Even when the bored creaked.
Even when your soil wasn’t reputable.
Even when the distain wouldn’t come out.
Even when to the cleaners no one would take you.
Even...when the score wasn’t.
Even limitations had love.

For me introspection tends to lead itself to bouts of melancholy for which I am ill prepared to deal with at this time. Therefore, like or beloved president I shall no longer consider why I do things or consider anything I do wrong a mistake. I shall plow happily ahead with only one thought on my mind and that will be MONEY. If I focus on MONEY and nothing else there will be nothing else. See how simple it is to be stupid and greedy?

When I was a Kid - Part I

His name was Jack Swinger and even as a kid I knew he was a plastic pimp with the scruples of foot fungus. It is beneath me to even mention his name but for the purposes of sharing this story with you I’ll have to put a clothes pin on my nose and resurrect the bastard’s memory. You see Jack was my gold chain wearing Little League coach--an ugly precursor to the modern Little League Dad. He was way ahead of his time as far as being slime was concerned and for that I guess some sort of accolade should be bestowed upon him. So, to Jack I raise my middle finger and say, “Kiss my ass.”

But this story isn’t just about Jack per say, if it were it would be so oily you’d probably slide out of your chair by page three. No, this story is about me and how in a way I had my revenge against Jack, how a kid who was pushed too far learned to push back thanks to the help of a former NFL lineman.

I first met Jack and his freckled offspring Bert--who was as mean as a pit bull locked inside a utility closet---in 1979 when my family moved from Hershey to Selinsgrove, Pennsylvania. It was at Little League tryouts that coach and son first appeared in the story that was shaping up to be my life. It would also be the day the bottom of my world fell out like the soggy bottom of a wax paper soda cup.

I remember standing under a leafless tree on the edge of the baseball field with several other prospective Little Leaguers when I saw a great cloud of brown dust came rolling down the dirt lane. I would soon see, buried in the depths of this cloud, a Chevy van bedecked in glittering purple paint, audacious gold rims and oversized Goodyear tires.

A kid named Eddie leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I have a Matchbox car exactly like that van.”

I wasn’t yet able to recognize the tribute to the man whore lifestyle Jack Swinger was making with the gaudy accessories he painted, glued, and welded to his van but I knew something was amiss. I’d never seen a full grown adult drive a vehicle that looked like a Matchbox car and something about it made me uneasy.

“Is that our coach?” someone asked.

We all stared wide eyed as the man I would come to know as Jack Swinger slid out of the van with the same grotesque rhythm of a snake shedding its skin. He adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and tugged at his crotch as if he was making sure his manhood hadn’t come unscrewed and was sitting back on the floor of his van.

His pudgy son Bert soon emerged from the other side of the Chevy van and like his father adjusted his mirrored sunglasses and then tugged happily at his tiny crotch. “Dad do you want me to get the equipment?”

“Well, it’s not going to get itself is it? And don’t forget the bases,” Swinger said. “I’m going to introduce myself to the team.”

The crisp spring air was poisoned immediately as Jack Swinger walked up to us, leaving a vapor trail of Brute and Garcia Vega cigar smoke that burned the linings of our eyes and lungs. He lifted his foot and put his Garcia Vega out on the sole of his new Pony cleat.

Jack twirled the orange chest hair that hung out of his wide collared silk shirt. “Well, what are you nancy boys looking at? Get out there in center field and line up. We’re going to catch some pop flies.”

Like a herd disoriented water buffalo we drifted out into the outfield and formed a crooked line. Somehow I ended up in the front of this poorly constructed line, which was not at all what I had intended. In fact I thought I had been last in line but Swinger designated my position as the front when he pointed at me with Louisville Slugger.

“Okay, hot one comin’ at ya, Messner,” Swinger yelled.

He tossed the ball up in the air and swung with the viciousness of Reggie Jackson. CRACK! The ball whistled through the air in a high line drive that was about twenty feet over my head. I tried to chase the smoking orb down but even if Willie Mays had been given a full head of steam and a fishing net on a long pole he wouldn’t have been able to snag that one.

As I ran after the ball I glanced back over my shoulder. Swinger threw his arms up in the air in disgust. The gold chains around his neck jangled against the collar of his silk shirt. “Come on, catch the ball.”

I searched for the ball knocking down poison ivy with an old reality sign I found leaning against a tree.

“Come on we don’t have all day,” Swinger said.

I kicked at the poison ivy. “I can’t find it.”

Continuing to beat around with the reality sign I noticed in the underbrush someone had discarded what looked like a perfectly good bra and a six pack of Schlitz but not having yet dabbled in the drunken arts I let the warm bottles where they lay. “Damn it,” I said under my breath, “where is the ball?”

Something scurried out from under a wet cardboard box. I flung the reality sign in the animal’s general direction and high tailed it out of the woods. That jerk can find his own ball, I thought.

Next up in the pop fly circus was none other than the mini-pimp Bert Swinger. He took a pouch of Big League Chew out of his back pocket and stuffed his cheek with an obnoxiously large wad of it and gave his dad the thumbs up sign.

“Come on big guy,” Swinger said. “Show the old man what you got.”

Swinger tossed the ball in the air and took a feeble half swing. The ball arched lazily up up up and seemed to hover in the sky like a dirigible for a moment before it decided to come back to earth directly overtop of Bert. There was no need for the scurrilous offspring of Jack Swinger to do any more than lift his glove up and let the ball fall directly into it.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Swinger said. “Did you see that? That’s how you catch a ball Messner.”

Yeah, I saw it all right. I knew then that something wasn’t fucking right. Someone was toying with self-fulfilling prophecies and his name was Jack Swinger. Where had the warp-speed Reggie Jackson swing gone? What about the extra hot sauce on the ball he delivered to me? Why was he trying to make me look bad? I was so pissed off I could barely breath. Baseball had always been carefree and fun. I had been damn good at it too, making the All Star team every year I played and now suddenly, in less than ten minutes I was beginning to doubt my own ability.

I was about to learn the hard way that the world wasn’t fair, that it was filled with unscrupulous adults with agendas that had nothing to do with my best interest but only success for them and their anemic offspring. I had unwittingly joined an inglorious parade led by that plastic pimp named Jack Swinger and I had no choice but to follow. For the next few years I would be at the back of this parade with a push broom and everyone knows what the guys at the back of the parade are left to clean up.

“Hey, Messner, did you find that ball?” Swinger asked.

“No.”

“Well get back in the woods and find it.” He turned to one of the parents that was standing nearby. “Can you believe that kid?” he said.

So, I pull out of the Hess station on Derry Street. The light changes from red to green. I need to get into the left lane but it is jammed so I slowly try to work my way into the lane. Momentarily I have to sit in the right lane and other cars can’t get by. Immediately some cocksucker starts laying on his horn. About five seconds later I pull into the left lane and traffic starts moving. The guy that was behind me drives up beside me and yells into my window, “You fucking asshole.” To top off his tirade he flips me off. Now, anyone that knows me knows that I don’t like aggressive drivers. I find it ironic how tough these people are when they are encased in a couple tons of steel and speeding by you. I wanted more than anything to cut him off and beat his face in but I’m older and mature now and so I waved to him but deep inside I was rearranging his nose.

This incident and other similar incidents have made me wonder if my liberal presidential bumper sticker makes me a target for aggressive redneck types. I hope they don’t think that just because I’m not greedy and or/stupid, that I don’t think I need guns (though I have some that I will gladly donate to melt down into wheelchairs for people in third world countries) or that I haven’t found Jesus (Though I am looking. I think he might be in my glove compartment) that I am some sort of coward. They would be mistaken.

The Squatter Part II

The next morning I had a doctor’s appointment so I was late getting to work. As I pulled into my private parking space I was shocked to find the same beastly vehicle that had been parked there the day before. I slammed on my brakes, got my taser out of my glove compartment and hopped out of my vehicle.

I crept around the side of the junk heap—taster leading the way in my clenched fist. What I came up upon was much more bizarre than anything I had expected. The trunk of the car was open and duct taped to it was a blue tarp. The tarp was tied to the branches of the holly tree that sat at the end of the driveway and served as a makeshift tent. Next to the tarp was a blazing fire fed by broken up pallets. Lying on a filthy sleeping bag was the bastard I had kicked out of my parking space the day before.

He turned a pigeon on the spit he’d devised using a car antenna. It actually smelled pretty good for pigeon.

I waved my taser threateningly. “What in the hell are you doing here you filthy cocksucker!”

He looked up at me. “Exercising my rights as a free American.”

“You misguided son-of-a-bitch. You’re not doing anything heroic or patriotic. You’re breaking the goddamn law.”

“One man’s law is another man’s prison.”

My grip tightened on the taser. “That’s not intelligent or profound. In fact it’s too goddamn vague to even make sense.”

He pulled at his beard. “You think you’re better than me.”

“Infinitely.”

“And that’s why I’m squatting on this land and claiming it as my own.”

“I see what you’re doing. You watched that movie Pacific Heights. The one where Michael Keaton plays a tenant who drives the owner of the house crazy, gets him to attack and then sues him to get his house.”

“I don’t watch movies. They distort my vision of reality.”

“News flash, your vision of reality is distorted. You see life through the bottom of a Coke bottle.”

I couldn’t control my anger any longer. I kicked the bumper of his car with my Burmese jungle boot. It started to roll. The idiot hadn’t put his brakes on. The tarp pulled from the tree and dragged through the fire and it was instantly aflame. One of the branches from the holly tree—which was being drug behind the tarp--caught the pigeon and it flew up in the air, and before I could dodge it the damn antennae—with the bird still on it—pierced my suit coat. I had a giant pigeon stickpin in my jacket. I tried to yank it free but the grease from the bird made it impossible.

“Goddamn, you.” I would have surely tased him if he wouldn’t have been chasing his car down the hill at the end of the driveway.

“Screw you.”

The blue tarp was on fire and was flapping behind the car like Dracula’s cape. I started after the car too and the crotch of my suit ripped. I kept up the chase though and soon caught up to the squatter. He was breathing hard and I jammed the taser into his ribs and squeezed the trigger. He fell to the wayside and came to rest in a flowerbed. I laughed evilly but my victory was short lived.

The contents of the trunk--what appeared to be receipts and old documents of some sort--had now caught fire and the car was headed towards a group gathered in front of the Capital. My sense of civic duty compelled me to keep up the chase and try to save the lives of any innocent protester.

“Look out runaway car,” I cried.

The crowd panicked and people scrambled to get out of the way. The flaming car hit the podium and then smashed into the capital stairs coming to a stop. The podium caught on fire but no one seemed hurt. I sighed. It was then I noticed the big sign hanging from the front of the Capital: People For Stray Dogs.

There was a big fence set up with about a hundred dogs inside it and when the car had hit the podium it had knocked part of the fence over. Now the dogs started to leak out through the opening and strangely they started coming towards me. I took a step back and dogs started to pick up their pace. I continued backpedaling and then it hit me. The pigeon stickpin was still hooked to my suit coat.

The dogs started sprinting towards me and I took off. They chased me through alleyways and through gutters. I spent the better part of the day running from them and was only able to rid myself of them when I was able to pull the pigeon from my suit coat and toss it to them.

Worn out, I made my way back to my office. Just as I got to my parking space a tow truck was pulling out. He had deposited that bastards burned car in my parking spot. I could see the squatter behind his car setting up camp again.

He peered out from behind his car and smiled. “Good afternoon, neighbor.”

I was too tired to fight back but tomorrow was a new day and I had a plan to get rid of that squatter once and for all.

Driving to work I noticed a woman on a street corner in the distance. She was talking rapidly and as I drew closer I noticed she was disheveled, her hair a tangled mess. I wondered whom she was talking to on her phone. She turned her head and I knew she wasn’t talking to anyone. She was talking into a banana…

The Squatter Part I

The beer bottles under my seat came loose and rolled under the gas and brake pedals as I careened around the turn. When I jammed my boot on the brake pedal a bottle lodged underneath it kept it from going down. The result was a rather wide turn that sent my retro-fitted bio diesel Jeep sliding through the neighboring office buildings flower bed. I was headed for a fire hydrant when the beer bottle under the brake came lose and I was able to stomp down on it.

Luckily, it was just after dawn and no one in the neighboring buildings was at their offices yet. I collected several dozen of the less damaged roses from the flowerbed. They might have brought a pretty penny on the flower black market and I planned to sell them to my cohorts at our daily lunch meeting in the food court at Strawberry Square but as luck would have it I forgot them in the back of my Jeep and discovered them several weeks later when I noticed a rotting smell.

After packing the flowers away I drove around my office building to park in the rear parking lot.

“Egad, a squatter,” I cried.

Some bastard had parked in my private parking spot. The car looked like a reject from the demolition derby with one side rippled and stripped of paint. The hood was held down with a bungee cord and the tires were balled and mismatched. This bastard had blatantly disregarded the no parking sign posted right in front of his car.

I had dealt with these parking spot stealers before and they were not a rational type. When it came to parking they believed the rules of the old west still held that if you parked your wagon on a certain parcel that it was in fact by squatters rights their property until they decided it was time to move on. This illegal squatting was of course against every city law known to man and since no one in the city seemed to enforce this illegal parking I had taken it upon myself to deal with these bastards in my own way. Calling a tow truck was too good for them. I needed to make an impression.

I got out of my Jeep and looked inside the car. Evidently this guy was some sort of gadget nut. There was a GPS system, a radar detector, a satellite radio, CB, Two cell phones, an AM/FM cassette, CD and Eight track player and a docking system for an I-pod. The contents of the car greatly out valued the vehicle itself.

I was contemplating my next move when I heard someone cry out. “Hey, what are you doing to my car?”

I turned on the heels of my Burmese Jungle boots and stood face to face with a man that had evidently never been introduced to a razor. He was wearing a white T-shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been washed since the invention of carbonated beverages.

“You’re parked in a private parking spot.”

“I wasn’t even gone for a half hour.”

“Right, well, I think you’re missing the point here. This is private parking. You’re not supposed to park here any time.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to mess with my ride.”

“Again, I think you’re missing the point. You are on private property. No matter what your excuse is you are not supposed to be parked here. Do you understand that?”

The cocksucker got in my face and it was all I could do not to karate chop him in the neck and render him a useless blob but I held my cool. I didn’t want to wrinkle my suit and I was already involved in several physical assault cases, all of which I was guilty of but for the right reasons..

Just as suddenly as he’d gotten in my face he backed down. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“Pay for what? You’re the one that broke the law.”

He swung open the door of his car and it nearly fell off. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, getting it back in line and then hopped inside and pulled the door shut. He rolled down his window and held onto the door so it wouldn’t fall off, started it and peeled out. Pieces of the car fell off as ripped out of my parking spot.

Somehow I knew I hadn’t seen the last of this cocksucker…