JIMNASIUM

     February 29th only happens every 4 years so I tried really hard to live it up today… and ended up seeing the kitchen manager’s penis.

     I know I’ve been fighting this for a long time but today I succumbed. Every time I return from a vacation I get supper excited to see my Latinos that I end up chasing them around, yapping and nibbling at their ankles like a Jack Russell Terrier. Most of them roll their eyes and kick me away but there are a few who’ll throw me a bone.

     I had just finished doing my liquor-pull when I needed to cross through the secret office to get downstairs. I struggled with the door as I held a crate full of bottles. On the other side I heard a chair squeak and roll across the floor. The kitchen manager, alone and still sitting in his chair, opened the door.

   “Thank you! Just coming through,” I said as I weaseled my way around the file cabinet and towards the other door. I stood there with my hands full waiting for him to open it.  He didn’t budge, instead he began to rub himself.

    “You wanna see it bro,” he said in a voice so dirty that even Pig-Pen wouldn’t get near him. I immediately started my mental exercises: Strong girl, strong girl, stron… and that’s when the power of the leap year took over.

    “Whip it out,” I said. He did and it was nice. It curved downwards; the perfect type to tickle the prostate when doing it doggy style. I was mesmerized for what seemed like eternity but the second I realized where I was and what was happening, I ripped open the door and grabbed my crate and darted out of the office. I heard him laughing as the door slammed shut. I stopped in the hallway by the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I opened my mouth and showed my teeth, revealing the chipped central incisor. Then I looked at the crow’s feet around my eyes and the folds in my forehead. I worked my way up and started rotating my head left to right, seeing how different light reflected my thinning.

    “You’re too old to be doing that shit,” I said to the reflection. Just then the door opened and he came out of the office.

    “Wanna see it again?” he asked.

    I looked both ways and then said, “Quickly.” He whipped it out just long enough for me to memorize the placement of certain veins and then put it back in. As I walked back to the bar, I felt bad. I was angry at myself for giving into temptation but then I realized that I don’t do crack so things could be worse.

     Jazz and I were standing in line to order our food when some man cut in front of us.

     “So I’m new to this place. How do you order,” he asked while fumbling with the menu. He was in his 40’s and gay. He had a crew cut and tan skin and those eyes that were wide like they loved adventure but baggy because they were up all night sucking on that adventure. He started flirting with me. The fact that he cut in line made me not interested long before he even opened his mouth, but I tried to be nice and answer his questions.

     “I like the garden salad with chicken pesto,” I said. “Yeah, I just spent about 20 minutes looking through the menu over there,” I said and pointed to the waiting area behind me. I was hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t. Instead he introduced me to his friend Sheila, a mom also from Seattle who recently moved to L.A. so her kid could pursue acting. Instead of shaking her hand I kept them folded and said, “Oh, cool! It’s nice to meet you.” I wanted to be nice but not thaaat nice otherwise he might get the wrong impression.

     “So where do you live?” he asked.

     “Oh, we’re just visiting. We’re heading back to Seattle tonight,” I said.

     “Do you know anyone who works at Microsoft?” he asked. By this point I was annoyed. If you’ve got balls big enough to approach someone then you should definitely have balls big enough to walk away when you’re rejected.

     “No,” I said laughing. ”I don’t. Well, enjoy your meal,” I said and then turned away.

     Later on Jazz asked why I lied to the guy when I told him I was just visiting.

     “Because the jerk didn’t get it,” I said. 

      “He was a jerk. How did he know that we weren’t a couple?” he said like a jelaous girlfriend and then we both started laughing.

    It was the summer of ’95 and I had to make a very important decision before starting my freshman year of high school: was I going to be a punk and dye my hair green like Billie Joe Armstrong or was I going to be gangster and rock khakis like Snoop? You had to choose one or the other because only dorks dressed normal and there was no way I was going to commit social suicide my freshman year.  Since I could grow an afro, I opted for gangster. When school started so did my life as a thug.

     On the weekends Jazz and I would have his Mom drive us to the nearest metropolitan city, Oak Harbor (population 20,000), and drop us off so we could walk the streets looking for our old friend Jay Jay Blue. The 3 of us used to be friends in middle school but lost touch when he transferred at the end of 8^th grade. When rumors started circulating that he had joined a gang in the big city, and in the spirit of our new identities, Jazz and I took it upon ourselves to find Jay Jay. We figured that with our previous history we’d be able to skip the getting jumped-in part, which would be nice because I didn’t like the idea of grass/blood stains on my clothes, and we’d officially be part of a gang. That’d really garner us some street cred!

     Jazz would be dressed head to toe in white Ben Davis gear as I sported classic khaki Dickies with a black flannel and a gold chain (that I bought from K-mart and had to polish with toothpaste twice a week). We’d comb the streets, hitting up all the hot spots like the basketball courts at City Beach and the parking lot behind the arcade, stopping every so often to grab a Blizzard at Dairy Queen or to listen to the new Bone Thugs N’ Harmony CD at Joe’s Island Music. Unfortunately, we never found him because every weekend ended the same exact way: it’d start raining and Jazz’s all-white outfit would become see-through as my afro fell so we’d have to call his mom to come pick us up early.

     My boy Jazz is coming to visit for the weekend so I’ve been trying to get everything in order, like making sure the drain in the tub is un-clogged. The plumbing at my place is so old that even a pubic hair can cause the pipes to clog so at least twice a year I have to call my landlord and have him send over a plumber with the snake.

     Calling Mr. Prinz is always such a process. I have to speak slowly and loudly and repeat myself several times. By the time I hang up he’s already forgotten why I called.  Luckily when I called this time the machine picked up and I thought I’d get away with just leaving a message. Unfortunately he picked up half way through.

     “Hellllo,” he said. “Is anybody there… How do you turn this damn thing off,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was sitting on a piant shaker. Instead of pushing the power button he pushed the message review button.  “Don’t hang up. Wait a minute,” he instructed and then we both sat and listened to all 6 messages. Denise from Inglewood was calling to inquire about the apartment for rent on Pico. Steve from apartment 14 wanted to know when his parking space would be available. Roger the electrician was calling to follow up on a chandelier he recently installed. Debbie, his daughter, was calling to let him know that his grandson’s basketball game had been canceled but they were still getting together for dinner.  When it was all said and done I had been on the phone with him for 24 minutes.

     Later in the day he called and left a message to confirm that a plumber would be coming by tomorrow to fix the leaking faucet and that I should put a bucket under the water so that it didn’t stain the tub… What leak?