Three

APIS3
Serendipity, I think, is the oddest of allies in life, lending itself subtly and often unknowingly in the most dramatic of ways that only become apparent after years of experiences have lead you to the bolt-to-the-brain crystal clarity of hindsight. While there are some of passionate religious fervor who might champion divine intervention or others who subscribe to new age philosophies proffering karma, predetermination or high colonics, I tend to think that things simply occur, at times randomly and at other times with order and meaning, the latter typically being more a function of subconscious influence combined with ample caffeine intake. I do not particularly subscribe to chaos theory, yet I do wonder how the proverbial moth farting in China effects the air mass in Canada, how the whale coming in the waters of Chile influences the halibut harvest in the Grand Banks, and how the minutest of decisions somehow sets us on a path that leads to entirely new venues and opportunities that might have otherwise been denied to us.
Social, biological and physical science, it seems, are rife with examples of serendipitous discoveries whereby physicists, biologists and a whole host of other “ists” have stumbled across seemingly random strings of data and recombinant metrics that have lead to some of mankind’s greatest discoveries. Hell, if not for a pint or five at the local pub, Watson and Crick might never have extrapolated the idea and imagery of the double helix; had he been a slob, Archimedes might have not figured so much about displacement as he did about early forms of deodorant; if Albert had devoted sections of his noodle to important social behaviors like shoe-tying, hair-combing, and/or address memorization we might not have born witness to his theorem of relativity, anti-matter and time travel.
But serendipity goes well beyond that. Take modern religion as an example of random happenstance juxtaposed against the sheer magnitude and impact that “discoveries” can make. Were Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed visited by God for real or were they tripping on hallucinogenic shrooms? While that question might and/or will get me marked for death in the Bible Belt or the Middle East, it nonetheless exposes the greater, macro impact that tiny occurrences can have on mankind. From Fulton’s steam engine-turned-space shuttle to the shot heard round the world-turned-globalized economy, events and actions more often than not have impact far exceeding their original intent and design.
Thus, it was in the winter of 1968 that my 30-something, ex-beatnik parents selected for a belated buy-in to the age of Aquarius; the self-aggrandized, self-aware philosophy of Youngian Transactional Analysis as their primary strategy to rear the young blob growing in my mother’s belly. Had they any knowledge of what they were creating with that simple decision to adhere to pop/counter pop culture, they most likely would have in stead moved in a far different vector, joining the John Birch Society or some other such nonsense. In stead they decided that it would most likely be much more fun and practical to raise their only offspring in a loving, open household where one would be expected to behave like a small adult, for that was what their chosen philosophy admonished them to regard their child as.
…And that, friends, is most likely why, now in my mid-30s, I am fond of public flatulence, nose picking, ear wax flicking and practical jokery. In spite of their best interests, the moth farted in China, the whale blew its load in the South Pacific, and my parents begat a geek.
Neato.
I was to be raised in a paradigm whereby I would surely comprehend the value of sharing my emotions, I would communicate expressively; and, I would weigh all options with practicality, prudence and sensitivity. In essence, I think they were trying to conceive and raise a small Jewish Alan Alda. And, oddly, I’m fairly certain today that they had no premonitions what-so-ever that they would, in stead, produce a died-in-wool meat eating, boorish military officer. Serendipity? Stupidity? Happenstance? Rebellion? Who the shit knows; it matters little at all I s’pose.
Don’t get me wrong, however, for I wasn’t to be raised in an Orwellian nightmare of cold science and operant conditioning. Rather, my parents doted over me, lavishing me with love and affection. It was their methodology that provides such amusement many years later.
“I love you for yourself,” my mother would often proclaim. “You are an insightful human being with meaning, value and purpose. Your opinion is valued as much as anyone else’s and you should be justifiably proud of your intellectual accomplishments and the intangible contributions you make to society at large.”
Can you believe that I still remember that hogwash? Well, check this, Homie….
I was, of course, six at the time, and therefore by definition far more interested in the cupcake I was about to smear all over my face and clothes then in her assurances. But hell, praise is praise. Love takes many different forms.
“Now here’s some carob candy…run along and play with your educational building blocks in the enlightenment room.”
You see, this wasn’t misguided within the context of their shared vision and their odd micro-culture. Rather, it was a sincere attempt to equip a little boy with the requisite skills he would surely need to succeed in a world that had only recently survived a horrific war in Southeast Asia, a series of global economic recessions, a 30-year conflict in the Middle East, the catastrophic end of a presidency and a really honkin’ hangover after 10 years of ‘ludes and shrooms. My folks weren’t so much interested in creating the prototypical post-Aquarian man child as they were in providing me with the skills I’d need to wade into the muddied waters of adulthood in the confused 1970s. It just so happened that having come of age as West Coast Liberals, they were certain that a well-defined strategy of self-affirmation and emotional openness was as healthy to a boy’s upbringing as snails, boogers, candy and soda pop.
“…And be sure to listen to ‘Johnathan Livingston Seagull’ on the record player while you’re playing” she called from the other room as I tromped off to build fighter jets with my Legos. “We’ll discuss Neil Diamond’s treatment of individualism at dinner, Sweetheart.”
Can I please mention again that I was six?
So it was that my folks, earnestly engaged in the full-time task of rearing a future group counselor, artist or Peacecorps volunteer, decided that they needed a change of venue in which to set about their task. California, Orange County to be exact, was fast becoming a throbbing mass of cars, pollution and plastic people, and when I started quoting Chico and the Man and constantly pointed to the surfers at the beach, squealing with delight as they caught tubes, my folks decided that there had to be a better place.
Thus came Texas.
Ah yes, friends, we have returned to the underlying boogey-issue of the Great State of Texas.
Whereas I’ve already regaled you with my observations on California and my painful sense of bland normalcy, there is perhaps some value in sharing with you the details of my formative years, growing up immersed in the gaudy pop-culture of the 70s and 80s in one of the most contradictory parts of our nation, a land unto itself in terms of its collective misguided senses of self-importance, faux nationalism and really big belt buckles.
Some time shortly after the nation’s bicentennial hangover wore off, my parents opted to move to the burgeoning metropolis of Houston, which at that time as the indigenous population proudly exclaimed to any and all who would listen—which by default was really only their own internal population for nobody else cared (nor do they today)—that the gulf coast city was the fourth largest in the country, having just displaced Philadelphia. Whoopie shit to most of us, but profoundly important stuff for a state that proclaimed more to be a state of mind than a state of the union. More like a state of indigestion—and really big belt buckles.
In late 1976, we left our cozy bungalow in Huntington Beach and moved into a planned community that was being built on the outskirts of town in an area that was largely farm land and ranches slowly converting to and being assimilated by the bacterial growth rate of an area largely bloated with the Nuevo Riche of the oil industry’s nefarious infrastructure of strip malls, car dealerships and tract home developments. The nation had recently weathered the second storm of OPEC-inspired insanity and the oil found under the Edward’s Aquifer was plentiful and provided for expansive growth in a state that had rabidly proclaimed its “specialness” to nobody in particular for 131 years. Newly armed with loads of cash, large Caddies and, of course, really big belt buckles, the Great State of Texas proclaimed its importance to all who would listen to, invest in, and move to the land of the lone star…really big belt buckles not necessarily required but highly encouraged.
Now, if you are two displaced ex-beatniks raising your only son to be a self-aware small adult who can effectively share his feelings, cry and discuss the multi-dimensional symbolic depth of cubist art, what better place to move than a growing community of intellectuals. Unfortunately, they didn’t go to Portland,…they moved to Houston.
(See the First Corollary to the Law of Serendipity, namely that the latter exists in a tense but nonetheless palpable co-reality with abject foolishness.)
My first memories were not so much of the many day drive across the barren wastes of New Mexico and West Texas, but rather of the foundation slabs and freshly framed houses-to-be that were our new neighborhood, a fortuitous find indeed for a young lad of seven since it was a place suitably equipped for hours of hide-and-seek, romping and getting exceedingly filthy. If I was so brave as to venture five or six blocks over—a tremendous distance when you are barely over three feet tall—I could find cattle pastures filled with the strangest looking cows, festooned disproportionately long, horizontal horns and fleshy humps on their backs. They always snorted in obvious disgust as they returned my incredulous gaze, I remember, having snuck off to the pastures to gaze upon them many a time. And there were bizarre, skinny white ducks walking the pastures with them.
The land was as flat as anything I could imagine and elicited images of Schoolhouse Rock on Saturday mornings, teaching me among many things, that Columbus discovered that the world was round (followed, of course, by the obligatory lecture from my mother about the oppressive subjugation of the indigenous peoples of this continent—“now Sweetheart, I know you like singing along with ‘Conjunction Junction,’ but I just want to make sure you understand that Columbus was a colonial, bourgeois anti-Semite who brutally tortured and slaughtered the native inhabitants of this land…now be a good boy and drink the rest of your soy juice”).
In fact it was so flat that further in the distance I could spot a myriad of odd looking metal devices plunging shafts up and down incessantly into the ground, almost like those silly plastic birds that eternally dip their beaks into the colored water vases in novelty stores. Little did my seven-year-old-mind comprehend that those same devices were called E-C-O-N-O-M-Y. Nor could I imagine that in nine year’s time, they would be called B-A-N-K-R-U-P-T-C-Y.
Also burned into my memory are images of playing with toadstools in the dark, moist shadowy areas under trees, kicking apart ant hills and watching their furious industry to rebuild and, oddly enough, of coyotes. Ours was a neighborhood that was bounded by one large road to the east, Buffalo Bayou to the north and expanses of undeveloped ranch land in every other direction. As surely as I can clearly remember, there was always a moderately sized coyote present when Young Josh went wandering and exploring. It didn’t make sense then, but, then again, given our relocation from the perpetual Southern California tanned lifestyle to that of All Things Texas, how odd could it have seemed at the time to a seven-year-old mind? Trust me, though, for it will make sense later.
Nevertheless, as we resettled into a comfortable existence, our little neighborhood took shape and became a world unto itself in which I played and muddied myself in and around throughout my childhood. Ours was a townhouse development of cedar angles and modern architecture that was in stark contrast to the expensive detached traditional brick and siding houses sprouting forth around us. While our five square block enclave among the Nuevo Riche was by no means anything less than solid middle class, we lived in sometimes tense opposition with the oil execs who littered their houses with exotic cars and expensive toys. We were often referred to as the “projects” or “those apartment people” by the rich folks surrounding us.
Yet that seemed to matter little if any at all to my parents and our neighbors, who had their modern, tropically landscaped townhouse development all to themselves, free from the pre-yuppie trappings of the oil-supported tomfoolery on our periphery. Ours was a group of similar souls, aging beatniks and artisans who worked as suits only to earn a living in order to support their communal existentialism…and to buy their funny smelling cigarettes. Again, the memories of olfactory reality linger even today and still make me laugh as I recall the constancy of their awkwardness whenever Young Josh asked why their cigarettes smelled so funny.
Whereas our extended neighbors drove Mercedes, Porsches, and other exotics and favored more “genteel” substances like cocaine and diazepam, my extended neighborhood family drove Volvos, Mazdas and VW vans…and stuck with the ganja. There were no big belt buckles inside the perimeter, at least not until 1980 and the emergent scourge of the Urban Cowboy pestilence fell upon all like a plague.
Unfortunately, nor were there any other children in our reggae artisan utopia. I was it, and the dozens of self-aware, transactionally fulfilled ex-beats in the hood effectively and affectionately adopted this fine little adult that the Greens were raising. Little Josh Green—me—was a sensitive little man who could converse with adults, always said please and thank you and rarely misbehaved. He—er, I—also liked Legos, model airplanes, snails and throwing dirt clods at Porsches. But let’s not get bogged down in the details.
“Mr. Thomas,” I would ask the neighbor across the courtyard in my pre-pubescent high pitched seven-year-old voice while shuffling my little Chuck Taylors at his doorstep, “my mother has advised me, um, that I…that I, um, need to ask your persimmon to, um, pick a flower from your…from your garden, and, um, not to pick the one with five leaves.”
Very self-aware indeed, aware enough, in fact, to quickly figure out the scam in order to do typical boy things having earned the trust of the adults, for when they weren’t looking, I was busy digging earth worms from people’s yards, looking under toadstools in the side alleys, kicking over ant hills, etc…. After all, a seven-year-old is just that and no amount of Warm Fuzzies, Cold Pricklies or carob candy can alter that which is in the genetic code and intrinsically rooted in the ancient racial memories of little filthy creatures supposedly made from snips, snails and such. Runny noses, skinned knees and dirty clothes happen at that age. They just do.
Some time around 1981, however, a bad thing happened in our Nirvanna-esque community. Young Josh Green, soon to be a teenager, discovered Kiss. Now, let’s get this clear, I’m not talking about the pseudo glam, pastel-wearing disco Kiss that immediately proceeded the non-makeup/take it off for MTV period. In stead, I’m talking about “Alive” and “Hotter Than Hell” and, of course, the Phantom of the Park. I was all about the Talisman, the blood spitting and the fire and the fury. Kiss represented everything that my artisan upbringing wasn’t.
“No Mom, I don’t want to make a ceramic flower valise after school. I’m going to my room to dress in black, grow my hair and listen to Gene Simmons,” I’d exclaim to her horror, shock and eternal disappointment. “Oh, and did I mention that they’re all Jewish?”
I dearly loved zingers like that. …Still do, in fact….
Kiss was the antithesis of everything Nuevo Riche (and hippy). Whereas the kids living in the oil-bought houses down the road wore Polo or Izod, played tennis every weekend and prepared themselves for their eventual entry into the moneyed elite of Houston, I tore the knees out of my jeans, insisted on nothing but black t-shirts and moped around, secure in my angst and morbidity, fulfilled as a non-materialistic member of the Kiss Army (and thoroughly enjoying the music by the way). I suppose had I lived in the northeast or LA I would have found punk rock, but in the squishy heat and humidity of Houston, Kiss had to suffice.
And it made things all the more fun that they were nice young Jewish boys who had broken their mothers’ hearts by an order of magnitude that I could only hope to aspire to. (Herein lies an interesting aside to my diatribe [about nothing in particular, as if you hadn’t figured that out by now], for whereas my parents subscribed to their early evolutionary form of New Ageism or Post Hippieism—whichever description you prefer—they nonetheless fully expected me to fulfill my Jewish-ly obligation as a dutiful son, that being to become a doctor or dentist. The contradictory irony is staggering to those who really understand. Trust me.)
Thus began my rebellious phase. Unfortunately, being of morose, monotonous potential, or lack thereof, my rebellion was mainly limited to my imagination and my silent protest to the activities going on around me. I didn’t smoke nor did I do drugs or drink. In fact, I never returned my parents’ Volvo with anything less than a full tank of gas and clean windshields. In occasional spasmatic fits of rebellious mischief I would reprogram the Volvo’s radio to the various Mexican radio stations that Houston had, but my Mother would usually steal my thunder with patronizingly sweet gratitude.
“Thank, you, Joshua. I never before realized how vibrant and colorful Hispanic music is. Perhaps we can listen to some after dinner tonight and then discuss it over hot carob cocoa.”
Great, how ‘bout I cut my toenails with my teeth instead. Or my wrists.
Thus, my rebellion was internalized, delusions of black grandeur of sorts. In my mind, I was a heavy metal warrior with long hair, a dangerous person of mystery and power who could easily sway the babes from their neatly trimmed, madras wearing uber-boyfriends while simultaneously kicking said Hitler Youths’ asses. In reality, I was a loner nerd, tall, skinny and be-zitted, who wore a grand total of five different Kiss t-shirts and rarely allowed myself to be known outside of a small group of like-minded teenagers. I can’t exactly say it was painful, at least no more so than anyone else’s teenage years, but it was definitely boring and lonely.
BUT, I knew “Strutter,” “Detroit Rock City” and “Love Gun” (I generally eschewed Beth…too sappy but oh-so-soon-to-be-ironic). I could easily lose myself in the power and the passion of the superficiality of male-oriented metal while vicariously enjoying the rock god status afforded to the four guys in gaudy, boorish makeup. Funny thing, you know, considering that any of item of their costumes taken by itself would have evoked nothing less than horror and revulsion in my teenage mind. Platform shoes? Makeup on dudes? Yuck. Girly and weak. Put them all together and throw in some blood gurgling for effect, however, and you’ve got the grand high poo-bah of all that is cool.
Interestingly (to me at least), another manifestation of my self-stylized rebellion was my stalwart refusal to participate in main stream sports. Granted, I was way too skinny, too gawky and too uncoordinated to do anything cool like football, baseball or basketball, known in the South as “the lesser three,” the “big three” being NASCAR, huntin’, and fishin’. Likewise, I was unable even to realistically participate in the lesser “girl” sports like tennis, volleyball or track and field. In stead, I selected swimming, a sport that didn’t really require interaction with others since you competed in physically separated lanes and participated in team dynamics only in so much as the points you accrued counted towards the total team win. Fortuitously, long, lanky goof balls lend well to the 200 meter free and the 200 individual medley, and I was adequately good at both, never a contender for state championships but good enough to consistently pull my weight for the school. I was even awarded a letter my junior year, but I wasn’t interested in ever wearing it. My money went towards video games for my Commodore 64 and for more Kiss tapes, not for a stupid lime green leather and felt letterman’s jacket. Gene and Paul approved, I was sure.

So, you wonder, how/what/where does this relate to serendipity? I hate to disappoint you, friends, but this has little if anything to do with really big belt buckles, nor shall I insult the shit-ass state of Texas any more. Here’s how it all works….
Swimming, it seemed, drew me inevitably to the truly masochistic sport of triathlon in college. And triathlon, in turn, became a full-on obsession that I pursued well afterwards, eventually motivating me to settle in San Diego after completing undergrad at UT and Navy flight school in order to be closer to the Multisports Mecca of sorts. In spite of the subsidence of my silent rage rebellion, I nonetheless embodied the spirit of angst and the nebulous concept of discomfort in one’s own skin. What better way, then, to torture one’s soul than to torture one’s body with a tumultuous water and sweat logged conflagration of wet suits, really expensive bikes and running flats. Again, we come back to my dissertation on Henry Rollins and the strength of one’s physical decomposition. See? My ravings make sense in some warped sense. Stay with me, gang, for it only gets better. And weirder.
It’s hard indeed for the uninitiated to understand the monumental tribute to the capacity to endure absurd amounts of pain and to pay absurd amounts of money for the privilege of competing in a triathlon, but as a grown-up too tall, too skinny goof ball it seemed to fit well. And, more succinctly, it fit me.
(Parenthetical interruptions, by the way, seem far more acceptable as I pen this than, say, the nuisance of the literary footnote, in case you were wondering. On that note, I shall continue. What you are about to encounter is an intentional shift tense. While writing this foolishness and, more importantly, while immersed in the intensity of the emotions that it evoked, I found for a while at least that referring to Her in the present was far easier than formally recognizing that she was in the past. Damn. It’s still hard to cope with, but I’m working on it. Just bear with me; I promise it’ll make sense.)

Thus in the spirit of the general goofiness of my inane obsession with triathlon, today it’s early, very early indeed on a gloomy and foggy San Diego morning and I’m getting mentally steeled to enter the harbor at Shelter Island to start my age group in the San Diego International Triathlon. I never like the start of these silly things since 1) they always start at stupid-early hours; and b) it’s always cold in the mornings in San Diego regardless of the time of year. Incidentally, it’s July, 1995, and my wet suit isn’t offering much respite from the weenie shrinking temperature. I’m shivering, half due to cold and half to nervous anticipation of the race yet to start. That, by the way, is part of the sublime brilliance of the sport of triathlon, for what other sport literally offers one a taste of one’s own mortality considering that you can die in the first part of the event? Neato. Most importantly, I’m loving this shit. It’s so “me.”
Anyhow, I’m half in the water, having just watched the pro wave lunge forward, clawing over each other as Mike Pigg takes an early but not unexpected lead. Mike rocks, bald noodle and all, but I’m still freezing my nuts off. So, like any good wet suit wearer I think warm, fluid thoughts, sing a little song—“Let’s Put the X in Sex”—and commence to peeing in my rubber body condom for a bit of warmth. I must look noticeably relieved and I must be singing a bit louder than “to myself” volume, for a comely, shapely young blonde in a Quintana Roo FullJane wet suit standing five feet to my left, also up to her thighs in the frigid water looks over and smiles.
“Me too,” she says shyly but openly, “although I prefer Beth…for calming myself down, you know.”
She smiles.
I stare back blankly, goof ball extraordinaire that I am.
Beautiful, even in the wee hours of a cold July morning, encased in neoprene, head covered in a bright pink swim cap, goggles dangling from her shapely neck and magic marker denoting race number 958 on her cap, I think. Beautiful. Stunning.
Brain to mouth—SMILE DAMMIT!
Mouth to brain—quit targeting above your means!
Brain to mouth—GET BENT AND SAY SOMETHING COOL!
Mouth to brain—cool?
Brain to mouth—YES COOL, YOU DORK, AND MAKE IT QUICK!
Mouth to brain—okay.
“Umm, er, yeah…um…Beth?” I stammer, wondering how stupid my pastel blue swim cap looks with my size ten ears sticking out from the sides of my size 7 head.
Brain to mouth—YOU SUCK!
“Kiss.” She smiles back. “You were singing Kiss. I’m a big fan.”
“Oh, umm, er, yeah.”
Brain to mouth—CORRECTION, YOU SUCK ASS!
“Ahh, the blue caps are swimming out to the bouy,” she says. “You’re gonna miss your wave’s start.”
“Huh?”
Brain to mouth—GAWD…YOU SUCK VARSITY ASS!
Bang! The starting gun goes off for the Men’s 25-30 age group and I alternatively look back and forth between her and my wave, charging forth in the water, elbows and feet flying (did you know triathlon was a contact sport?).
“Go!” she says with a devilish grin, “Shoo!”
I charge into the water, arms flailing and spirit crushed. Another opportunity blown. Gene and Paul would most certainly not approve.
Funny thing, self loathing, for it motivates in the extreme, and before I know it I’ve exited the water in the top quarter of my age group, and I progress smoothly and efficiently through Transition One, shedding the wet suit and donning my biking gear. I run my red and blue triathlon rocket bike through the chutes to the mounting area and hop on, filled with excitement, energy and a feeling of strength. …And I promptly fall over on my side--a typical condition when you’ve just swum 1500 meters at a sprint pace, raced through a 1 minute 20 second transition and hopped aboard a bike expecting your vestibular system to work, providing the much needed balance and equilibrium. That’s in a perfect world, though; and in this case you’ve got the balance and coordination of a drunken four-year-old. Thus you fall on your ass in front of a laughing crowd of onlookers.
Brain to body—YOU PEOPLE SUCK! I QUIT!
Ahh,…triathlon. And the fundamental stupidity of Being Josh.
Three weeks later I am at Solid Rock indoor climbing gym. I’m on belay for my friend Chuck, who’s not only trying to muscle his way up a 5.10b pitch but also outweighs me by something like forty or fifty pounds. I’m a fair to less than average rock climber but usually a good belayer. Usually.
Then again, I also harbor secret desires to become a world class alpinist, complete with corporate sponsorship, big equipment endorsements and, of course, all of the free Power Bars that I can scarf. That’s not an accurate reflection of reality either…unfortunately. And Chuck knows it.
“Hey, Shit-fer-brains,” he yells while pinching a crimp in his left man-paw and locking out on a nice jug with his right hand, “you ain’t gonna get your fantasy sponsorship by flying in the Navy. Now get back on belay, Barney.”
(Barney. Adj. A common Southern California expression describing one prone to behavior characterized by goonish stupidity and spasmatic fits of unrealistic expectations. See also Josh Green.)
Thanks. I need these moments of forced reality-grounding lest I get too caught up in my pleasant fantasy world(s). Of course, Chuck is a San Diego County Fire Fighter, as has been for 10 years, as long as I’ve been in the Navy. And that, by definition, means that he makes more money than God and works about ten days a month. Dangerous job? Not hardly…he’s assigned to the Rancho Santa Fe fire house, which means that he’s more likely to respond to a critical manicure accident than a real fire. When last he told me, he scored something like $140 big ones last year, overtime included of course (it’s hard drinking Starbucks and eating croissants, you know). I on the other hand, regularly subsist on cold government coffee and cheesy-crackers while working in indentured servitude for the Navy. I fly, and that’s cool, although it’d be much cooler without the “free” trips to the big gray boat, AKA USS Aircraft Carrier. Again, I’d much rather be a sponsored climber, or a sponsored triathlete, or a world-class snowboarder, or independently wealthy, or a member of Kiss’ latest incarnation. But I’m not. I am, however, on belay.
“D-I-P-S-H-I-T!” he bellows. “Pay attention before I fall off this faux rock and smite thee with my ample ass!”
“Oh…sorry.” I return to belay. Kinda.
Because, out of nowhere She walks by.
“Oh, hi. It’s you.” She’s even cuter in her climbing garb than in a wetsuit, believe it or not. Funny thing, climbing pants and harnesses. They squeeze all the right parts in all the right places.
Brain to Mouth—SECOND CHANCE, BOY.
“Hi, nice to see you again. How was your race?” I’m possessed, I swear, because under normal Josh-circumstances I’d have blown snot, thrown up or shit myself by now.
Brain to Mouth—THAT’S MY BOY!
“It’s nice to see you too. I didn’t know you climbed here.” She’s entrancingly pretty and I’m deep, deep in a state. “How often do you come here?”
“Oh shit! FALLING!” And with that, Chuck launches off of the overhang he was on. My GriGri belay device fortuitously and quickly locks off so that he can’t fall to the ground. Unfortunately, there is still a finite amount of rope separating us and the GriGri provides little more than an anchor to the quick draw above that makes the fulcrum to this physics experiment. Chuck does indeed come to a stop after a brief, seven foot fall, but in doing so yanks me off the ground by about seven feet. Now the equation is balanced even if my ego is most certainly not. I always hated physics.
The pounding base line of the techno-crap music blaring in the gym stops briefly for Aaron, the gym’s owner, to come on the PA to announce magnanimously: “And on the 5.10 on the back wall, you will all see Wiley Coyote and Road Runner.” Everyone laughs. Chuck and I manage to cling to the wall, he high, me low, and I down climb until I can clip into a low anchor and then lower him to the ground.
Everyone continues to laugh, including Chuck. I don’t. She doesn’t—blessed girl obviously compassionate for the unfortunate goon before her.
“By the way,” she starts and I cringe waiting for the death blow, “I really like that Kiss Army ’86 shirt you’ve got on. I saw them in Tampa that year. Had to sneak outa my folks house. I was still in high school.”
She giggles. I stare back, dumbfounded.
Brain to Mouth—FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY; SPEAK, TALK, SAY SOMETHING!
I stammer, and then my balls start to hurt thanks to my gravity induced rocket ride. “Umm, thanks. I was in high school too.”
Brain to Mouth—THAT WAS FUCKING BRILLIANT YOU TWIT.
“Maybe I’ll see you around here again. I hope so.” Her smile is intoxicating.
Mouth to Brain—YOU’RE NOT DRUNK, YOU’RE JUST STUPID. SAY SOMETHING.
“Yeah, umm, maybe.”
“My name is Beth, by the way.”
“I’m Josh.” Beth…how ironic. (See? I wasn’t lying.)
“Nice to meet you Josh. I’m gonna go get dinner now. I’ll see you around. Nice shirt, again.”
“Thanks, Beth. I’ll see you around.” I sincerely, fervently, desperately hope so.
She smiles again and then turns with that uber cute hair flip that only those truly amazing girls can do. I damn-near swoon. For the record, men don’t swoon, so this feeling is not to be taken for granted.
“Well done, Romeo,” Chuck laughs as he unclips and loosens his climbing harness. “How’s your sack?
“You know, I’ve always thought your Kiss fetish was way stupid, but it just might have paid off.”
I absent mindedly touch the shirt. My balls still hurt, but I’m smiling. And I’m certain—positive even—that Gene and Paul are too. Their balls, however? I don’t know, nor do I care.
Serendipity and shit, ya know.

Yeah, so I've been delinquent.

Had a lot going on. Time to start anew.