Stroke man and the smoking dog
(... we're a team)
My long summer's journey into mindfuck ended at the Austin
airport. After I debarked, I headed toward baggage claim where I saw
several army men dressed in camouflage fatigues and packing M-16 rifles.
"Welcome to Nicaragua," I thought.
Truculent, I went up to one of the serviceman. "You know," I
started. "The enforcement of the smoking ordinance is getting way out
of hand."
"No, sir, you don't understand. We're not here for that."
I'm not kidding. He really said that. It's a grim bunch of
boys guarding our asses.
September 11, 2001 started way too early for my liking, as I
was roused into semi-consciousness by my step-dad Al at 8 a.m. He's
quite a sight in the morning. He's fighting lung cancer, recovering
from a stroke and has a gimpy right arm reminiscent of Amos McCoy. If
you're a Nick at Night fan or old enough to remember the Real McCoys TV
show, you know what I'm talking about. The right arm is coiled in a
semi-circle and always appears as if he's ready to smack someone upside
the head.
Another thing you should know about my step-dad: he has no
compunctions at all about walking around nude. And he's hung like a
horse. So sometimes I wish he was my real dad.
Anyway, he comes up to me, butt-ass naked and says, "Mike,
they're bombing America."
"Fuck," I thought. "He's getting worse."
Hungover and bleary eyed, I dragged myself to the TV where I
watched the events of 9/11 unfold in chronological order. When the
first plane hit I thought, "Well, he has a point. I could see where he
might think America was getting bombed." When the second plane hit I
thought, "Hmmmm." Finally, when the video cut to a smoking Pentagon I
thought, "Damn. The sonofabitch was right."
What a nice capper to a wonderful visit to California. First,
my mom dies on August 29, and now the entire country was taking kick in
the rubber parts from terrorists. Could it get any worse? Oh, yeah. Two
days later I heard that Jack -- a drinking buddy of mine -- had keeled
over from a heart attack. Two days after that, my friend Rachael
reported that her dog of 17 years had to be put to sleep. Another two
days passed, and my brother Dan phoned to tell me the Coast Guard
reserves had called him up and he was to be stationed off the coast of
Boston.
Danny was in the war, and that's a tough gig for anyone,
especially a rock star accountant. I felt bad for him, until I
remembered he was a lieutenant in the Coast Guard. Lieutenant Dan? The
country's saved.
A few nights later, my buddy Jimmy L., a friend of the
family's, came for a spot visit and asked me how I was holding up.
"Me? I'm fine. I've got this death thing down. If you were to
catch a heart attack right now, I'd calmly walk to the phone and dial
911. I'd react perfectly. Sorry, I wouldn't feel anything. I'm a little
tapped out on feelings. But I'd react just fine."
"Wow," he said. "You could work for Kaiser Hospital." He's
right, you know. I was getting that fuckin' crazy.
Fortunately, three things kept me sane on the West Coast:
libations at Eddie's Bar, endless masturbation in the shower and my
step-dad's sense of humor. I could control the first two, but Allah
fucking Akbar on the third.
For example: Al and I would cash checks at the bank and perve
on the tellers. Nobody expected a 75-year-old, six-foot, 130-pound,
grandfatherly, skinny-ass Colonel Sanders-looking gimp would be a lech,
but he was. True, he only did it for my benefit. But I never heard him
complain.
"Excuse me," I said to the perky-titted, blue-eyed,
auburn-haired, 24-year-old comely babe working the teller booth. "My
step-dad's recovering from a stroke, so every so often we like to check
his progress. Do you mind if we ask you a question?"
"No, not at all," she said.
I turned to my step-dad. "Al, is she hot or what?"
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Yeah, she's very hot."
"Thanks. You've been very helpful."
"No problem at all," she said. Yes, she really did. Maybe I
should set her up with the GI guarding the smoking ordinance at the
Austin airport.
Another time, Al had to go to Kaiser Hospital for a pulmonary
test, which is a series of exams used to check lung functions. Al
kicked ass on the pulmonary test. They had him blow into tubes at
various intervals, and he ran the numbers off the charts. Apparently,
he's endowed with huge lungs. I guess if you get lucky with one organ,
you get lucky with them all. Sadly, while he's kicking ass on the lung
tests, I'm sitting in the corner making chain-smoking noises. Coughing.
"Kack, kack." Shit. Knock it off. Shut the fuck up. "Kack,
kack."
After the test, we slowly walked down the hall of the hospital.
"Nice blow job, Al."
"Thanks a million, you miserable bastard."
A few weeks later, Al, my sister Kelly and I went back to the
hospital so he could start chemo therapy. Despite his great lung
capacity, he still has cancer. When he finished his treatment, the
nurse gave him the sad news.
"Yes, Mr. Loew, you'll lose all of your hair. Maybe even your
beard."
"Excuse me," I said. "Will he lose his pubic hair?"
"God dammit, you wiseass," Al mumbled.
"It's possible. In fact, it's likely," the nurse said.
"Great, Al. Looks like you don't have to shave any more."
"Miserable bastard."
Good old Albert. His sense of humor helped keep me sane. Along
with libations at Eddie's Bar and long showers. Believe me when I tell
you -- it's been one fucked-up year. The worst of my life. Just a bad,
bad year.
And now it looks like it'll be a bad, bad year for everyone.
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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything
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