The General

My hand finally woke up after a long stay in my Uncle David's death grip. It was squeezed so hard that my dainty meta-carpals started to kiss each other.

My Uncle always seemed to have that big personality, like that Gilbert Gottfried guy from that "Aflac" commercials. He'd usually bark across the room loudly, "come over here you little shit head!" to which I could only respond with a long winded sprint to someplace high my Uncle's short stubby body and large sausage fingers couldn't reach me. When he did finally get a hold of one of us, there was only one way to free your hand from what seemed to be the repeated feeling of getting your fingers smashed in a car door.

"Please Uncle David! Please! Please! Please! Let my hand go!" My hand was still throbbing and my uncle showed no sign of letting up. "Tell me who I am you smelly troll!" he'd say. I was never as brave as my brothers and gave in immediately, sometimes before he even reached for my hand to shake. "OK! OK! PLEASE!!" "Please Mr. Five-Star General Sir, please with a cherry on top!" as I thought, "Let go of my fucking hand you crazy old bastard!" He would only let go of your hand if you acknowledged him as "Five-Star General Sir." As he squeezed, his olive-colored Italian face would scrunch up as he folded his tongue back and bit down on it as if he was juicing the last drop of a lime into a Mad Dog 40/40. He enjoyed tormenting us and now that I have a nephew who's almost one year old... I'll soon be paying it forward.

I hope someday to have the opportunity to be the type of uncle that my uncle was to me. Uncle David was a little nuts, and by a little I mean in comparison of the Atlantic to the pacific. It's a lot of crazy, but nothing compared to the rest of the family.

I had to of been about six years old when I finally learned that my dad and step mom weren't actually looking at imaginary birds on the ceiling. They had some problems, who knows, maybe they over-heard my brother's and I some nights as we described how we'd run away and the lengths we'd go to do it. Luckily they recognized their issues, well, at least enough to know that they needed help. My dad called my Uncle and had him watch us for what seemed to be about five months as they sobered up. My grandfather was in Rhode Island, living it up with his some-what recently married wife at the time so we stayed at his large home in the quaint town of Baird, TX.

I had already switched schools twice by this time and now I'd be at my third school, where I had attended kindergarten actually. It was nice to be back but they put me in special classes so I wasn't too happy about that. I had missed a bit of school and it I never cared about my studies before because my parents definitely did not. My uncle helped me get back on track, whether I liked it or not.

I had more discipline in second grade then most of the guys I’ve dated in my twenties. The first morning we woke up I could see why my Uncle always wanted us to call him Five Star General Sir. We had to make our bed military style and report to the mess hall by o’ five hundred on the dot to begin our day of back-breaking labor. There was a freak cold front the night before that left the entire city under a blanket of sleet and slow about three inches deep. My hands took another beating that week as we went from the city hall to neighbor’s yards picking up pecans. Now that I think about it, these experiences explain my mild case of carpal-tunnel syndrome. My Uncle sold the pecans to a wealthy man in the big city who owned a pecan grove. This man’s shop is now owned by an Asian family that sells knock off t-shirts and shoes of Adidas and Nike. On occasion he would pay my Uncle to come out to his property with us to scavenge the property for pecans. He paid my Uncle well and gave my two brothers and I five bucks each and an extra five to whoever found the most pecans. I’ve had a severe un-diagnosed case of ADHD my entire life so focusing on a mundane task like picking pecans did not resonate with the old noggin.

Picking pecans was really just the start of my uncle breaking many child labor laws. We might as well have been placed in a sweat-shop outside Rio de Janeiro. Sewing and steam-pressing hand woven scarves would have been more ideal than waking up at the butt-crack of dawn to sale $1 figures at a local flea market. My uncle would order all of these aluminum, cheaply made, quarter to half of an inch tall figurines and hot glue them onto smooched down colorful marbles. He also sold all things American. Flags, T-Shirts- and hats, but mainly just small flags; I believe my Uncle has never had a “real” job for most of his life.

“Back in my day,” it wasn’t unusual for children to run around a flea market alone and visit with all of the other local flea market-teer’s. The couple across from us sold bibles, crosses, and made funnel cakes. Once they tried to sale me a bible but gave up and just gave me one. I read most of it but it only had a map in the front of what the Garden of Eden was supposed to look like and the rest of it was about old people. Where were the ninja turtles and power rangers when you needed them!? Another family sold fresh produces that they grew in their massive garden as well as video cassettes which were always too expensive for my uncle to buy. We were one of the only market-teer’s that did not sale any type of beverage or food. At this early age in my life I saw an opportunity for growth in the “Glaze Enterprise,” mainly, we were missing a crucial niche in the market and my Uncle did made kick-ass hot dogs! I tried to convince him to sale hot-dogs and pickles, “We’d make a killing Uncle David!” my twin brother would say in an overly excited screech as he’s backing me up. He’d pushed his bi-focal thick plastic faux-wood glasses up from the tip of his nose with his pointer finger. I think my Uncle didn’t have the vision it took to take the “company” to the heights that my brother and I thought it deserved.

After school, when I wasn’t too tired from picking pecans or going to the flea markets. I’d come home from school, work on my homework, eat at the dinner table with everyone and then watch “The Munsters” on Nick at Night’s TV land. This is the most functional childhood memory I can depend on to remind myself of the determination and stability that an adult should give to a child. Things were going pretty well one week and sales were at an all time high so the General bought some sirloin steaks and made them medium-rare, you know… the right way to cook a steak! My uncle was big on getting value for the things that he bought. Somehow I managed to get the steak that had the biggest piece of fat draping to the side of it. Usually I had the appetite of a polar bear in the arctic after an “honest days work” as the General would call it; however, we’d taken the day off to celebrate our short-lived wealth. Shit-Balls!!

The seasoned beef blood pulled together in a puddle on the side of my ceramic plate as I took the last meaty bite of my steak. The large piece of white fat just sat there, where’s the family dog when you need him? All we had was a Chihuahua and that flamboyant little bastard only ate deli ham.  My Uncle gave me that death look like, “you better eat that fat or I’m going to sock you in the face.” After this stern look he says to me with his tongue folded in after he had bit down, “eat that meat or I’m going to sock you in the face.” Chew and Chew as try, the fat would not deteriorate! I don’t know why I started with such a large piece. I could feel my stomach already deciding not to accept this as an acceptable form of nourishment. I started to gag as I chewed and my Uncle just yelled at me, “don’t you throw that up,” “DON’T THROW UP!” Pieces fell from my mouth and my eyes started to water, I started to sweat and at this point it was clear to everyone (including myself) that I was about to spew chunks all over the dining table. Right as I was about to throw up my Uncle advised that if I threw anything up he’d punish me and I’d get a “whooping,” which is basically the male equivalent to a spanking. It just doesn’t sound right when you say your Uncle gives you spankings.   

Creepers in the Gym

An important thought to remember is to not judge and I try to live with this frame of thinking throughout the day. This however can be hard when you’ve left the 24hr fitness off of Braker and 183 in Austin. It’s been almost a year since my last blog, so maybe we’ll try to whip this thing into shape with a review of my gym.

Any particular night after work, one may see me tinkering away with some free weights, pushing it on the elliptical, or even just mouthing the new Lady Gaga track in the sauna at the gym. So why is it, not one person has noticed these creepers in the locker room; or in the sauna, the pool area, and especially the showers. Come to think of it, the only place one wouldn’t be able to recognize these creepers would be the actual gym itself. “I’m a sinner, I am saint, I do not feel ashamed” is the theme song these guys live by.

It all started a few months ago when the new year rolled over. This happens for me a little early every year around the 28th of December. I get overly excited about many things only to see the momentum sucked from beneath my wings. Believe it or not, 24hr fitness takes the $33 from my account every month whether I go or not. So I crash landed in the Jacuzzi area after a quick swim and ended up in the sauna at some point. While sweating the toxins (alcohol) out of my system, I soon noticed an old man pouring sweat and drop by drop it landed right on my foot. He was stretching right in front of me, did this 70 something guy just leave a belly dancing class? After a hard, stiff stretch and a cracked tibia “Adidas,” as I call him, proceeds to ask many questions. In fact, beyond any control of my own, Adidas seemed to find me in the Sauna, the showers, or near my locker for weeks to come. I changed up my schedule and he’d change up his approach. As I looked at his face all I saw was his mind racing. What was he thinking? What was I doing in his head? He wanted to know if I was a swimmer, if I worked out there often. Did I run all day or was I just running through his brain all day?  These are obvious answers. Did this guy see my rolls? I told him I hadn’t hit the gym in quite some time and I tried to stay away from water. I think we lost something in translation because now he believes I have a daughter.

All of this would be fine if I didn’t leave the shower ever night, reach for my towel, and see his sagging wrinkled cheeks up top and on bottom reaching for the next person to take a peak at. Why did he stand in the middle of the shower area for so long? Why was my stall the place he left a key or towel everytime? I’m not a shy person, but this guy smelled and my balls shrank every time is saw him. That can’t be a good sign!! This guy stuck out within my mind but he is definitely not the only one. Below is a list of violators.

Beer Belly Hispanic Guy with the Fanzi Fro:

             He spends entirely too much time in the locker room. When I show up I can see that he is just entering the showers. The guy is in there for HOURS!!! It takes me an hour to finish everything upstairs, after the pool and sauna I’ve added another thirty minutes. Can somebody please tell me why he is just now doing his hair in the mirror trying to make uninterrupted eye contact with people he doesn’t know? I see this guy in the locker room more than Adidas!! Being barefoot in a guys locker room that long could really cause some permanent damage.

Old Stubbly White Faced Beard, Hair on Back Guy:

            I just call him OS.W.F.B.HOB.G for short. Ok, there is a hole in almost all of the shower stall areas! Call me naive but for the longest time it never occurred to me that people were actually looking through that hole until one day when OSWFBHOBG is poking his finger through the slot like it’s a glory hole! The hole isn’t big enough to get a whole pinky finger through; did he think this would impress me? As I looked down at the hole I could see his finger leave and an eye ball peer in. I was flattered at first then disgusted. He followed me out of the shower and got dressed right in front of me. What do people see when they look at me, do I seem that easy? This whole time I thought I was more of a Charlotte and it turns out I’m perceived more as a Samantha!

The Asians!

            For the most part I’m not interested in Asian guys and it seems like the feeling is mutual. Every time I go to the gym I’m expecting some pervert to stare me up and down and do all of the “signals” from the other stall. I get in there, I get out. My showers are more of a sprint these days at the gym. There is a large Asian population that goes to this gym and many are gay. They find other older Asian guys and do their thing. I’m not sure what happened the other day but apparently I was in the wrong stall because one Asian guy waited outside of my stall and began to throw his sandal on the ground causing a fuss. This made me very uncomfortable so I just left the stall and went to another one. “Just another weird guy at the gym,” I thought.  When I left the shower I looked to see if he was still causing a scene and the guy was jacking off right in the open where anyone could see him. Another Asian man was in the stall right next to him doing the exact same thing. What has this world come to? I haven’t gone to the gym in a while because of this, and because of my love of Mexican food.

The gym may hold many surprises for even the most timid. Be careful and always be prepared to rinse and dash, you never know when you’re getting eye fucked from old Creeper at the gym.