Sorry about that. I hate technology sometimes.
On an embarrassing side note, I found the classiest song in my iTunes the other day: Kip’s “I Love Technology” song from Napoleon Dynamite. Why I downloaded that song and from where? Beyond me. I’d blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol, but I can’t. I was really that big of a loser.
Getting down to bid-ness. This is the story of the only time I’ve ever been kicked out of a store (well, and a few other “onlys” too). The details of this account are a bit hazy, as it was kind of a whirlwind, but, since generality is the enemy of all art, as our good friend Konstantin liked to say, I’m going to fill in any gaps as logically as possible. Also, you may be surprised about the way this event characterizes my family, but, in sooth, they’re really this crazy.
*Note: I realize with all the “we’s” in this story, it sounds like I was a 12-year-old alcoholic. I assure you, I was not.
The first Saturday in May might sound like a meaningless date on your calendar, but in Louisville, it’s one of the biggest holidays of the year. Horses. Bourbon. Churchill Downs. Ridiculously large hats. B-List celebrities. Drunk people making up the words to “My Old Kentucky Home.” Tiny athletes in embarrassingly-patterned neon outfits. That bugle player in the funny red outfit who, like Santa Claus, probably only works this one day every year. An event so huge that hotels are booked up years in advance, and public and private schools alike take a three-day weekend. An event people will brave any kind of weather in order to be a part of: rain, snow, hail, projectile vomit. An event that can give a three-year-old everlasting glory.
If by this point you haven’t realized that I’m talking about the Kentucky Derby, you seriously need to become more culturally aware.
In anticipation of the Derby, there are approximately six weeks of festivals and events—which is ironic, considering, on average, the actual race lasts around two minutes tops—including a hot air balloon race, a steamboat race, a marathon . . . Okay, a lot of races, and a lot of corndog stands, too. There’s also the biggest fireworks display in North America (not that I’m bragging or anything) (suck it, Disneyworld!) What I’m driving at is that this little horse race—well, it’s kind of a big deal. And my family certainly never lets it pass idly by.
Derby in my family is a tradition. Every year, various members of my extended family travel down from their little Midwestern towns, often bringing family friends, coworkers, random hitchhikers, cable guys, etc, to take part in one gigantic bacchanal of a weekend. And, being a very ornery clan of people, we also highly enjoy humiliating and torturing others, and this delight increases with every mint julep that is consumed (which is to say it can just about reach the moon in a very short amount of time.) Hence, there is an established tradition within the tradition, called “rookie-ing” (yes, “rookie” is a verb, go tell it to Strunk and White). If you’ve never been to our Derby before, or if it’s been a few years since you made this trip because you’ve had “responsibilities” and “jobs” and other insufficient excuses, you have to get rookie-ed. Now, the rules to rookie-ing seem to change every year, but a few things always stay the same: you’re gonna get drunk, you’re gonna get hurt, we’re gonna laugh at you, and, at some point, you’re gonna throw up, either from the alcohol or any of the other substances we might make you ingest. (We once forced my aunt to eat some hot sauce that was so painful, she chugged an entire gallon of milk. You can probably guess how that turned out.)
Each year, we thrill ourselves as we compile a new list of torture techniques for the innocent and unsuspecting rookies who get caught in our dastardly Derby web. Some of the tests are gross (e.g. eating a plate of live earthworms—my uncle once did that just for kicks), some are dangerous (e.g. waterboarding—that was completely voluntary; they wanted to be waterboarded), some are just outrageous (e.g. doing cartwheels naked down the street—I wasn’t allowed to watch that one), and every activity has a corresponding point value, depending on its difficulty. (Surprisingly, we’ve only had the cops called on us once, maybe twice; our neighbors must sleep like sacks of potatoes.) Yes, we take our rookie-ing very seriously, and rookies have always just done what they’re told because, well, that’s just what you do. So when my cousin Tom, who had finally trekked down one year for Derby since becoming legally of drinking age, started saying “no,” no one really knew how to react.
“C’mon, just—“
“No.”
“But you wouldn’t even have to—“
“Nope!”
“You really won’t—“
“No, I don’t think so.”
Tom had always been an old soul; he’d never quite been the life of the party. We’d known that going in. But he couldn’t just refuse to be rookie-ed . . . Could he? He didn’t even want to drink a mint julep. The terror level was at “oh shit,” and was quickly escalating to “must get blackout drunk to escape the depression.” Things were getting desperate. Something embarrassing and ridiculous had to happen soon, or we were all going to have conniptions.
“Okay,” my uncle said. “You just have to do this one thing, that’s it, and we’ll consider you fully rookie-ed.”
“Depends on what it is.”
There was one challenge on the rookie list that year that we were all particularly proud of. It would certainly be one for the books. If we couldn’t witness this event before the weekend’s end, the whole year of meticulous planning and mounting anticipation would be for naught. We all crossed our fingers and toes as we anxiously awaited the proposal.
“Dress up like a woman and go buy a douche.”
Viscous silence. Then:
“What!? No way, absolutely not.”
“What!? No way, absolutely not.”
Groans, curses, heavy gulping of alcoholic substances.
“Come on,” my uncle pleaded—not his usual tactic of persuasion. He’s a used car salesman, a master of the hook. He once had an hour-long conversation with a telemarketer about her divorce. This man could probably convince Mary-Kate that she was Ashley. He could get a burglar to give him the crook’s own wallet. He could make Pogs sound fun. I’m telling you, he’s a miracle worker with words. He started haggling with Tom’s pride.
“Okay, just a dress and shoes, no makeup or jewelry.”
“No, Uncle Rex, I’m not doing it.”
“Instead of a douche, you can just buy a box of tampons.”
“This is not happening.”
“We’ll go in the middle of the night when store traffic will be lowest.”
“Uncle Rex—“
We could all see it happening before our eyes: Rex was backing Tom into a metaphorical corner, eroding his defenses like an avalanche raging down a semi-drunk mountainside. He was looking hesitant, torn. He needed one last little push into the palm of our hands.
“We’ll do it with you,” my brother offered, referring to Tom’s younger brother Jake.
“There you go,” Rex said. “You can’t say ‘no’ now. These guys aren’t even getting rookie-ed.”
We all looked at Tom expectantly, not anxious for an answer, for we knew what the answer would be—had to be. We waited for his concession so that we could hoot and holler, finish our mint juleps, and start getting the necessary supplies ready.
“Okay, fine. Fine.”
An eruption of laughter, high-fives, “woo-hoos,” and clinking glasses. Tom was already up to his eyeballs in regret, but there was no going back now.
My mom, my aunts, and I raced upstairs to my mom’s closet. We tore through her closet like looters, pulling out any dress that tickled our cruel fancies. “Is this pink enough?” “Is this neckline low enough?” “Can we cut this slit up any higher?” We wanted these boys to look like they’d just come from a gig at The Birdcage; subtlety could not be allowed. Gaudy garments were flying through the air like transvestite shooting stars, shoes were being examined—mainly for size—and tossed into frantic piles, scarves were whipping through the gusts of our tornado like flags at a gay pride parade.
The boys entered the war zone with gusto. Mitch and Jake were actually excited about this cross-dressing adventure—something that would’ve worried us at the time if we hadn’t been so excited ourselves. Tom was still pretty hesitant, but that couldn’t sway us—he was ours now, and we weren’t going to let him forget it. We showed them the options we had considered outrageous enough, letting them choose their own scantily clad fates.
Mitch and Jake were like two kids in a candy store—if those kids had daddy issues and that candy store was a Dress Barn. They quickly chose their favorite garments, Jake in a classy and elegant number and Mitch in a bright summer-evening gown—and then they shocked us all: they asked for more. They wanted bras, they wanted boobs, they wanted jewels and makeup and glitter. They were like the precursors to Gaga’s little monsters. We all swelled with pride—what exactly we were proud about, we weren’t sure, but the boys’ enthusiasm was infectious. Plus, we squealed with delight because we knew that, no matter the deal Rex had made with Tom, once the mascara and baubles started adorning Mitch and Jake, Tom would be defenseless against us.
We slathered hot pink lipstick on their faces, hung shiny necklaces ‘round their necks, adjusted bra straps to fit their big shoulders. It was like getting your daughter ready for the prom—a prom at a grocery store at 2 a.m., but still. We desperately searched for fruit, balloons, balled-up paper towels, anything that might make a suitable substitute for breasts. We had them all trannied up like Dennis Rodman, and just when we’d thought we’d finished, they’d want extras: “Can I get some glitter on my cheeks?” “Should I carry a handbag?” “Do these shoes match this dress?” I’m pretty sure every boy secretly has a desire to try on a dress and some lipstick, but few ever allow themselves to succumb to the impulse. Mitch and Jake weren’t just succumbing to the impulse; they were bear-hugging it, spooning with it, and were they quite unashamed.
We’d gotten Tom in a flowy pink-carnation-colored dress and some white sandals; we’d gotten a little makeup on him and a few pieces of jewelry. He wasn’t a masterpiece like the other two, but he was certainly prettier than we’d expected to get him. We directed our beauties downstairs to show the guys our handiwork. They guffawed and catcalled and poured them all drinks.
When they had guzzled down their cocktails, as we were preparing to journey over to the Meijer at which the shenanigans were to take place, Rex brought me our video camera.
“What’s this for?”
“We’re going to videotape this for posterity.” Pics or it didn’t happen, right?
“I’m not really a very good cameraman . . . “ Really, I wasn’t. I couldn’t hold a camera steady to save my life. To watch a video that I had personally recorded was like riding a roller coaster with astigmatism.
“You’ll be fine. Besides, I’ll probably have to deal with the business end of this.” The business end? They were going to buy tampons, douches, and adult diapers (that last item was added by Mitch and Jake in their excitement). They weren’t trading stocks or buying insurance. Clearly, I had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
We all piled into two or three cars, each car well over its suggested (read: legal) capacity, for the two and a half minute drive to Meijer (which has been scientifically determined [by our odometers] to be exactly one mile from our driveway). We were all chattering with anticipation; the greatest two minutes in sports was a nice blip on our radar, but the real climax of our Derby weekend was about to go down.
We parked in a sparsely populated parking lot. It was really late— more a consequence of the time it took to prepare the divas rather than honoring the deal Rex had made with Tom—but there were sure to be enough people inside to heighten the stakes. We all tried to gain some crumb of composure as our huge group casually glided through the automatic doors. I turned on the camcorder and waited for the magic to happen.
Immediately, our boys got stares: from checkout clerks, from shoppers, from stockers. We weaved through the store, going up and down random aisles, stopping to have the bejeweled and glittery cross-dressers interview employees and customers about the weather, their weekend plans, their favorite brand of pudding. Most people just stared at us with eyes like Tarsiers monkeys, clearly concerned for their own safety, like the boys were the characters from Rent and they were going to breath AIDS on everyone. Some people understood our sick sense of humor, though, and were clearly amused—even impressed—by our antics, letting us take their picture with our lovely she-men and kindly directing us to the douche aisle. We were all practically crawling through the store, we were on our knees laughing so hard, but the boys remained in perfect character. They were ever-so-seriously contemplating which fragrance of douche to buy, which brand of adult diaper looked the most absorbent. It was like watching our own little private SNL skit unfold unto unsuspecting spectators. The night was a huge success.
That is, until I was approached by a wildly angry man in a bright blue Meijer polo whose little plastic nametag read “Manager.”
“What do you think you’re doing!? Is that a video camera!? Turn that thing off, turn that thing off!” I did as I was told, not wanting to send him into some kind of psychotic aneurism. But my uncle came up behind me and told me to turn it back on.
“Excuse me,” Mr. Bulging-Vein-in-Forehead said in disbelief.
My uncle was calm, levelheaded, not letting this guy’s anger intimidate him. “We’re just videotaping a family trip to the grocery store. Is there something wrong with that?”
“Yes, yes there is!” Bulging Vein responded. “I am the manager of this store, and I say there is to be no videotaping of anything! It’s—it’s against our policy!”
“What policy?”
“Our policy!” I thought that vein was going to explode and I would soon be covered in this guy’s sticky brain fluid. But my uncle persisted.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t think that’s very fair. She’s just a kid, she just wants to videotape her family. You’re not gonna let her do that?”
“No, I am not!” Then began the haggling.
“Okay, so if we can’t videotape this family outing to your fine establishment, can we at least take pictures?”
“No!”
“Audio recordings?”
“No!”
“Can we sketch it in a notebook?”
“Absolutely not!” How he thought had any authority to deny sketching is beyond me. “And if you and your family don’t exit the store immediately, I’ll have to get security to show you out!” I think the vein developed a Siamese twin.
“Alright, alright,” my uncle said coolly. “We’ll make our way to the front of the store and head out. We just need to find the rest of our clan first.”
Bulging Vein(s) escorted us to the front of the store, where we found another scene going down. It seemed the boys had been refused service by a checkout clerk and were forced to use the U-Scan. To normal people, this wouldn’t have been a big deal, considering the circumstances, but my aunt was infuriated. She was screaming and yelling, the boys trying to drag her away from the checkout clerk in question, lest she rip the woman’s eyes out with her fingernails.
“This is discrimination! You can’t refuse service to paying customers just because they don’t look like you! What if they were real transvestites, huh!? Would you refuse service to them then!? You’re heartless! You’re cruel! The police are going to hear about this! Dissssscrimmmmminnnnnationnnnn!” Luckily, the boys got her out of the store before Bulging Vein(s) had a chance to step in.
We approached the exit nonchalantly, making us look like the normal ones in the situation and the employees look like the psychos. We glanced back at Bulging Vein(s) who was giving us a death stare, hands planted firmly on his hips, feet in second position. I almost asked him if he’d ever taken ballet before, but I decided to escape his wrath while there was still time.
The next day, we hooked the camcorder up to the TV and watched my recording of the event. As I had projected, the picture looked like someone who’d placed the camera in a dryer and then gave that dryer some cocaine. You could barely watch it for more than ten seconds without getting the overwhelming urge to bring up what you had for lunch. People harassed me about my obvious directorial failure, but in the end, it didn’t really matter. The memory of our epic adventure will forever be emblazoned in our minds, one of the great events in the Derby Hall of Fame. And, probably, the glitter on the boys’ cheeks will never completely wash away.
2 comments:
This is the event that saved derby. If Tom would have said no/Rex wouldn't have made the save, Derby tradition would have likely died out.
So very true.
Post a Comment