Friday, August 19, 2011

I'm Number One!

The other day, I was cutting holes in a plastic jar with a big blade.

That should be your story right there. An incidental element to a family story of arts and crafts. No controversy, and certainly no Ron Vigil-ness anywhere. Even with my good friends at work watching me--twirling the blade with an air of self-assuredness and sophistication--were not aware of the obvious accident to come. You should've seen me, though! My associate Sergio and the Sheriff's Deputy with him kept squinting, watching me pull and jerk through the brittle plastic, as I dropped in the occasional: "I'll be fine" and "this is almost done".

In fact, I was pretty much finished with my Sloppy Task (great band name, BTW) when the blade skipped out of a hard plastic groove and whispered through the webbing between my thumb and fore finger. Just like a samurai film, blood jumped onto the carpet, darted across a desk, and dribbled onto a collectible t-shirt that shouldn't have been lying underneath, from a nearby display case (guess who has that shirt now, kids!).

My friend the Sheriff's Deputy, whisked me off to the designated medical center to seek Workman's Comp Medical Attention, conveniently located on the other side of the city in Rush Hour traffic. This was after me sitting in the company office bloodily filling out corporate forms making sure I don't sue them over a cut I made to myself on the job. Awkward sentence? Yes, but the whole situation was awkward, thankyouverymuch! So Larry and I (the Sheriff's Deputy is Larry here, and will be mentioned from here on out as such designation) went searching for the designated medical center. We arrived after searching the surrounding neighborhoods--I did, however, find a couple locations for a possible future house, though--very nice, and affordable, I hear...

I must tell you, dear reader, this isn't about Poor Ronnie Gets A Cut And Tries To Explain The Universe. Well, we'll get to it--

Once I arrive at the place, I'm told I need to wait for someone to arrive so I could take a drug test, since the accident occurred while I was on the job. Fair enough, I thought, as I waited in the Trauma Room, regretting the fact I should've gone to the bathroom BEFORE I left work...

Long story short: doctor arrives, cut is cleaned out, preparations are made for stitches, here we go Ron!

Just then, a delicate smell of Under Arm and Dirty Clothes greets our nostrils, and a larger woman--apparently in a hurry--charges into the room, carrying three bags. No one shook hands, no one smiled, no one even knew her name even when she shoved a sweaty palm in my face: "I'm here to test you". Talk about an entrance. The doctor, bless his heart, sought solace in another room. You could tell he was a clean freak, and this chick was his mortal enemy, you could tell. Besides, he probably had to throw up down the hall. We exchanged desperate glances when he left, as if he told me he'll get me out of this cell in eight-to-ten years...

After a quick waft of Body Stank, she thrust forth an empty cup, and led me down the hall to the restroom. Good thing, because I really needed to go, this task would be completed soon, and she could go on her merry way, where she could go home and hopefully take a freaking shower.

Alright, dear reader, let's get something straight: I'm a heavier guy myself, and I don't take pleasure in ripping heavy people. But when you're challenging human proportion, you don't tend to the Pit Farms, and you have an "air" of self-importance, you're fair game.

"Fill it up as much as you can", she said, standing guard outside the bathroom door. This was going to be no problem, with no waiting, just a simple "here you go, have a nice day". Cup was filled, cup exchanged hands, now it's onto the final paperwork. As the doctor was still nowhere in sight of the Trauma Room, this lady started to rush to the end of her task. As I sat back down on the table, I noticed the room and its surroundings compress into a slow motion ballet. Paper forms gracefully folded onto themselves, breathing slowed uneasy sighs, and the Venti-Urine danced along the counter as a hurried elbow shoves it along. Here, time stopped.

She spilled the pee all over the counter, the floor, and down the front of her white dress. Never heard so many whispered f-bombs in all my life... scratch that, yes I have. I meant "f-bombs from someone other than myself". A large part in my heart was joyous--schadenfreude in its purest state! A lingering tiny voice in my heart was scared; I was on empty.

We might have to wait here longer, if I can't get something, if youknowwhatimean. Should've asked her if she accepted semen, I could've had that going in a minute! As the entire medical facility was out of water, I had to throw a couple cups of tap water down my gullet, and the messy clean up was underway. I really dreaded this lady to move around too much, because the air became less-and-less fresh. All the while, I'm doing kegel exercises to load the howitzer for another enemy bombardment. Talk about marking your territory: the room, the paperwork, the dress and the woman were mine! Sure there may have been body odor around, but I'm Number One!

Denoument--I squeezed out a bit of urine, and she did the test (why did she ask me to fill the cup in the first place?). As she left in a hurry, I heard a faint "it was nice to meet you, so sorry about the mess". The door closed. That was it? After all we'd been through together, this was all I receive? At least I left her with a couple creepy Ebay items.

Everything else from here on in was standard operating procedure: stitches and pleasant conversation were vollied, I made another appointment, I signed a couple autographs (it still feels so surreal), and we all said our goodbyes.

As Larry and I left the clinic to jump into his van, I began giggling to myself. A few minutes passed, we were sitting in Rush Hour, and it hits. We REALLY needed to hurry back: Wonnie had to go wee-wee.



Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Restless Soul Syndrome


Haven't been on here for a while now, mostly because what I had to say didn't amount to much--or what I had to say was surely going to get me kicked out of the Blogosphere.

I feel like I'm biding my time too much here. Enough. Okay, I'm gonna get right to it! Here goes...

I'm searching. I'm sad. I'm scared. I'm disappointed.

A few months back, a good friend from college killed himself by jumping from a prominent building here in Downtown Denver. His last post reminded me to have a great weekend, and "he'll see me soon", he hoped. His Facebook page is still creepily open. I had to de-friend him, as I felt a little voyeuristic and unwelcome. I mean, HE chose to leave the dinner party, right? So, who am I to suck up to the leftover emotions with his abandoned friends and family...

A few weeks later, a long-time business associate tried to kill himself with a massive overdose on Xanax. "Luckily", his wife discovered him lying on the floor and the paramedics performed their oft-overlooked job once again. After visiting with him a while recently, I still wonder when he'll try again. I really hope he does not before someone truly ministers to him.

Both men had the same empty smile, the same extreme succeses and failures in life, and me as a "friend". Here, I began to reflect on what I could have said or done, to quell their inner demons for a while longer, before they chose their methods of self-consolidations. I often look back and try to pinpoint the faulty living in my own battles, the missed opportunities in my associations, and I've discovered I have not been a good man. As I tumble into the midway point of my 40's, I presently know I don't have it all together. Let's get something clear, though: I have a reasonably successful career, I have a pretty good home with a loving son and dogs, and my spiritual walk is a consistent revelation of refreshment and joy.

I'm just not a good guy.

Just yesterday, I was texted by a lion-hearted guy at work who asked to have a few drinks with him. Earlier this week, the same guy called and asked me how my day was shaking out, as I didn't look happy at the time. All I did was tell him I was simply too busy to visit with him.

In business, I have people who want to work with me, and I forget to call them further.

I avoid eye contact in crowded places, I ignore neighbors, I despise my bosses, I avoid the mirror, and--most terribly of all--I friend and de-friend people on Facebook all the time, according to my misguided egotistical assumptions.

There are times where my wife and I try to work things out, and I put everything in the back of my mind, plowing into my work and aspirations.

Having noticed all these empirical truths from a purely pragmatic mechanism, I'm left, still with myself. Where does this discovery lead? What now? Do I really try to change? Do I re-schedule missed opportunities and appointments? Do I resolve to take different steps?

I took a quick look at my own writings--all counted on a single hand, with three chubby digits--and noticed the last entry was about a year ago. A lot has happened since, and I'm guilty.
Not that I'm some great prize among men, nor do I value my presence and information with a slight dramatic pause: I just don't share much.

It all probably goes back to Acting School, or even before. I liked being other people. I loved discovering everybody else's ticks, inner landscapes, and motives. Everyone else is more interesting, I think. To clarify, I'm not lashing myself, nor am I soliciting a response, but I have a firm grasp on my Inner-whatever. My life is lived almost entirely in my cranium. I love it in there. I'm selfish of my own perceptions, jokes, and criticisms.

One of the great joys in my life is among friends, where we can spar over opinions, thoughts and dreams. In those cases, I don't share as much as I should, because I might indulge my brain too much... you know how those people are at cocktail parties, speaking for hours, most notably about themselves. If I'm ever like the afore mentioned character, I've given orders to my friends to beat me with shovels, and whack me out in a field (that's the Chicago Way, after all!).

So, what I'm trying to get at is this: I want to be better. More outgoing... I don't think there was ever a time in my life where I DIDN'T try to hide. Being genuine should be a bigger priority for me.

I want to be a better friend...Goodness knows how you (and you know who you are, people) have lifted me up when I needed it, and I'm brutally contrite as a result. Thank you.

To the friends and family I have let down, forgive me. I will do what I can to be better.

To Jay--I want to be there for you, and you should let me know whatever it is that you need. Sorry for the poor writing, but I'm coming from the heart. I'd like to help or pray for you when I can.

And finally, to Kyle--I failed you. Fly away.