The Dog That Ruined My Life- And Other Stories From the Road.
By Joe Guse
Crown Publishing, Copyright 2007
Introduction
Growing up we all accumulate our share of funny stories. I can remember as a teenager, standing in my backyard looking longingly into the sky and wondering if anything was ever going to happen to me. Now looking back, I realize things were happening to me, but it was just that I was too wrapped up in my own angst to understand. A couple of the stories in this book are about my early life with my family, and took place in these same years I was sure “nothing happened.” Looking back I would love to return to that time and place of my youth, as it has now become a rich tapestry of funny memories and stories. Sometimes it just takes time and reflection to come to understand that you don’t recognize the most significant moments of your life when they are happening.
So it was after High School when I took to the road, desperately wanting to make something happen in my life, and some of those things are included in this book. My travels took me to 5 of our National parks, where I worked as a busboy, waiter, bartender, and pretty much every job in between. I can remember at one point vividly standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon when I was 22, again gazing longingly into the summer sky, wondering why the hell I was working as a waiter when I should be in school learning something. Again I had failed to recognize that while I was sure nothing was happening to me, significant and life-shaping experiences were occurring all the time, but that again, in the midst of my own angst, I had failed to recognize this.
In writing this book, I have therefore attempted to acknowledge and appreciate some of these experiences, and take a moment to celebreate some of the great characters from my past. If there is a personal lesson to be learned here, it is to take notice in the here and now of the hysterical events and marvelous characters that constantly exist all around us. My life has certainly taught me that these events and people are all too real. Now, when I feel that old familiar angst, I remind myself to take a look around and observe the world. More often than not I find that there is always something and someone worth paying attention to.
The Dog That Ruined My Life
The dog followed me home when I was in 6th grade and I should have known it was a bad omen when he bit my hand when I attempted to pet him for the first time. He looked harmless enough and resembled a million other run of the mill Bengi-looking mutts around the world, but looks can be deceiving, and this dog eventually became the bane of my existence.
After he bit me I took an almost immediate dislike towards him, but my sister and brothers liked him, so I uneasily accepted having to share a home with this scraggly-looking mongrel. Things went bad almost immediately. The dog showed no aptitude towards being housebroken, and a particular favorite activity became urinating on my clothes which were normally piled in a corner in the room I shared with my brothers. Strangely the dog chose only my clothing for this activity, and the rest of the family found this process “adorable” and therefore made no special efforts to assist in training him to urinate and defecate outside.
Aside from his digestive habits, the dog also showed amazing virility and sexual prowess, and would sleep with any dog no matter how big or small, and also showed no ability to discriminate between male and female dogs for his sexual conquests. I should make clear that I was not opposed to homosexuality per se, but, in the eyes of the other kids in the neighborhood, my dog’s homosexuality also reflected directly on my own, and soon, through no fault of my own, I was called “faggot” by the other kids based solely on the fact that my dog had such an overactive libido.
On one particularly memorable occasion my dog impregnated a purebred German Shepard down the street, (the logistics of this escaped me) and I was presented with a bill for an abortion by a particularly snooty neighbor. This put me in an awkward position, as I disliked both the neighbor and the dog, and therefore did not want to get personally involved in the situation. In the end I paid for his sins anyway though, as my mom insisted I walk the dog on a leash on a daily basis so he could get his daily dose of fresh air without siring any more potentially Bisexual heirs. These walks upset me very much, as they extended my time with the dog by nearly an hour a day, and simply walking with my “gay” dog opened me to even more stinging commentary by the various bullies around the neighborhood.
Because of this I would often deliberately leave the neighborhood, and on one such occasion I hatched a plan. After getting a couple of miles from my house I saw a place with a monstrous backyard that appeared to be a kind of makeshift shelter for wayward animals, and what better candidate could there be than my own hated animal. I quickly took his identification tags off and tied him to a nearby tree, thinking this would be the end of my time with this beastly creature, but again I was sadly mistaken.
The first night following the incident I slept like a baby, dreaming peacefully of living without urine-soaked clothes and regular beatings suffered for having a bisexual dog. Soon my peace was disrupted however, as my mother, who had grown rather fond of the dog, organized a massive sweep of the neighborhood complete with signs and door-to door searches to bring the hated beast to his rightful home. We even took a family vote on offering a reward, (I was the lone “neigh” vote) and soon my allowance was 25 dollars lighter as a result of this decision.
I did my best to steer these searches away from the neighborhood I had abandoned him at, but eventually my mother’s diligence paid off, and she received a call one day describing her adorable family pet. My mother made me accompany her to pick the dog up, and when we got close to the house I felt like a criminal who was forced to return to the scene of the crime. When the owner of the shelter explained to my mom that she found the dog tied to a tree, she immediately cast an accusatory gaze my way, and, although I denied my involvement profusely, it was clear she strongly suspected me.
The ride home was especially uncomfortable, as I was forced to sit in the back while the dog got to ride in the spacious and comfortable front seat. On the way home my mom stopped at McDonalds, and I was forced to eat a dreaded filet-o-fish, while my dog sat in the front seat enjoying a cheeseburger and fries my mom had purchased for him as a treat for having been found. On the ride I swore I saw the dog look back at me and smile, and I looked away and thought to myself, “you’ve won this round” while disgustingly choking down my crusty fried fish.
After that my relationship with my dog, which was already miserable, worsened considerably. Now in addition to urinating on my clothing, the dog began leaving little piles of shit on my possessions, including my bed, and I was virtually powerless to retaliate with the cloud of suspicion that hung over my head following the missing dog incident.
The following summer a near miracle occurred, and, against all odds I had attracted the interest of one of the neighborhood lolitas in spite of my less than stellar reputation as a loverboy. She was a year younger than me, but already miles ahead in experience and street-smarts, and soon our relationship progressed to the next level.
After much negotiation and discussion and despite my intense fear and agitation, we agreed that we would consummate our relationship in my backyard on Friday of the following week. Looking back this was not the most romantic of choices, but at the age of 15 these things are not a strong priority. Prior to the big event my anxiety continued to increase, and, despite my anticipation I was utterly terrified when the big day finally arrived.
My date, however, was not so scared, as she had considerably more experience in these matters than I had. With a great deal of fumbling around and her gentle guidance we did eventually begin to do it correctly however, and the huge significance of the event began to occur to me. I had done it! I was having sex! And these thoughts continued to flood my mind, until I was brought crashing back down to earth by a rather unpleasant odor, and soon a horrible realization began to occur to me. I looked down at my white tee-shirt and saw it was covered by several long, flowing stains of dog feces, and then I knew it was true. I had just had my first sexual experience in a steaming hot pile of dog shit, and as this awful truth came over me, I looked into my bedroom window and saw two small paws on the windowsill. Looking up I saw my dog looking out at me, and again I saw the familiar smirking smile I had began to hate so much. He had won. He had beaten me, and I slowly nodded my head towards the window to acknowledge his victory, and as I did the shade closed, and my dog drifted off to what I’m sure was a very pleasant night’s sleep.
My Brother Eats Diseased Fish
Every family has a member who is considered the “Black sheep.” Unfortunately my family consisted of only Black Sheep, but even amongst this wayward flock, my brother Ricky stood out. He was a year younger than me, and, although we fought often as brothers are prone to do, we were like-minded in many ways, and over the years formed a kind of unusual bond.
One summer after his first year of college, Ricky had returned to our hometown to live, and because he chose to find his own place, we didn’t see much of each other. Therefore I was taken by surprise when I was driving around town one day and in a scene reminiscent of The Andy Griffith Show saw him walking down the street whistling happily to himself while holding an enormous fish that was slung over his shoulder.
Several things puzzled me about this scene, the first being that there was no fishing pole in site, and as I did a quick U-Turn in my car to investigate the situation, I was startled to see that the fish he was carrying had clearly been dead for some time.
Before continuing I should mention that we lived very close to a Nuclear power plant that routinely emptied waste materials into the nearby Colombia River. Needless to say this had an adverse affect on the fish, and in particular the fish my brother was now holding. As I got closer I saw the fish was missing an eye, and had large green growths coming out of the socket where the eye used to hang. There were several visible open sores on the body of the fish, and it was clear to me from looking at this creature that it had not, in fact died of natural causes.
To say that I was puzzled would be an understatement. Surely he didn’t intend to eat this animal? When I inquired further my worst fears were nonetheless confirmed, and he informed me that he did indeed intend to barbecue the fish that very evening, and that I was welcome to come by for the party. Further probing clarified the story even further. He had apparently been walking on the shore of the river, to, in his words, “clear his head” when he stumbled across the “gold mine” that he now carried in his hands. Not believing this incredible stroke of fortune, he quickly swept the fish up, and raced home to indulge in a feast, and that brought us up to the point where our paths had crossed.
Several options crossed my mind upon hearing this story, but first and foremost it was clear that I couldn’t let him actually eat what was left of this diseased sea-creature. With this in mind I opened my wallet and saw I had seven lonely dollars in there, but this was money I was happy to relinquish if it would say my brother from the repercussions of going through with his planned “barbecue.”
When I first told him to give me the fish an immediate look of hurt and disappointment flashed across his face. He couldn’t understand my disgust, and so when I reluctantly offered my seven dollars in exchange for the fish, I also explained how eating this thing would most likely make him violently ill, and possibly even kill him. He dismissed this as paranoia, and, although I heard him mumble the word “pussy” softly under his breath, he reluctantly took my money and handed over the gnarled animal.
Although I was loathe to touch the fish, I knew I had to get rid of it so know one else would have to come in contact with it. With that in mind I took it, and with a running start hurled it over a fence into a weeded area where it looked like no one had been for quite some time. As the fish hit the ground it kicked up a flash of dirt, and its other eyeball rolled slowly out of its head. Resisting a gag, I felt satisfied with the exchange, and drove off, telling my brother it was good to see him and that we would get together soon.
Although I would like to say that was the end of the story, it unfortunately wasn’t. I had driven no more than a half block down the street when I turned and looked in my rearview mirror and saw something I hadn’t expected. There was brother shimmying his way up the fence, jumping over to retrieve his glorious find. 7 dollars richer and happy that God’s good fortune had smiled on him on such a wonderful afternoon.
Dirty Dishes in the Bathtub
Miraculously my brother survived eating the diseased fish, but after that we took a little break from each other, so when he called me up and invited me to live with him where he attending college, I knew it might not be the best idea. Still, living at home was an equally unattractive option, and so, with great trepidation I packed up my old Volkswagen bus and made the trip to live with my crazy brother.
Arriving at his home, I saw that had decorated his walls with beer boxes, and this made for a most unusual décor. All the same it was a new adventure, and seeing as I was now a guest in his home, I really had little room to complain. We settled into an easy routine, drinking beer, playing pool, and sitting on is couch talking about how we should probably get jobs, but these discussions never seem to produce too many results, and time continued to pass.
With no parental supervision, and no dishwasher or shower in the house, hygiene began to become an issue. Not wanting to take baths and not having jobs to go to, we slowly began to forget about personal hygiene as the smell of cheap beer in the apartment continued to intensify. I finally had enough of the sweaty beer smell that was emitting off me however, and soon began to shower at the local YMCA where I played Basketball during the day with other shiftless types including several ex-cons, which was still preferable to bathing in our mold-infested facilities at home.
Aside from personal hygiene, general cleanliness around the house had also fallen by the wayside, and as our humble abode came without a dishwasher, dishes soon began to pile sky high in the sink. At first this was amusing as the Jenga tower in the sink continued to rise, but soon there simply became no way to stack the dishes any higher, and the pile began to take on a life of its own as it expanded beyond the boundaries of the sink.
This was a problem insomuch as neither of us wanted to do the dishes, but also having the pesky problem of needing utensils to eat off of. The dishes soon became a source of tension in the house, and we avoided eye contact while in the kitchen for fear of the 3,000 pound Gorilla in the room rearing its ugly head. Eventually we began to eat off of paper plates, but even that was a problem as the utensils needed to eat off the paper plates were often buried under the never-ending pile of filth, and messing with the tower meant disputing the equilibrium that delicately balanced the dishes together.
One day, after a heated game of basketball at the YMCA where I swore I heard one of the convicts mutter “bitch” in my direction as I got out of the shower, I knew things had to change. Although our house was old, it was still capable of being cleaned, and I realized as a guest in my brother’s house it should be me that made the first move to rectify the enormous problems that was growing in the sink. Like Joe Buck in the movie, Midnight Cowboy, I took a long look in the mirror, and knew what I had to do, and began the walk home determined to attack the horrific filth that was growing inside of our home.
Before I describe the horror of what I saw that day, let me back up for just a moment. Although I had the luxury of the YMCA to shower in, my brother had no such outlet, and it was not implausible to think it might have been several weeks since he had properly cleaned himself. This fact would soon become highly apparent to me, but in the meantime I soldiered on bravely towards the house to meet my destiny.
Upon arrival, I knew that something had changed. Somehow there had been a disturbance in the force of our humble home, but it took me a couple minutes to take stock and begin to comprehend what had happened. When I wandered into the kitchen and saw the tower had completely disappeared, I immediately felt a pang of guilt realizing that my brother had taken it upon himself to do the unspeakable deed of cleaning the dishes.
When I looked into the cupboard these feelings of guilt gave way to bewilderment however, as there did not appear to be a single dish in sight. Then, as this mystery continued to befuddle me, I heard a splash of water, and the horrible idea began to crystallize in my mind. It couldn’t be, could it? I dismissed these thoughts form my mind, but when I heard a metallic clanging coming from the room next door, I knew, deep down in my heart of hearts what had happened, and the grim reality began to sink in.
Opening the door to the bathroom, I knew what I was going to find, but still nothing could have prepared me for the sight I was about to see. There in the bathtub was my very filthy brother soaking in a pool of old food and dishes in the bathtub without a care in the world. He smiled at me smugly as he saw my face, sure that I would be happy that he had taken such initiative, and “killed two birds with one stone” as he put it, but for once in my life I was truly beyond words. Seeing the little beans of chili and spaghetti noodles floating across the top of the tub, was too much, and slowly the bile began to warm in the corners of my mouth, and I went to the yard and violently retched at the horrific things I had witnessed.
It’s been many years since I lived in that apartment with my brother, but even now when I catch a whiff of cheap beer in a tavern, I think about that smell emitting from the bathtub and the sight I had seen that fateful day. Now a grown man, I still have a great deal of difficulty eating off unfamiliar dishes, as the memories of that day rush back into my mind and I feel that warm bile again rushing to the corners of my mouth.
Often when I’m at a cocktail party or some other social event, someone will tell me about a “crazy” member of their family, and I simply smile and nod my head, but always my mind is elsewhere. Thinking about my brother and the bizarre drumbeat he marches to and the times we used to have.
The Funniest Day of My Life
He was about 50, but could have been much older or younger and it was really impossible to tell. His face
had been scarred from years of heavy drinking, and most of the time his speech was unintelligible, so he couldn’t even really tell you with any certainty how old he was if you asked him. He had moments though when he said something truly funny, but often it was hard to tell if this was by design or not. He became known simply as “Pappy” to the kids he worked with, and he seemed satisfied to answer to that.
I met Pappy when I was a waiter at the Grand Canyon and he was a stock clerk at the gift shop next door. I was 22 and in a very adventurous period of my life, and meeting people like Pappy was precisely the reason I had dropped out of school to see the world. When he’d had enough to drink he would often start speaking clearly, and during these moments of clarity some very amusing anecdotes would pour from his lips like fine wine.
He regaled us with stories of hanging out with Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead in the 60’s, but also told us he had to quit hanging out with them because they were simply “too lame.” To hear him tell it he kept company with a great many celebrities in his time, including the Rolling Stones, who he briefly worked security for back in the day, before the “pussy Hell’s Angels” butted in and ruined his close personal friendship with Mick Jagger.
How Pappy and I came to go to Las Vegas together was an interesting story, and began with him getting suspended from his job as a stockboy. As the story was related to me, Pappy had called in sick that morning, and, sobering up and realizing he had a whole day to do nothing, promptly put on his patented corduroy smoking jacket and began drinking. There were several bars in the Grand Canyon area, and it would seem to be a logical decision not to drink at the bar adjoining the store you just called off to work from, but Pappy was not a man ruled by logic. He might even have gotten away with it if he hadn’t felt a pang of remorse after half a dozen Jack and Cokes and gone in and starting stocking the shelves. In any case Pappy was suspended from work after knocking down several items from the shelves, and found himself with another glorious week with which to enjoy his leisure time.
As fortune would have it I also had the day off that day, and it was around noon when I encountered Pappy who was now loudly bragging about his suspension and talking of going to Vegas. What would possess a person to get into a car with someone like Pappy you might ask? Morbid curiosity? A lifetime of material? To this day I can’t rightly say, but the fates had collided, and a half-hour later I was driving the pick-up truck of a deranged man en route to a city where a man like that could get into some truly serious trouble.
I insisted on driving, Pappy being already highly inebriated and barely able to walk. An hour into the trip across the blazing hot Arizona desert I was glad I had made the journey. Pappy had told me about his affair with Janis Joplin, (she was getting too clingy), his time with the Doors, and many other experiences which I was quite sure had no basis in fact. We had begun drinking beer, and Pappy, having already had at least a dozen drinks that morning, began insisting I pull over roughly every ten minutes or so. After the third such incident I refused, and Pappy began to pout and mumble out the window, which was nearly as amusing as having an actual conversation with him.
When we pulled into a gas station I wandered into the store, and when I came back Pappy had befriended a muscular looking man who was drinking our beer and by the looks of it, already getting irritated with his new friend.
“We’re going to give this Turkey a ride to Vegas,” Pappy informed me, and, as it was his truck I really had no call to refuse.
The seating arrangements were a different matter however, and when “Paul” tried to squeeze in next to Pappy, he promptly informed him that he “ain’t no queer” and insisted Paul get in the back of the pick-up. Paul did not take kindly to this, and immediately the mood of our little threesome had begun to sour. Paul reluctantly got in the back, and we slid the window of the truck open so we all could chat. Paul, already angry at being banished to the back of the truck, and highly suspicious of Pappy’s stories, began muttering epitaphs under his breath as we continued to drive. Pappy, used to a captive audience, was not pleased with this, and announcing he wanted to “take a little break from this Turkey,” slowly slid the window shut, much to Paul’s chagrin, and he was now casting a menacing stare at Pappy through the window.
Pappy fell back into his storytelling rhythm as he consumed beer after beer, and soon we were back into a comfortable conversation. I would occasionally glance back at Paul, who was continuing to burn holes into the back of the oblivious Pappy’s head as he told tall tale after tall tale. As amused as I was at these stories, after several hours I had begun to think about the reality of spending a weekend with this strange creature. Questions began to run through my mind like bullets; should I drop Pappy at a shelter? Was this even his car? In the midst of answering these questions I looked over and saw a truly horrific sight.
I looked over and saw an image that will be indelibly etched into my mind forever. There, to my horror, was Pappy’s shriveled penis urinating into a 64 ounce cup that he had filled nearly to the brim. The next few moments happened very quickly, and looking back I don’t remember what actually happened first. Paul, who had not taken his eyes off Pappy for a couple of hours, had anticipated the situation well before I had, and began frantically pounding on the window, shouting simply no! over and over again.
I didn’t get it until it was too late. For Pappy, who was unable or unwilling to understand that anything he threw out the window would directly affect Paul, had rolled down his window, and as he hoisted the cup full of piss, the terrible reality hit me. Paul, who was now in a frenzy, began to cover his head, but it was too late. In a gesture of pure grace, Pappy hurled his jug of urine out the window, which of course instantly began to blow directly backwards.
Paul looked like a soldier in a movie who had just been hit by a reign of the enemy’s bullets. As Pappy’s bucket of piss drenched him, he let out a guttural cry, that, much like the image of Pappy’s gnarled member, will also be forever burned into my head.
Paul, who upon his recovery, wanted badly to pummel Pappy with every fiber of his very angry being, began beating on the back of the car, shouting “pull this fucking car over now” over and over while punching the glass at the front of the pickup. Pappy, whose nervous system was on a 5 second delay, did not understand what this “Turkey” was so upset about, and through a nearly unquenchable laughter I explained to him what he had just done. Pappy took a quick look back as if remembering Paul for the first time, and upon seeing a beat red Paul pounding his fist into his hands, finally informed me nonchalantly that, “He didn’t think it would be such a good idea if we pull over right now.”
To this day I have never heard anything, anywhere, anytime, that brought me such a great deal of joy. It was the single best delivery of a line I had ever heard, and one that I’ll never forget. Although the rest of the trip to Vegas was very eventful, (Pappy tried to convince the theatre manager that he was a friend of Wayne Newton), nothing could ever duplicate that ride. Shortly after our return to the Grand Canyon Pappy continued his wanton ways, and after we got back he was eventually fired for eating bottles of Jelly and then putting them back on the shelves. Although Pappy is almost certainly dead by now, he will always be immortal to me for that one fateful afternoon.
Dying Laughing (The Plane)
The title of this story implies something being so funny that a person laughs to extreme excess, but in this case it took on a nearly literal meaning,
Although Pappy was not the most reliable tour guide to see Las Vegas with, visiting that city infected me with the “bug” to return and since Pappy had mysteriously disappeared I found myself with no reliable means of transportation to return.
Making some inquiries I found that the local airline at the Grand Canyon flew employees of the hotels to Vegas for 15 dollars on a space available basis, and soon I took full advantage of this promotion and hitched a ride whenever I got the chance.
As anyone who has ever ridden on a small plane can attest, they can be quite terrifying, and I usually remedied this by having several Bloody Marys’ prior to takeoff. Although I didn’t know it at the time, the particular airline I flew on had had two of their small planes crash over the years, and in retrospect I was very close to being on the third.
So it was on one particularly fateful trip back from Vegas that this story picks up, where I had just won 1,000 dollars playing Blackjack but was now cutting it very close to making it back to work on time. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky in Vegas, and it was a balmy 103 degrees as I hurriedly readied myself to return to work.
Lining up to board the plane I saw that there were six Japanese tourists in line in front of me, and one utterly terrified looking man pacing back and forth talking to himself and muttering foul language under his breath. Although he looked very disturbed, I chalked it up to a case of nerves, and patiently waited for my turn at the ticket window with the rest of my fellow travelers.
As the line continued to move a man of about 22 in an airline uniform came and introduced himself as the pilot, and asked me if I wanted to sit in the co-pilot’s seat with him, as the plane only held 8 seats and 7 of them had already been filled.
I looked him up and down carefully? This was the pilot? Did he go through a two-week certificate program to get his license? I tried not to be too judgmental however, and firmly took his hand and told him I’d love to sit up front with him on the way back, as he seemed a much better conversational option than the Japanese tourists and the now nearly green man I had spotted pacing around before.
As we boarded the plane I noticed the terrified man had taken the seat directly behind the pilot, which in a plane that size meant I was extremely close to him. I stifled a laugh to myself when I heard him mutter “Holy Fucking Jesus” under his breath, and looked over at the pilot who was also hiding a grin. Despite his young age he seemed like he knew his way around the controls, and I slowly relaxed and settled in for the 4 hour flight which I knew would go by rather quickly.
As we took off the Japanese tourists applauded as the pilot hoisted the plane into the air, which seemed kind of weird but something I also found pretty amusing. The chorus of “Holy Fucking Jesus” coming from behind the pilot was getting slightly louder now however, and the Japanese had also taken notice of the man, and were now talking amongst themselves in their native tongue about this strange man, and although they were concerned, they settled into an easy patter as the man continued to grip his hands together in prayer.
The first hour of the flight was very smooth sailing, and, although the man was still terrified, he slowly leaned up to the pilot and asked in the highest pitched whimper you could imagine, “How much longer do we have.”
The tone conveyed such a pleading for reassurance and sympathy that it was hard to continue to laugh at the man, and when the pilot told him “3 more hours” his face became twisted into the most pathetic ball, that the only real emotion you could feel for him was pity. I looked over at the pilot and he rolled his eyes, emanating the world-weary wisdom his 6 months of flying had undoubtedly taught him.
45 minutes later the plane felt like it had been hit by a thunderbolt and quite unexpectedly the whole plane shook so hard that people were nearly thrown out of their seats. Although I was quite concerned in my own right, I couldn’t help but sneak a glance back to the man behind me, who now had a single tear rolling down his cheek, as he turned a new shade of green.
For the first time the pilot also looked concerned, but he had enough poise to get on the radio and explain that how on particularly hot and humid days, changes in the air pressure could cause turbulence which affected these smaller planes much more than the big jets.
“HOLY, FUCKING, JESUS” was however the only response he got in exchange for this announcement, and the man behind him took the opportunity to deposit the contents of his lunch into his barf bag, which he filled to capacity in a series of awful guttural retching noises.
I couldn’t help but laugh now, despite the seriousness of the situation around me, as I looked back and all of the Japanese had simultaneously stopped talking and were now silently looking at their feet. It was clear from their behavior that they now perceived the man as a threat, and looking at his terrified face and overflowing barf bag I wasn’t so sure they were wrong.
I took this opportunity to check in with my friend the pilot, and saw that he too had assumed another level of concentration as the plane continued to shake and rattle as we moved slowly towards out destination.
Without warning a very loud boom shook the sky, and I looked out the window and saw lightning, literally, right outside my window. It began to pour rain, as if on cue, and I looked back and the chorus of “Holy Fucking Jesus” had resumed, this time in a pitch so high it might have resembled a dog whistle as he continued to repeat this mantra over and over.
I looked back at my Japanese friends and saw that they too were now fearful of this recent turn of events. They began speaking in hushed tones, and it looked to me if they were debating if death would come at the hands of the weather or at the hands of our fellow traveler, who, as I looked had now grabbed the pilot by the back of the neck as he tried to continue to steer the plane.
“Holy Fucking Jesus, how much longer” he repeated several times, and the pilot looked at me as if to suggest it may come down to me physically restraining this man as he continued to yell in absolute panic.
“I realize your scared sir,” the pilot tried to say as calmly as possible, but our friend was no longer in his seat as he ran down the isle collecting the barf bags from the seat pockets of the Japanese, who now covered their faces in terror.
Is this how I’m going to die? I wondered to myself. If so it’s pretty fucking funny, I thought, and one day, if I do survive I’m going to tell this story.
But in the meantime the weather was getting worse, and I watched the pilot’s shaking hands again grab the microphone,
“We’re going to be going down a few hundred feat folks to avoid this turbulence,” he announced, but the only words my friend heard were “we’re going down” and he soon emitted another high-pitched squeal as he simultaneously filled up yet another barf bag.
I suppose the appropriate emotion in a circumstance like this would have been fear, or perhaps dread, or a sense of pending doom, but all I could do personally was laugh, and I mean from the stomach laugh. I looked over at the pilot, who between stifling a laugh of his own raised a finger to his mouth to shush me, wise beyond his 22 years and sure, I think that laughing was not the correct solution in dealing with this increasingly deranged man.
As the plane descended the lightening continued to roar outside the plane, and now the wind had picked up significantly, and between filling up barf bags our friend had now curled up into the fetal position and continued to pray to his holy fucking Jesus as we continued into the night. When one particularly strong gust of wind turned the plane nearly sideways, I really did think I was going to die, but philosophically was grateful I had at least experienced such a funny demise.
My friend the pilot righted the ship however, and, although he was now clearly terrified himself, he had managed to steer us into clearer weather and for a few minutes the plane maintained a perfectly smooth equilibrium. I took this opportunity to look back and get a little state of the union on the inhabitants in the back of the plane, and saw that for the first time in at least an hour the Japanese had lifted their heads, and seemed to be considering that they may in fact survive this ordeal.
My friend however was now openly weeping, and I listened intently and noticed he was now bargaining with his lord, and making a number of promises to live a better life, if “Sweet Fucking Jesus” would just see him through this experience.
Miraculously the weather did eventually pass us, and for the first time everyone’s body language began to loosen as we collectively took stock of our predicament. It looked as if our pilot had heroically gotten us through this exorcise, and now, just one hour from the Grand Canyon, it seemed that we would indeed live to tell this tale.
But it was not that simple. About a half-hour from the Grand Canyon, I saw my friend’s hand again seize the back of the pilot’s neck, and this time the pilot, who had regained his composure, now yelled firmly
“Please do not touch me sir”
My friend immediately retracted his hand however, and began slowly blubbering again as he again in his high-pitched squeal asked the pilot,
“Sir, how much longer?” he asked, but before the pilot had a chance to answer he continued on his own blubbery way,
“Because the thing is, a, I’m most afraid during the landing, so if I happen to get loud, please don’t hate me sir.” He said, and it was truly amazing he was able to get this many words out, as he slowly curled up again in a ball.
And so with this new warning, the pilot again shot me a glance to let me know we weren’t quite out of the woods just yet, and moments later I could tell it was with great trepidation that he announced that we would soon be making our final decent into the tiny Grand Canyon airport.
This news invigorated the man, and like an old friend, the chorus of “Holy Fucking Jesus” began again, this time in an even higher and more desperate tone that conveyed he was absolutely certain that he was in fact about to die.
So as we crept closer the cries got louder and louder, and soon the man’s mantra was echoing in my own head as we sank down into the night. During the final moments he got out of his seat, and once again the Japanese winced in horror, sure now that this man would attack the pilot at the last moment and crash our tiny plane into the ground.
This crossed my mind as well, and I unbuckled my seatbelt and prepared for this possibility although my gut instincts told me that the man would not actually physically attack the pilot.
“HOLY FUCKING JESUS, HOLY FIUCKING JESUS, HOLY FUCKING JESUS,” the man was now yelling at the top of his lungs, and again, although it was highly inappropriate, I began to laugh. As the pilot touched the plane down to the ground, the Japanese, having rallied together in solidarity, again erupted in thunderous applause as the pilot touched the plane to the ground. As we taxied towards the gate I looked over and smiled at the pilot, who smiled back as he gave me a knowing glance.
When the doors to the plane were finally opened I looked back towards my friend, who was now leaping out the door, leaving his bag behind and sprinting into the night, screaming one more “Holy Fucking Jesus” as he went. He continued to run into a field, and into the darkness, and as far as I know was never seen or heard from again.
Looking over at the pilot I pulled a flask of Jack Daniels out of my bag and asked him what was what on my mind.
“Just how close did we come to dying?”
He looked at me while taking the flask from my hand and taking a big swig of whiskey to calm his nerves.
“Very fucking close”, he replied,
“Very fucking close,” and as he took a swig and handed it to me we both began to laugh at the utter absurdity we had just experienced. We sat that for quite some time laughing like that, and the next time I returned to the airport and inquired about his whereabouts I was told he had chosen to “seek another career path.”
Later I would always wonder about those two men. One who had saved my life and another who had shown me what pure, unadulterated terror looked like up close and personally. At the time I went back to work and chalked it up to just another funny story to tell, but now looking back I realize my life had almost certainly been spared that evening by some force more powerful than myself. Years later, in the presence of my always cantankerous grandfather who had just been told one of his friends had died, I heard the term “Holy fucking Jesus” again, and the memory of that day rolled back into my mind like a favorite horror movie. To this day that term has special meaning for me, and in moments of true shock and surprise, I’ll occasionally utter “Holy Fucking Jesus” aloud in memory of my friends that fateful evening.