What Was Once an Embarrasment is now a Fantasy

There’s a restaurant at the end of the street where I work. Every time I past it I am reminded of my youth. It has been many different types of restaurants over the years. Now’s it’s a fancy schmancy linen tablecloth kind of place. When I was young, it was an ice cream place. It was when it was an ice cream place that I learned a couple life's more painful lessons there. I still carry a couple of scars from at least one of those lessons. Every time I pass this place, I think about the night of one of my more traumatic “life's experiences.” And every so often someone who was there that fateful night seizes the opportunity to remind me about it.  As a matter of fact, he looks for opportunities to tell the story. There’s always a peal of laughter when he does, and an avalanche of comments like “It could only happen to Joe”

What I’m referring to is the Howard Johnson’s Massacre. Yes, that’s right, it was a massacre. And I was the massacre-ee. Oh, it’s a story all right. And it was a scene. Maybe by finally documenting the events of this epic battle I can finally put this traumatic incident to rest.

It all started after a concert. I and a group of friends decided to go see a show in Boston. It was at the old Boston Garden. I still remember the show, Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Who could forget? We were all 19 or 20 years old and headed in town for a night of partying. It was a real adventure for a kid from the suburbs. A friend borrowed his mother’s car, an old style station wagon. You know a big gun boat thing with three rows of seats. Eight of us piled into this thing and headed in town for the night, seven guys, and one girl. It was a great night. We were celebrating as guys are prone to do. We had a couple of beers before we went into town. The drinking age was 18 back then, and we were taking full advantage. When we got there we parked in a garage just down the street from the Garden. The garage was rocking. Seemed like everyone there was going to the show and garage had become the pre-show party place. So we partied in the parking garage before the show. We’ were rocking out with 100 people we didn’t know, and would never see again. It was great. We went into the show, and the partying intensified. The show was great; the party was great the entire evening was just amazing. An event for the record books as they say.

Eventually the concert ended and so did the party. It was time to head home. As we were headed home someone came up with the bright idea that we should stop of ice cream. After a hard night of partying, you usually end up with the munchies, right? And what’s better for curing the munchies than a really large ice cream sundae? At this point, it was after midnight. Now what’s the only Ice Cream place open after midnight? Howard Johnson’s. And it’s on our way home too. This was a plan, and it was coming together beautifully.

Before I go any further with this story, let me tell you about this Ho Jo’s.  The particular resturant is just outside of Boston at a junction where a couple of highways come together. This Ho Jo's was periodically  used as a meeting place for some of the areas criminal elite. Late at night, it was not uncommon to see a collection of dark Cadillac’s with frosted glass parked at the rear of the building. More than occasionally you would see trays of liquor being delivered to a room at the back of the restaurant. What kind of ice cream restaurant serves booze to a “private” room out back? I think you get the picture. Needless to say, this was a place where it paid to be on your best behavior.

We ordered and ate without fanfare. It’s been a couple of hours since the party ended. Now everyone was starting to be blessed with the after affects of our evening of entertainment. People were starting to get tired and just a little bit cranky.  The first sour notes of the next day's hangover chorus were starting to sound.  Frizzle frazzle frozzle frome, time for these guys to go home.

As we were paying our bills (separate checks please) one of the guys spotted what looked like a 12 year old kid running around. This guy started busting this kid's crackers. We all looked at him and told him to leave the kid alone. But he didn’t. I guess he thought it was funny.

One by one we started drifting back to the car. As we did, this guy was STILL giving this kid a hard time. He taunted the kid all the way back to his car. Funny thing, the kid jumped into a car parked right beside us. ANOTHER station wagon! My friend and his buddy piled into the back of the car. I didn’t know the buddy, it was the first time I had met him. These two piled into the rear most section of the car, they’re riding in the "way back". There I was, leaning on the rear of the car talking to them through the back window when all of a sudden the doors on the car next to us opened up and out poured about a half a dozen people. These weren’t kids either. These people looked like guys.  BIG GUYS. And they didn’t look happy.

A couple of guys came around the back of our car. I looked at them and thought to myself “uh oh, this isn’t going to be good.” I turned back to our car and told my friend to get out, this was his problem. He just looked at me wide eyed and tried to slip between the seats so as not to be seen. He and his little buddy looked like they were about to cry. Now I could hear these other guys saying things like “I’ve got the big guy, you get the other one.” At this point, I’m the only one of us standing outside of the car. Who the hell is the big guy? MEEEEE? Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not getting into a jam because the guy busily locking the doors was harassing some strange kid. So I turned and faced our adversaries and started saying things like “don’t mind him, he’s drunk, we’re getting him outa here.” But they were not buying it. They were too busy devising new and exciting ways of dealing us out some pain and trying to determine who was going to do what to whom.

I’m all alone. The other two are cowering in the back of the car with the windows up and the doors locked. Great, just great. This night had been going too good. Another example of the Yin and Yang of life. I guess this was going to be the Yang of this night. “Hello Maw, it was a tough fight. I stood like this, but not for long” (Curly Howard)

As I was trying to figure out what to do, the rest of our group rolled out of the restaurant. Two guys curled around our car on the passenger side, two around the driver side. A couple of really brief words were exchanged and all of a sudden all hell broke loose. It was a veritable donnybrook, a brouhaha, a ruckus. There were guys rolling around and body parts flying all over the place. And there I was leaning on the back of the car, watching it all unfold. How did that just happen? One second I’m all alone facing a car load of guys, next thing you know, a riot ensues, and I’m left standing there watching.

So as I’m watching, I’m thinking to myself, “Well, at least this is fair. Everyone is paired up. I don’t need to get involved. After all, it was the Jackass in the car that started it, and he didn’t even get out to help. Why should I fight his battle?” All of a sudden it dawned on me. This little “to do” started because one of them hit one of us. The one of us that got hit first wasn't even part of the inital negotiation process.  He was inside Ho Jo's when it started.  He had just come around the side of the car and simply asked what was going on.  Then WHAM, he caught one right in the kisser. Now that’s NOT fair. As soon as this realization struck me, I jumped into action. I immediately lent my support to the closest of my allies. In other words, I suckered one of them. I reached out, grabbed the shirt of one of their guys who was already tussling with one of our guys, and slammed him. In retrospect, this turned out to be the first of several mistakes.

At the moment I decided to join in the fray I felt good. I was supporting my compatriots, my amigos, my pals. I was righting a wrong. I was like the cavalry coming over the hill to save the day. A split second after I intervened, I realized I had made a significant error in judgment. Seems I was standing next to what I assume must have been this guys girlfriend. She let out a yell and hit me square in the face. She knocked off my glasses and sent them flying. I slowly turned and looked at her, squinting to see just who had hit me. I looked this little beastie square in the eye and I called her a series of very nasty names.  One of the names began with a B and rhymed with itch. This was my second and as it turned out, almost fatal mistake. Seems on the OTHER side of me was her we’ll say “friend”, another girl. She yelled out “don’t call her a BITCH” and she started to hit me too. Now I’m standing there with these two banshees just a whomp’n and a stomp’n and a kick’n and a scratch’n me like no one has ever been whomp’d and stomp'd before.

My first impulse was to “defend” myself. But I didn’t. I just couldn’t bring myself to whack a girl, even as these two were wailing on me. I turned and leaned on the car in an attempt to shield what was left of my face and other sensitive areas. Oh yeah, don’t kid yourself, they were aiming there too. At this point, two of our guys were MMAing it around the parking lot with two of their guys. Two more of our guys were locked in the car peeing themselves and crying. The last two of us were standing outside, squared up with the last two of them. And all four of these guys were now killing themselves laughing. They were just standing there, watching these two little women just beat the bejeezes out of me. As I leaned on the car absorbing endless punishment I thought to myself, “Why God, why is it always me?” And the part of this that just added insult to injury was, one of the guys standing there watching and laughing, was my own brother. Can you imagine that, my own brother? He was just standing there arm-in-arm with the enemy laughing like a fool as I was pummeled into an almost unrecognizable pulp. And when I say these girls were little, I mean little. If they were more than 5 foot 2, I would have been surprised.

Eventually, the altercation got broken up and we all jumped in the cars and left. This was not a good place to cause a scene, and then hang around.  When the guys in the Cadillacs tell you it's time to leave, brother, it's time to go. We didn't have to be told twice.

The guy that got hit first, well it looked like he might get a shiner out of the deal. The other one of our battlers, well he had a bit of a fat lip. Now what about me? I looked worse than the guys that were actually brawling. It looked like I had been passed through a wood chipper. These two girls scratched and clawed at anything they could get at on me. My face looked like raw hamburger. Even my forearms were a mess.  And there were lumps and bumps all over me. They must have started swinging bags of bricks or something because the next day, I was one giant bruise. What about the guy that started it all? He just changed his underpants and he was fine. Three weeks later I was still explaining my appearance. I was telling the tale of the Howard Johnson’s Massacre until I was blue in the face. No, scratch that. I had to tell the tale until I STOPPED being blue in the face

To this day, all trips down memory lane with my brother inevitably end at “Do you remember when those two girls kicked your ass?” He’s still laughing at me. And unfortunately for me, he loves to tell the story. So he does, a lot. On top of that, at least once a week someone from the office wants to go have dinner or cocktails at the restaurant that used to be the Ho Jo’s. I have flash backs as I pass the spot in the parking lot where it all took place.

From now on when I’m forced to tell the Massacre story, I’m going to tell a tale of a threesome out behind the Ho Jo's with a couple of anonymous women that just couldn’t keep their hands off me. See? What was once an embarrasment is now a fantasy.

The Elevator Story

Someone once asked me “What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?” I don’t know. It’s hard to limit it to just one thing. That’s kind of how I started my list of things I won’t do three times. There are however also dumb things that in all likelihood will happen only once. Most likely because the situations or events leading up to them aren’t likely to ever occur again. The following is just one example.

I was visiting a customer a bunch of years ago. I was on site for a week. I flew out to see them on Sunday so I could be on site first thing Monday morning. My flight home was late Friday afternoon. I’m never too thrilled about 6 days away from home, but it goes with the territory sometimes. The customers’ office is in an annex building, on the backside of the “new” building. His office is up on the fifth floor.

When I got onsite Monday morning, I was given a set of cryptic directions on how to reach the annex. I’m told that I’ll know when I’m in the right place when I get to the wooden elevator. Seems the Annex is in the old part of the building. The Annex is wood framed construction and even has an elevator with a wooden (or at least wood lined) car. As I headed off on my quest to find this relic of a thing I’m told not to worry. Oh sure, the elevator is old, and it smells funny and it creaks and groans when it moves and it’s really slow. But most of the time, it’s reliable. Great just what I needed, an elevator that might or might not get me to where I’m going.

So I headed off to find the customers’ office. Sure enough, I found the Annex building and eventually the elevator in question. Oh yeah, it was wooden alright. I bet you drew a mental picture of Mahogany inlays and ornate carvings. Boy were you off base. This thing looked like it had been whittled by Jed Clampett. I mean really, come on now this can't be it, can it? Is this REALLY an elevator? It was more like someone slapped together a couple of sheets of old plywood that had been lying around and tied a rope to the top. And it smelled funny. I’m not even going to try to guess where that smell came from. Crimanny. Was I about to get on this thing or what? Was this a joke? I was not going to climb five flights of stairs lugging all the junk I had with me, so after a short prayer, I jumped on. What the heck no guts no glory.

This elevator was a trip. Rattle barely described the ride. I think the astronauts atop a Saturn 5 rocket had a smoother ride. Oh well, it’s only to the fifth floor.

All week long as I rode this elevator, I marveled at its condition and was more than a little amazed that it hadn’t been shut down. As I rode up in down in this thing, I started noticing little things. Things like: only some of the floor lights work, the lean rail was only barely attached and when it reached it's destintion it only kind of  lined up with the floor. Sometimes close enough IS good enough. One of the things that really catches my eye is the panel with the floor buttons. This panel looked like it had been around a while. It was more than just a little worn. You could tell the popular floors, the numbers were all but worn off the buttons. All the screws holding the panel on looked like they have been screwed and unscrewed more than the original design specification called for. I think everyone has seen what I’m talking about, slotted screws with the slots all mashed and uneven from years of screwdriver abuse. There was one screw in particular that really drew my attention. This screw was different from all the rest. It was easily ten times the size of the others and it looked like there was a broken piece of metal in the slot. It looked like someone had used too small a screwdriver tightening it down the last time and broke the tip off. How stupid is that? How could some maintenance person use the wrong sized tool and break off the tip, then just leave the broken tip behind?

For the remainder of the week, all I could think about as I rode in the elevator was that broken screwdriver tip stuck in that mismatched screw in the button panel. Eventually, I started wondering what it would take to remove the broken tip from the screw. I ran my finger over the screw and sure enough, I could feel the rough, broken edge of the tip.

Finally Friday rolled around and it was time to go home. I piled onto the elevator, exhausted, and lugging three computer bags. As the doors started to close, I started to day dream. This trip was long, the days were long, I had a long flight ahead of me and I was tired. I was thinking about my trip home and no longer really paying attention to anything else.  I started running my finger over the large screw again and began to wonder, just how difficult would it be to just flick that broken piece of metal out? I kind of scratched at the piece with my fingernail. The nail caught an edge, and the piece moved. I thought to myself, “I bet I can get that out of there”. So I tried again. Sure enough, this time I could see it move. Now a little more of the edge is exposed. GREAT! This piece of metal has been bugging me all week. Now I just knew I could flick it out of there. I thought to myself “What the heck, no one else is going to remove it.” So I hooked my fingernail under the broken piece of metal as best I could and flicked it as hard as I could. When I did, I could feel the piece move, and it moved a lot. EXCELLENT, I’m going to get it out of there. So I hooked the piece again and gave it one last flick.

As soon as I flicked the piece of metal this second time, something happened that I wasn’t quite prepared for. Out of all the possible eventualities I never dreamed this would happen.  I never even saw this one coming. It never entered my mind even once. Not for one split second did I give this possibility even the briefiest of consideration. This time when the piece moved, there was a snap, and then darkness. The lights went out!  And I am talking DARK dark. No light at all. No emergency light, no light seeping in from a crack in the door, nothing. Now I’m standing in the dark and I’m thinking “Oh Shit, that wasn’t a broken piece of metal, that was the light switch.” YIKES! I found out afterwards that they used to make switches like that so that people wouldn’t play with the lights. It was a safety thing. A technician could easily turn on/off the lights using the tip of whatever tool they happened to be holding. Oooops. Boy did I find that out too late. Now I’m standing in a pitch black elevator trying to quickly figure out how to get the lights back on before somebody notices that they are off.

I had about two seconds to formulate my plan. Not enough time unfortunately. About two seconds after the lights went out, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. When they did, I saw a group of people waiting to get on. It looked like a Mother with a child in a stroller and possibly a grandmother. I can’t be sure. As soon as I saw them, I looked at the floor and quickly walked by, trying hard as I could not to be seen. As I reached the door to the hallway, I turned my head just in time to see the women and stroller get into the pitch black elevator car. As they did, I could hear one of them utter “Well I don’t know. That man just got off.” And with that, the doors closed.

I flew home that night in both abject terror and in hysterics. I was convinced the customer would know I was the one that shut off the lights and stranded a group of woman in the elevator. I had convinced myself that first thing Monday morning I would get a call to go see the Boss. Then, that would be that.  I'd be gone.  How would I explain this in my next job interview?  "Yeah, I was forced to leave that last job because I stranded a family of three in a dark elevator all weekend." I just couldn't see how I was going to turn that one into a resume builder or one of my strong points. By the same token, I found it hysterically funny. It was all so innocent and it happened so fast.  You should have seen the looks on those peoples faces as I stepped out of the blackness.  Can you picture it?  There I was in my best navy blue suit, white shirt, red tie, black wing tip shoes, carrying very offical looking cases of who knows what appearing mysteriously from this darkened. elevator car.  The only things missing were a whift of smoke and some dark sun glasses.  I could see the looks of wonder and awe on their faces as I whisked past them trying not to be noticed.  I can close my eyes even now and picture those looks.

I waited well over 10 years before I finally told this story to anyone. I figured ten years was the statute of limitations on this level of stupidity.  I no longer worked for that company anyway. What could they do to me?   And besides, those women had to be out of the elevator by then. How mad could they still be?