Jersey Driving

January 4th, 2009 by Waiter

It’s Saturday night and I’m behind the wheel as my roommate and I travel down one of the most dangerous roads on Earth. Previous hard won experience has told me that If I take my eyes off this perilous road for a nanosecond, disaster will inevitably follow. No matter where I look, deranged individuals dedicated to spreading chaos and terror travel right alongside me. No, my roommate and I aren’t motoring down Highway Eight in Baghdad – we’re driving on Route 17 in Paramus, New Jersey.

For those of you unfamiliar with this twenty-seven mile stretch of state maintained asphalt, Route 17 starts out near Newark and ends up in Rockland County, New York. For most of it’s length it’s your average traffic laden Garden State eyesore. But when “17” hits Paramus, that’s when the real fun begins. With over one hundred retail stores and several shopping malls lining it’s route, the bad driving displayed on this three mile patch of highway strikes terror into the hearts of even the most experienced drivers. Because motorists are desperately scanning each side of the highway looking for a particular store in a sea of stores, they’re not paying attention to what they’re doing. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen a car jump three lanes without signaling so they wouldn’t pass the entrance to Pier One or The Container store. God forbid if people should have to make a U-turn.

The worst offenders are, of course, the drivers with New York plates. New Jerseyites look upon their motoring New York brethren with a distaste bordering on outright hostility. If the Empire State plate holders are not Rockland County residents clogging our highways in search of cheap gas, they’re drivers from Manhattan, who, truth be told, should keep their cars the fuck out of my state. Because you can’t really drive in Manhattan, just crawl along at 5 MPH, the driving skills of Gotham’s residents inevitably atrophy from disuse. You can always spot the Manhattanite driving to the Paramus IKEA. They’re the heavily sweating people driving ZIP cars looking like they’re about to have a full blown panic attack. Do me a favor and spread your brand of incompetent driving to Long Island. Their driving’s not much better either.

We New Jersey drivers, on the other hand, all have black belts in the motoring arts. If you want to survive the Garden State’s mean streets you have forget all that defensive driving crap you learned in high school and become an offensive driver in every sense of the word. The moment an adolescent New Jerseyan gets his or her learning permit they automatically know how to speed, blow through yellow lights a millisecond before they turn red, dodge State Troopers, flip people the bird, thread the EZ-Pass tollbooth doing fifty, and bob and weave through traffic like a NASCAR driver. Manhattanites may look down their noses at us “bridge and tunnel” people, but when we drive in Manhattan it’s like throwing piranhas into a goldfish bowl. Even the taxi drivers fear us. And if you think I’m exaggerating, just talk to the governor of my fair state. He knows all about his constituents’ aggressive driving habits. And we wonder why have the highest auto insurance rates in the nation? Go figure.

My roommate and I are on Route 17 because we’re dumping our cable company’s overpriced and erratic internet and television service for the fiber optic system offered by Verizon FIOS. Instead of signing up for the service over the phone we’re traveling to that retail colossus known as the Garden State Plaza so we can deal with a live human being at the Verizon kiosk near JC Penny. If you deal with someone one the phone and they lie to you about pricing, well, you’re out of luck. But if you know where to find the living breathing person who sold you the plan, well, that makes things much easier to rectify when they go wrong. Of course, as we get into the entrance lane for the biggest retail mecca in North Jersey, the traffic slows to a crawl.

“Jesus,” I mutter, looking at the line of cars. “It’ll take twenty minutes to get a parking spot.”

“It could be worse,” my roommate replies. “We could have come here around Christmas.”

“Screw that,” I reply. “The only way I’d travel to the Garden State Plaza during the holidays would be in an Abrams.”

“What’s an Abrams?” my roommate asks.

“The main battle tank of the US Army.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly a beat up Chevy with New York plates tries cutting into line of cars waiting patiently to get into the mall. As he tries to wedge himself between my car and the Mercedes in front of me, I deter his effort in the normal profane New Jersey fashion. The driver, a pale sweaty looking fellow, starts gesticulating angrily in his car.

“I’ll bet you he lives in Manhattan.” I say, “Maybe Brooklyn.”

“Why do you say that?” my roommate asks.

“Look at all the dinks and scratches on his rear bumper. Scars from too many bad parallel parking jobs.”

“Ugh,” my roommate says, “When I lived in Inwood the parking spaces were so tight. It was murder.”

“Aren’t you glad you live in Jersey now?”

“At least I can park my car when I get home.”

The hapless driver of the Chevy reattempts his evil line cutting several car lengths ahead of me. He too is rebuffed by a New Jersey driver who employs some colorful hand signage as well as his horn.

“Man,” I mutter. “What I wouldn’t do for an Abrams tanks with a fifty caliber machine gun right now. Teach that guy a lesson.”

My roommate looks at be balefully. “I think you’ve been watching the Military Channel too much.”

“They better have that channel on FIOS or the deal’s off!” I shout.

“Oh brother.”

“What can I say? I love watching stuff get blown up.”

“You have problems.”

“Just let me shoot up cars like Jeremy Clarkson,” I growl. “That’ll make driving fun again.”

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When Bears Attack!

December 29th, 2008 by Waiter

It’s the night after Christmas and I’m taking Pearl, my brother’s ninety-five pound German Shorthaired Pointer, for a walk through the dark Pennsylvania woods surrounding my parent’s house. The reason my brother’s not walking his own dog is because he and his wife have already returned to New Jersey with my infant nephew in tow. Since it was the little tyke’s first Christmas, my brother’s SUV was crammed with so many presents, luggage, and obligatory baby equipment that there was no room for the poor dog. (And will some one tell me why parents of infant children insist on caravanning more supplies than Napoleon did during his Winter vacation in Russia?) To be a nice guy, I offered to take Pearl home with me the next day.

As Pearl and I range through the woods, I keep my eyes peeled. This morning I found two sets of bear tracks in the snow alongside my parent’s garage. To avoid wildlife interference, the local residents lock up their trash. The bears probably smelled the remains of my family’s Christmas dinner through the garage’s concrete walls and decided to investigate. From the depth of the paw prints they left in the snow I could tell they were big, heavy bears. Surprised at my woodsman’s skills? Just call me Natty Bumppo.

As I listen to Pearl crunch the snow beneath her paws I look up at the night sky. One of the things I love about coming to my parent’s house is seeing the stars. Their grandeur unobscured by the jealous brightness of big city lights, the constellations and clusters shine with a radiance you’d never glimpse inside Central Park. Sadly, tonight’s sky is overcast and a light rain is starting to fall. No stars today.

Suddenly I hear a crash in the woods. Pearl stiffens and points toward the sound, Even though she’s a completely spoiled house dog, the hunting instinct entwined in her DNA remains intact. And even though I’m a completely spoiled rotten urbanite, I have something permanently etched into my DNA too – the fear of being a late night snack for something much bigger than I am. My hand automatically reaches for the folding knife clipped to my back pocket. Then I realize if I’m about to face down a bear, the knife’s three inch blade would probably just annoy it.

As I stare into the malevolent darkness I half remember some advice I heard from a self appointed wilderness guru on the Discovery Channel - the worst thing you can do is run from a bear. They may look pokey, but the average bear can run down an Olympic sprinter so don’t even try. And don’t climb a tree either. That’ll just turn you into meat on a stick. The best thing to do, I remember the hirsute Grizzly Adams wannabe saying, is to to stand your ground. Yell. Throw rocks. Roar. If you don’t the bear will think you’re prey and gobble you up. Then again I was drinking beer when I was watching that program so I might’ve gotten some of the details backwards. What ever happened to playing dead? Right now I’d give my left nut for a .44 Magnum.

I do stand my ground, however. Not out of any wilderness survival strategy mind you - just good old fashioned scared shitless paralysis. Pearl stares at dark spot in the woods where the unknown danger lurks and emits a low growl. Pearl’s a big dog with sharp teeth. Maybe she’ll fight off the bear as I run for the safety of my parent’s house. If I lose Pearl, however, I’ll have to deal with my sister-in-law’s wrath. She’s loves Pearl like a second child. Hmmmm. I think I’d rather face the bear.

Of course, there’s no bear. After a long minute, a white tailed deer erupts from the bush and makes a rapid egress from the area. Now that they’re moving, I can see an entire herd of deer moving underneath the darkness. Pearl’s straining on the leash, eager to give chase. I smile to myself. Just a bunch of harmless Bambis. Not very terrifying.

Pearl and I emerge from the woods and walk up my parent’s driveway. My foot slips on an icy patch and suddenly my out of shape middle aged body is hurled into the air. As I involuntarily look up at the overcast night sky, I see a star peeking out from behind the clouds. It’s very pretty. Maybe it’s a planet. Venus perhaps? My astronomical moment of Zen comes to a halt when I land flat on my back and all the air is expelled from my lungs with a violent whoosh.

My entire body hurts. I can’t breathe. As I lay on the ground helpless a horrible thought enters my head. NOW THE BEARS WILL GET ME! As I wait for my lungs to start processing oxygen I can see my parents moving around inside their house. Wouldn’t it suck to be disemboweled by a hungry predator within sight of safety? Ugh.

Pearl, sensing something’s wrong, lays down next to me. Her muscular and warm presence is reassuring. In the back of my mind I know a bear would think twice about attacking with her around. The dog licks my face and, after a minute, I get some air into my lungs. As I lie on the ground I run a self diagnostic. I didn’t hit my head, all my fingers and toes wiggle, and even though my back hurts like hell, it doesn’t hurt to breathe. No broken ribs.

I lay still for a few minutes and successfully avoid crying like a little girl. Eventually my strength returns, I get up, and Pearl and I walk back inside my parent’s warm house. When I tell my mother what happens she makes a fuss and, within minutes, I’m wrapped in a blanket drinking whisky in front of a roaring propane fireplace. Pearl’s lying next to me on the couch, apparently unaffected by our little adventure. I give her a pat on the head. Rain starts pelting the large window that takes up the entire front of the house. I stare at the woods and sip my drink.

Natty Bumppo my ass.

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Merry Christmas Everyone!

December 24th, 2008 by Waiter

Merry Christmas and other assorted holidays! Thanks for making 2008 my Annus Mirabilis! Best wishes to everyone for a happy and healthy 2009!

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Sliced Thin

December 17th, 2008 by Waiter

It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. Sadly, other than the two dozen cans of emergency tuna I keep around in the event of Armageddon, my cupboard’s bare. Since I’m sick of tuna salad sandwiches, I decide to go the supermarket and buy food with a little more variety.

With my stomach grumbling, I arrive at the grocery store. After I find a cart with the proper non-squeak wheel alignment, I make a beeline for the deli counter. Experience has taught me to always hit the deli first. Why? Because after the checkout line, the deli counter is the most time consuming part of any shopping trip. The line for luncheon meat is usually populated by legions of cantankerous old people who think advanced age excuses them from getting a ticket and waiting their turn like everybody else. In addition to cutting in line, Methuselahish customers regard their cold cuts with an almost religious seriousness, causing interminable delays as they demand half a pound of free samples and then berate the overworked counterperson for not slicing their orders of compressed mystery meat thin enough. Whereas some people are connoisseurs of wine, cheese, or twenty-five year old scotch, you can usually count on the average New Jersyite over the age of seventy-two to be an authority on olive loaf.

If I sound rather bitter I have good reason to be. When I graduated from college in 1990 the country was in the grip of a recession. Unable to find work in my field and my graduation money depleted, I was forced to take a job at a local deli. The job, quite frankly, sucked ass. My coworkers were a bunch of psychologically maladjusted polysubstance abusers, the boss was a jerk, and, because I was the new guy, I had to come in early every morning and make the tubs of coleslaw, potato salad, and tapioca pudding we put out fresh every day. As I was slaving in this saturated fat carbohydrate hell, I promised myself that, when I got a real job, I’d never work in the food industry again. Funny how life doesn’t do what you want, huh?

It was the elderly customers, however, who drove me up the wall. Clutching their sheafs of coupons and always anxious about money, they’d yell at me whenever I sliced one ounce over the amount they ordered and then demand to eat it for free. Because I was sick of their shit, I became quite adept slicing off the exact amount of meat and cheese a customer ordered. But sometimes accidents happen. Once, when I was cutting bologna for an old man who kept loudly insisting I wasn’t slicing it thin enough, my hand slipped and the rotating blade of the deli slicer shaved off half a millimeter of my lower right thumb joint, Let me tell you, that’s a sound you don’t forget,

As I was bleeding like a stuck pig all over the old man’s cold cuts you’d think he’d ask me if I was okay or offer to help me. He did nothing of the sort. Instead he yelled, “I’m not gonna eat that!” and then screamed at the store manager to get someone else to fill his order. I ended going to the ER, lost a day’s pay, and got a tetanus shot to boot. After several months of dealing with crabby deli oldsters I was ready to put every old geezer I encountered on an iceberg and float them out to sea. Since verbalizing such ageist genocidal thoughts can get you into hot water, however, I decided to keep my dark imaginings to myself.

Luckily, the deli at the supermarket I patronize today has a computerized ordering system. If the line is too long you can input your order using the touch screen and them do the rest of your grocery shopping while the counter people slice your order. The system even pages you on the overhead speaker when your order’s ready. It saves time and, best of all, because it’s a new fangled computer thingamabob, old people shun it like its a Medicare copay.

Today, however, is my lucky day. There’s no one in line at the deli and the three counter people on duty all work to fill my order. I’m so happy that I start a conversation with the woman slicing my half pound of Swiss cheese.

“This has got to be the fastest I’ve ever gotten in and out of the deli in my life,” I say. “Where are all the customers?”

“It’s only one o’clock,” the counter lady, an older, thin, chain-smoking looking woman, replies. “We get busy around three.”

“That’s when the old people come, huh?”

The woman smiles. “Yep, my favorites.”

“I worked in a deli once,” I reply. “They always drove me batty.”

“If I hear another person ask me to ’slice it thin’ one more time,” the counter lady replies, “I’ll lose my mind.”

“Somethings never change. Do they?’

“Nope.”

“Has the new computer system made life easier for you?” I ask.

“Are you kidding?” the counter lady replies. “It’s made life worse.”

“Really?” I say, surprised. “How?”

“When we get an order from the computer it’s exactly like you took a number and waited in line,” the counter lady explains. “Only you aren’t waiting in line, you’re doing the rest of your shopping. The old people don’t understand that. They get angry that they have to wait while we fill orders for people who used the computer system.”

“Senior citizens aren’t usually a technologically friendly group.”

“You said it mister,” the counter lady says, smiling ruefully. “The seniors say we have to take care of the’“real people’ in line first.”

“Still trying to cut in line,” I say.

“Yep,” the counter lady says. “I’m getting on in years myself. But I don’t use my age to jump int the front of the line.”

“That’s because you’re young at heart,” I say.

“Thank you, sir,” the counter lady says, handing me my cheese. “That’s sweet. You have a nice day now.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“You too, sir.”

I depart the deli area and finish my grocery shopping. My empty stomach is now making loud noises. I’m looking forward to enjoying a nice sandwich and an ice cold beer when I get home. When I get to the checkout area, however, my heart drops. There’s only one register open and several elderly people with shopping carts brimming with stuff are already waiting in line.

Almost twenty years have past since I’ve worked at the deli. I’m forty years old, my parent’s are senior citizens, and I like to think that I’ve evolved into a kinder, patient, and gentler person. Who am I kidding? Because the teenager manning the register is inexperienced, the line moves at a glacial pace while he scans coupons and ineptly explains to the geriatric customers scrutinizing each and every item on their receipts that no, they haven’t been ripped off and all their coupons have been counted.

As my stomach starts making squealing nosies I try taking my sixth grade nun’s advice and offer my suffering “up to God.” I also think about asking God to take out the seniors ahead of me so I can get home and make myself a sandwich Since those prejudiced sentiments might piss off an entity who’s older that time itself, however, I decide against beseeching the Almighty to smite the old timers and silently stew in my low blood sugar rage.

After what seems like a millennium, I get out of the store, throw my groceries in my car, and head for home. In addition to being famished I also have to take a wicked piss. As I’m driving down the street, a little old lady driving an automotive gunboat made in the early 1970’s sails though a stop sign and swings in front of me. As I brake to avoid hitting her, I can hear my groceries being food processed by inertia in the trunk of my car. I wonder if the eggs survived. When I release my tight grip on the steering wheel I notice the small scar the deli slicer put on my right thumb eighteen years ago.

Maybe karma’s punishing me for that whole putting old people on icebergs thing.

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Book Signing in Hawley, PA!

December 12th, 2008 by Waiter

I’ll be doing a book signing with my father (The author of the mystery novel Rude Promenade) at the Hawley Winterfest at the Hawley Public Library in downtown Hawley, Pennsylvania this Saturday, December 13, from 11:00AM - 3:00PM. Copies of both our books will be on sale. They make perfect gifts! (Hint! Hint!) 

Or just come to say hi! It’d be nice to see my fans in Northeastern PA! 

Goto www.hawleywinterfest.com for more information and directions!

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