Roadside Assistance

Straight from the archival vault of Freudian Slips, my friend’s car once broke down on the freeway. He coasted the clunker car to the empty shoulder then hitchhiked home to gather the necessary tools to fix his flat tire. He used a secondary vehicle to return to the scene, where his initial worry about abandoning his car on the side of the road relented to peace of mind. Repairs had to be completed before nightfall, however, so he hunched over in a kneel struggling to remove stubborn lug nuts in order to fix the flat tire.

The cars whizzing by forced waves of air on his back. After a few minutes, another car pulled up. Two cars now parked behind the one disabled vehicle. My hardworking friend heard approaching footsteps and assumed a Good Samaritan arrived to offer roadside assistance. A stranger indeed stopped at the disabled vehicle wielding a long screwdriver. He crouched then started to pry a hubcap off a wheel using the tool for leverage. The two men now worked on the same side of the disabled car but on different wheels.

“What do you think you’re doing?” solicited my friend.

The wily man replied, “Just because you were here first on the scene doesn’t mean you’re entitled to steal all four hubcaps. Don’t be stingy. I’m taking as many as I can before dark just like you.”

“Stingy?” my friend incredulously replied. “I went home for tools. These are both my bleeping cars you thieving a$$hole!”

The Rooster Roaster

Remember the annoying red neon sign of Kenny Roasters restaurant beaming in Kramer's apartment on Seinfeld's Chicken Roaster epsiode? Well, what I am about to describe is sitcom similar to that only on a personal level.

I fear mentioning a name here on account of reprisal, but a good friend of mine has made pals with a wild rooster. By the time I tried to talk sense into my friend's choice of strange pets, it was already too late. He already started to feed the rooster. He encouraged the scruffy animal to come closer with each passing building of trust. The lonely rooster must have took a fancy to all the attention because he started to live at my friend's house. Their relationship blossomed when he started to make a habit of petting the rooster's crown even picking it up and cradling it like a newborn baby. Maybe it was a jealous streak but the rooster started to peek in the windows and wait by the entry doors for my friend.

When my friend telephoned to ask me in hushtones if I flat out knew anything about rooster sexual habits, my imagination feared the worst. It was at this point that I was afraid to ask him if he knew anything about rooster sexual habits. I learned that my friend, the loveable lug that he is, bought the rooster hay bedding and other creature comforts when money was believed to be tight. He now finds it comfortable talking about the rooster in public to the mailman and the like.

As irony can only dictate, I find myself at this same friend's Super Bowl party, a gala event in which I find him cruelly serving chicken wings mind you. Before long, I am prompted out onto the wood deck to visit the rooster. I step outside into the wintry night air to pay quick homage to the harebrained rooster. Perched in the tree is the fabled rooster sleeping away the bone-chilling night roasting by ultraviolet lighting. I got to admit that a rooster in a tree turned tanning bed is the last sight I would expect to find to outshine a Prince at a Super Bowl halftime show. The gamecock stirred and gave me one of those stares to crow about because at that point in time he was warmer than me.

I started to rationalize the odd sight but it boggled my mind. Homeless man wanders street in winter, homeless man freezes to death. Rooster climbs tree to escape predators, my enamored friend puts a warm spotlight on him. I thought all this was a bit strange so I tried to keep my laughter to a minimum. The other party guests must have been equally polite because they were bantering on about the rooster too.

That night I thought a lot about my friend and the rooster more than even the actual championship football game. The next day, I went to the gym where I saw a friend of mine sitting in his idling car in the parking lot. His door ajar, he proudly fed a live squirrel a part of his bag lunch. The squirrel pranced on his lap and did tricks for breadcrumbs.

I am starting to think I got to domesticate a billy goat to fit in socially.

Pirates for Life

- Joe Tornatore to the right of his friend Mike, at Mike's pirate themed 50th birthday party celebration this past weekned. Happy birthday, matey!

The Goodbye Guy

-Scott & Joe, friends reunited

Joe, John, Scott, and Jeff

We were four seemingly inseparable teenage friends until I relocated with my family to a different town in 1978. A part of me died when I moved away from my three best friends while a smaller part of me strangely never looked back. Too much time has passed for me to remember which one of us shared his goodbye optimism but nonetheless I remember hearing the following words that the four of us embraced:

“In a short time we will all have driver’s licenses. Distance will no longer be a factor. So we will always be friends and stay in touch.”

A short time can turn out to be never. Jeff moved across the country to start an alternative lifestyle only to never be heard from again. John died before his fortieth birthday. Scott disappeared from plain sight.

From a high school alumni website, I tracked down Scott’s home email address in 2005. We exchanged a flurry of emails but it took another seven months for our busy schedules to jive. Four marriages and seven children between us both, I got to see my friend Scott for the first time in nearly thirty years this past Thursday. It was about time. In the blink of an eye, we went from worry-free pimply faces to mid-life decisions. It is always about time in this game called life. Manage it well or watch it say goodbye to you.