Being that thirsty reminded me of a little story I wrote when I was in College, based upon my experience one summer when I was 15 years old, and while working on a farm on Long Island's East End.
The farm grew cucumbers and other vegetables. I only worked there for a couple of weeks, when I suddenly became very Ill with some sort of throwing up virus. My father put me in the back of the car and raced me back "Up the Island" (as the East enders refer to anything West of the town of Riverhead) to a Hospital.
I was OK after a day, but I remember a Doctor staring into my retina for a very long time. We were nose to nose. I guess he was looking for some kind of neurological problem or meningitis or something.
My brother also worked on the farm with me, and around the same time I got sick, he had a severe diarrhea attack out in the middle of the farm field.
He told a pretty funny story about how he had to hold it in and limp to the end of the field and into a grove of hedges, where he could do his business in private. The hedges bordered a sort of small public triangle or Park with picnic tables and a drinking fountain. It was between where the main road, bordering the farm, branched off onto a narrower, more rural road.
Both my brother and I never really knew if we had been poisoned by the pesticides used on the farm, and to this day, when we are out East in the summertime, my brother refers to the little Park as "Diarrhea Park", which is not a nice thing to say, because actually it is a very pleasant, little, bucolic sort of spot.
But after my brother did his thing in the bushes, he hitchhiked home, still with very upset bowels, and a strange guy in a VW Beetle picked him up. The car had no AC and was very hot, and the windows were closed, and the guy had religious music playing on the radio, and started lecturing my brother about religion. When he finally pulled up at our house, my brother bolted out of the car, heading for the bathroom inside, hardly saying good-bye.
Anyway, I see that my last post got a few comments, and I'm afraid to read them actually. I sort of remember what I posted. It's not too cool I guess. It is always my ranting and raving that draws the comments it seems. Kind of stirs people up. I'll have to remember to try not to do that kind of stuff on my little ol' blog. And remember folks, it ain't a newspaper or a magazine. It's more like a personal journal maybe.
Maybe I should post something about pleasantly floating through the warm summer breeze on a cloud with my lyre, sipping chardonet or something. That way I'll be sure to get a happy-non commenting result.
But doing all this is darn curious in some ways, because it is like being in a fishbowl--especially when no one comments. One wonders if my stuff is being merely ignored, or passed or lightly skimmed over, or the opposite is true in that is is being carefully studied and scrutinized.
Re: the seagull story I am working on. I know how it all is supposed to go and end, which helps, because then the story just sort of writes itself. The only thing about it is the logistics of where and how they roost. So I'm going to rearrange all that, which wont change the story thematically at all. I came up with the seagull story yesterday morning when walking my dog. It is a sad story, and dedicated to Kimber. But don't worry Kimber, it is a nice story anyway, I think.
And to thems Aussies that are poking around my humble blog, if youse guys come to New York, in the opinion of a street linguist, here is how youse should talk.
Use these colloquialisms: 1. It's "Not for nuthin. 2. It's six of one and half a dozen of the other 3. There Ya Go! 4. Absolutely 5 Exactly 6. Well...you know..... 7. Right! 8. Forget about it! 9. No Problem! 10. He or they are "Good People"!
And then of course there is Tommy, Louie, Joey, Johnny, Nickie, Stevie, Eddie, Frankie, Timmy, Ricky. But the name Pete pretty much stays as Pete curiously enough.
OK, that came from a little note sheet I found in my file, and I'm rambling, and it's 2:40AM. So here is my story that I wrote-did in thuh Colledge, and in the 3rd person too, which today I find curious as to why I wrote it that way.
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New Picker
by
JD Painter
'That's disgusting' He thought. 'Why, I wouldn't even give that water to a dog.'
Trying to disregard both them and his thirst, he continued on his hunched course, picking the hot red peppers off their vines, and tossing them into the heavy bushel basket that he dragged wearily in the dirt beside him. He tried gnawing on one to procure some of it's precious moisture, but this proved futile, as the pepper viciously bit back in spicy revenge. He spat it out disgustedly.
'Must be close to five o'clock.' he mused hopefully. 'Boy oh boy, when I get back to the beach-house, I'm going to have a long, cold margarita.'
He glanced at his Swatch. it said four o'clock. He tried to fight the disorientation that was creeping up on his evaporated body, and tried not to listen to the occasional loud gulping noises that came from the direction of the repulsive receptacle of relief. He swore softly as he noticed that his expensive new running shoes were covered with mud from the puddles left by the sprinklers.
After fifteen more minutes of torture, he shot an uncontrollable glance towards the direction of the cooler of water in time to see a tall, lanky kid he had secretly dubbed "The Stringbean" hoist it up high and dump what seemed like a gallon down his throat. Link watched longingly as Stringbean's massive Adam's apple bobbed happily with each audible chug. He looked away quickly though, when Stringbean's eyes rolled in his direction, feeling like an idiot about the way he had sarcastically asked Stringbean earlier if he could mount an outboard motor on one of his huge work boots. Stringbean didn't understand or appreciate the joke.
The malaise was becoming too much for Link, but through sheer determination he managed to pick a while longer. The stocky, muscular girl he had privately named "The Bruiser" after he had seen her hoist two full baskets of cucumbers over her head and onto a flatbed sauntered towards him.
"Say, aren't y'all thirsty city boy?" she inquired, through a rawboned, squinted face.
"No." I'm like a camel." Link replied, trying to sound clever. "I never need water."
"Well." She said without a smile. "There ain't much water left, even if y'all think you is a camel. So you better take a drink. We got about an hour left."
Link just shrugged and went back to his work. Every minute now seemed intolerable. He knew he couldn't ignore his thirst any longer. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl with the patches on the jeans covering her nice ass walk towards the water. Link realized it was probably his last chance to get a drink, and ran a wooden tongue over his parched lips in a vain attempt to moisten them.
"Say there," he called hoarsely. "You mind if I have a little?"
Link looked around sheepishly and noticed the grins on the weary faces of the other pickers. One or two of the country teenagers even snickered a little.
"You sure it's not gonna contaminate ye?" The girl with the patches inquired wryly.
"No." Link said. "Just give it here."
Patches took a small sip and tossed the container over to him. With trembling hands, Lincoln lifted the filthy spigot of the dirt-smeared container to his mouth and greedily sucked on it, letting the lukewarm water run down his throat. He drank so rapidly that some of the water spilled down his chin, and cascaded down his dusty body, bringing shocking cool relief to his broiled chest and thighs.
As he violently continued to slake his thirst in this manner, the other pickers paused in their work, and laughed.
* There really was a container of water, but it was on the back of a slow moving tractor that all of us stood alongside of in the rows, and as we picked cucumbers and tossed them onto a converyor belt apparatus that moved th cucumbers over and up into a hopper behind the tractor.
The kids in the story intentionally have no race, though it might seem obvious that Lincoln, based upon me, is white. The real kids were white and African-American, and a couple were from the South, or rural upstate New York.
And yes, that container of water that very hot day was very, very important.
Also, this story was describing an America of 1978, and an era when bottled water was a novelty, and everyone drank out of the tap at home; when there were no cell phones; when people smoked cigarettes freely in restaurants and indoors, when 18 was the drinking age and I could go down and buy cigarettes or beer starting at age 15-often without being proofed for the alcohol; when there was no seat belt law; when student loans were just an idea, and still dischargeable in bankruptcy. Fake fire logs were not invented yet. Paint still had lead in it, birth control was a new thing, and the word Ass, Bitch or Damn would have been bleeped out on radio or television.Cable TV was still primitive and new, and of course there was no internet. A stamp was around a dime or not much more, and one could just go to a beach in a lot of places and camp out overnight and build a fire, and not be chased away by the police. There were no pooper-scooper laws. No anti-skateboard, or bicycle sidewalk or noise ordinances. The term, "Politically Correct" hadn't even been invented yet, for better or worse. Firecrackers were not against the law, and one could go to Chinatown in new York City and buy all that one wanted, including M-80's and Blockbusters, and go back to the suburbs and blow them off all one wanted pretty much.
Kids under 13 were not violating the law if they rode a bicycle without a helmet. There was no need for a saltwater fishing license, and fish could be caught and kept at just about any size. Cars had very few pollution control devices. America's borders were not wide open like they are now.
However, it was a federal offence, we all used to say as kids, if one killed a praying mantis.
Everyone was still reeling from the Vietnam War. Corporate logos did not cover the entire landscape of America the way they do now, and strip malls were not omnipresent either. And if anyone is older and can add to this list about how different life used to be, please do so.
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Also, I used the name Lincoln or Link because it like the ultimate sort of Waspy, white New England kind of name, where, as a New Yorker, I was astonished when I learned that people have last names that are first names and first names that are last names--no wait--is it is the other way around? But call them Corporate Names I guess. And of course, like Boardwalk and Park Place, all the more valuable if developed and enhanced say, by example, a hypen or, better yet, Roman Numerals.
And I see I lost a follower, and I apologize, because I did finally read the comments. And I deleted the post.
Or perhaps the follower is now in Kimber's camp. I don't know.
But anyway, my banjo thing from yesterday is here. It is something I'm working on and trying to come up with an arrangement for. I made up the tuning, and the song shifts a few times, so I sort of mix and match the licks and patterns etc. But I have, lots more stories, and lots more banjo stuff too.
I should make drinking a topic of a Post. I always read about how much lawyers drink, so maybe it would make for good discussion.
I did e-mail the local AA a few days back, and they never replied. Honest to God I did! And I can paste a copy of the letter. I asked if there was someone I could talk to and left my e-mail and phone number, and I never heard back. I don't know why. This particular group is in a well-to-do town, but that can't have anything to do with it, I don't think. Can it?
Well, I think I can sleep now.
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OK, Here is the copy of my February 28th,. 2011 e-mail to the Alcoholics Anonymous "Intergroup" in West Hempstead. The only thing I have removed is my phone number. To date, no reply, or call.
Which is not to say I should not continue trying, but still.......
HI:
I live in Nassau County, NY.
Is there anyone I can talk to about going to a beginners meeting?
Maybe an older guy10 plus years sober. More even better.
I am a male 40 something.
My problem is solely Alcohol. No drugs at all. And just Beer 99.9 percent of the time.
I'm doing this all on my own. Never had a DWI, and no Judge is sending me etc.
The reason I ask in this way is because all the info I see online is so confusing what with beginner meetings scattered around among other types of meetings.
So I don't want to do the wrong thing and walk in on a meeting and catch anyone unaware. Show up at the wrong time etc.
Also I have a whole history of off and on with the drinking, and did go to West Hempstead a long time ago (the 1980's)
My situation is no Emergency, but my phone is ------------
Or e-mail is fine. But I won't answer today. tomorrow is fine. And I hope it is all still anonymous, at least to a reasonable point.
And now I just got a message that says the batteries in my mouse are dying, so you see, it is all down to the wire (or cordless wire) by now.
Thanks.
And the AA is a very interesting topic of discussion too. As I say in the letter, I did go to AA meetings at one time. And I can prove that I take no drugs with a simple blood test. If anyone wants I will do so and post the results of that blood test. I think even hair samples can show that too. In fact, maybe every strand of my hair tells a tale of Beer.
Allright, this post has been long enough. I'm going to let it run all week I think.
