animal kingdom, and making Rolf himself look suddenly very small, thin, and wimpish. I mean, perspective is almost everything and from where we were, Rolf looked about 3 foot six and sixty pounds. I mean, compared to THAT.
And P caught sight of this and would not let go. Her eyes locked on Rolf’s Pony and she lost the key. Man oh man, I remember the look on her face as every move Rolf made with his crutches made his enormity move and P’s eyes light up.
She stared at his monstrous thing like she had never seen an alien erupting from a groin before. Her mouth wowed opened and never shut. For ten minutes while Pops got on the payphone and called Rolf’s parents and explained the situation and dealt with the billing, P just stared and stared.
I found myself staring too, but not at Rolf’s monstrous appendage. I stared at my Hobbit step-mom and the incredible looks of lust and amazement and hunger that ran amok across her prosaic face.
And I started to like her.
She had drifted off from the world and was out riding Ponies in the snow in her mind somewhere, and I watched her go through all of this with my friend with the giant penis.
She was so engrossed with this... this huge thing... that she even spoke to it when Rolf addressed her with a question.
Yes, my Hobbit step-mom spoke to a giant penis, and I figured, maybe I’d give her a chance, after all?