Mostly Autobiographical

by Rob Gunther

  And it would get really bad. But, like I said, trash day isn’t until Tuesday. So maybe the next day one of my friends might come over. And maybe I’d be in the shower when I’d hear the doorbell ring, so I’d jump out of the shower real quick because I can’t just leave him outside to wait for me to finish up. I’d run downstairs all soapy, but covered with a towel, I’d unlock the door and give a really quick, “Hey!” but I’d turn around and start running upstairs right away, dripping, making huge soapy puddles everywhere I go.

  I’d say, “I’ll be out in a second! Make yourself at home!” which is always a nice thing to say. I hate when you go over somebody’s house and they don’t say anything. All I get from them is an implicit, “Don’t make yourself at home. Respect the rules of a good houseguest.” Like you have to take your shoes off before stepping foot inside. I always hate this rule. What if somebody spills a drop of soda on the floor? Or one potato chip? You step on it, and now you’ve got a wet spot on the bottom of your sock. Or a crushed up potato chip. If you were wearing shoes, it wouldn’t be such a big deal.

  Or, there’s the other end of the spectrum, where whoever’s house you’re at has a great carpet, like, super plush, shag carpeting. And not only do you want to take your shoes off, but you want to take your socks off too. You want to get as undressed as you can and just roll around in the soft carpeting, totally comfortable - very, very plush, like I said. But your host gives you a face as you start to untie your shoe, and you get the hint. So you retie them, make it like you weren’t going to take off your shoes, like you were just making the knot a little tighter.

  But you just know the host is doing exactly what you wish you could be doing when he’s by himself, moving all of the furniture out of the room so it’s just the carpet, that beautiful, plush, luxurious shag carpeting, and he’s rolling around, back and forth, every part of his body touching every inch of carpeting. And he gets up and his whole body is charged with positive particles. He can feel them. He’s feeling turbocharged, not just from the comfort, but from all of that static electricity. And he drags his feet over across the carpeting right to the doorknob, and he touches it. It’s this huge spark, like, ”ZZZZAP!” like it’s such a big shock he can smell it, he can smell the charged air, and it’s just everything you’d possibly imagine it to be.

  No, I’m a good host. When I say, “Make yourself at home,” I’m serious. And my guests know I’m serious, that I’m not just saying it to be pleasant. I’m like, do whatever you want here. And what if this guest went to the fridge to grab a drink, and he’d take a look at my old snack still just sitting there, it’s been lying out for days, a nice cheese plate maybe, he starts going to town. Plus, if it’s cheese, you really can’t tell if it’s bad or not.

  He’d be like, “Hmm … this cheese sure tastes extra fancy.”

  And then what? He’d get sick, like really sick. And he’d feel like he’s about to throw up, but he wouldn’t want to throw up in the house, so he’d run outside and open up the lid to the trashcan with those dirty sneakers still just sitting there. He’d be overcome by the stench, and it’s too much, and he’d die.

  And it would all be my fault. That’s why when I step in something, I throw out my shoes in someone else’s trashcan. Or a public trashcan. But usually someone else’s, because those public trashcans fill up so fast, and there are piles of litter all around them.

  So I got a new pair of sneakers. They’re blue. I keep getting compliments on how awesome they are. I’m eating a snack right now. It’s cheese. It’s fucking delicious. I’m telling you, everything happens for a reason.

  Unfounded claims and unwarranted accusations

  If everyone would just stop staring at me for a second, I’m sure I’ll be able to explain. Those rumors you’ve been hearing about me are, well, they’re just that, rumors. Think about it. Who would want to spread rumors about me? It doesn’t make any sense, right? But it totally makes sense.

  It was Andre. That asshole’s had it out for me for months. Ever since that picnic.

  Those drugs? What can I say except that they weren’t mine? I don’t really do drugs. I mean, that doesn’t count. I don’t really consider that a drug. But someone’s obviously trying to set me up. And I can only think of one person. But I should stop, I’m not in the business of naming names, pointing fingers. I’m don’t want to stoop down to anyone else’s level. Nobody ever stoops down to my level, so why should I return the favor? Why are you looking at your cell phone? Is it Andre?

  No, I’m just joking. I don’t even know any Andre. Just forget he exists. I don’t even know what you’re talking about, drugs. I’ve never seen any drugs. Somebody must have made all of that stuff up. I heard this rumor that someone’s spreading some gossip about money and some drugs and, you know who’s really into drugs, right?

  Andre.

  That scumbag. He’ll ask you for five dollars, no big deal, right? And he’ll wait you out like a month, two months, and then he’ll pay you back. And then like a week later he’s asking you for twenty, then fifty, then twenty again. And he’ll pay those back too, eventually. But then there’s a call in the middle of the night, and it’s Andre, and he needs five hundred dollars, right now. He can’t explain, but it’s urgent. He’ll pay you back seven fifty tomorrow, the very next day. And then he disappears for a while.

  Well, just forget everything I said. But ask around, Andre’s bad news. But don’t ask around, don’t talk about him unless someone brings him up. And if it comes up, and you’re roped into a conversation about him, let whoever it is you’re talking to know that I had nothing to do with any of this nonsense. Don’t put it in there like I asked you to say something, just drop it in naturally, gracefully. And if this person still insists on continuing to talk about Andre, ask if they’ve seen my eight hundred dollars anywhere. I can’t find it. I started asking around about my money and now there’re these rumors about me and drugs and …

  No I never joined a cult. Fucking Andre. I went to one party, one time. I thought it was going to be a social thing. Yeah, maybe it was a little culty, but I didn’t bring anybody. Well, I didn’t force that person to come with me. They just came. And it’s not my fault if they found the whole presentation really convincing. You’ve got to stop asking so many questions. Don’t you trust me? Aren’t we friends?

  Listen, do you have five dollars? I just went to the deli to get a sandwich and I totally forgot my wallet. I know, I’m such a space cadet sometimes. Anyway, the guy told me I could have the sandwich and pay him back next time, because I’m always getting sandwiches at that deli. I’m a regular. More than a regular. Seriously, the sandwich guy invited me to his wife’s baby shower. I couldn’t go, but I sent a gift. And I don’t want to ask him to spot me, like what if I go back to pay him later but there’s a different deli guy behind the counter? And even though the guy says he’ll pass along the five bucks, what if he never does? And what if I go back the next day to get another sandwich, and my sandwich guy thinks that I haven’t paid him back? Like I’m just ignoring it? And he’s not going to say anything, he’s just going to stuff it inside, a little deeper, trying to forget about it, to let bygones be bygones. But it’ll grow, and he won’t forget, and the next time I forget my wallet, he’s just going to be like, “Sorry man, no money, no sandwich. No exceptions.” And he’ll point to a little sign that he printed out on his computer, it’ll say exactly that: “No money …” just like I just said.

  Thanks a lot. I’ll pay you back tomorrow. No, I’ll pay you back tonight. I’ll pay you six dollars. Just take it, I insist. I’m good for it. I’m a good guy. You tell that to Andre if you see him. Well, if anybody mentions Andre to you, you tell whoever’s talking about him that I’m a good guy. Or just forget I said anything.

  Look who set a world record

  I woke up this morning and had this sudden realization that, so far, I haven’t set any records at all. Not even one. I’ve been living this whole life of not pushing the envelope, o
f not boldly going where no one has gone before. But then a voice chimed in my head and said, “Relax Rob, you’ve set plenty of records. Like that time that you held your breath for a minute and forty-five seconds. That was your longest held breath yet!” And I calmed down a bit.

  Yeah, I’ve set plenty of records.

  But then like ten minutes later, a different voice in my head started saying things like, “Well, you can’t really count those as records. I mean, they’re personal bests. Everybody has personal bests. Don’t you think it’s kind of a copout?” And yeah, it’s true. I needed something to set myself apart from the pack. I needed to get myself a real record.

  So I went down to the track. I resolved to run a three-minute mile. I’d stay there all day and night if I had to. I had this feeling that if I just pushed hard enough, I could will my legs to move faster and faster, each step a little quicker until I had the record and I could go home and go to sleep, content, not worrying about waking up the next day in the grip of a cold panic brought on by the pathetic fact that my life has, thus far, been completely devoid of setting any records whatsoever.

  But it didn’t happen. I wasn’t expecting to break the mile record on my first try. I figured I’d have to warm up a little. But my times just kept getting slower and slower until I had absolutely no energy left. I was so thirsty, but I didn’t bring anything to drink – I’m such an idiot! – and so I went to the public water fountain and I started drinking, but the pressure was so low that I couldn’t really get enough water in one gulp to satisfy my pressing need for refreshment. Finally I figured out a way to lean my head to the side so the water would fill up inside one of my cheeks and then I could take a nice, satisfying swallow. When I came up for air, there was a huge line of people waiting to use the water fountain. Everyone looked really pissed off. I didn’t get out of the way. Instead, I counted how many people were waiting in line. Was this a record-breaking line? Could it be that I had unintentionally set a record? I kept counting. It had to have been a record.

  I got home and called up one of those record keeping institutions. I told them about the line at that water fountain, about how maybe we should just have a quiet ceremony. I figured if we put a plaque at that water fountain then people might see it and start organizing even bigger lines, and that wouldn’t be fair, it wouldn’t be a natural line of people. And the guy at the other end of the phone got so angry. He started yelling:

  “Will you stop calling here? You can’t keep claiming records! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have anything better to do? I’ve never in my whole career at this record keeping institution been bothered by somebody about as much nonsense as I have been by you!”

  And I said, “Really? Never? So I’m like the record keeper for most idiotic record requests?”

  And the guy got really quiet for a while and then finally he said, “You know, you’re right. This is totally a record! And it’s official because I’m an official here and I can vouch for it! You’ve done it! Congratulations!”

  And that was it. World-record set.

  Why is morale so low?

  Morale is at an all-time low. We’re not blind to that fact. We get it. We were just ignoring it for a while, seeing if it might not start going up again by itself. But it’s not. And ever since we first identified the all-time low, it’s fallen even lower. It’s dropping so fast that we actually can’t keep up with correctly labeling any low as an all-time low, because before we have a chance to complete the sentence, it plummets even further.

  So you get the idea. Very, very low morale.

  Which is why we’ve decided to issue some morale-boosting measures, some new rules. We’re positive that these rules will turn morale around in no time.

  The first rule concerns hugging. From now on, whenever you see somebody, you have to give him or her a hug. And not one of those fake hugs. It has to be an actual embrace. For at least five seconds. You actually have to count to five. Not necessarily out loud, but if you’re not saying it out loud, make sure you’re screaming it as loud as you can in your head. Block out all other thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. But not too fast. You can count Mississippi afterwards, but only if it helps. It’s not required. But if you finish hugging and it’s too short, you both have to start over. We’re going to have to be very strict here.

  I’m looking at some numbers. It looks like morale might be on the up-and-up already. That’s potentially good news. Potentially very good news. I’d say count to six in your head. This way you’ll be positive that you’re hugging for at least five seconds. But if you’re counting to five, and it’s a little fast, and the person you’re hugging is counting slower, then your grip might be a little off, you’ll be letting go too early while the other person will still be hugging. And that could get a little awkward, feeling like you’re just being held, your limp body kind of hanging there in this other person’s arms. We’re looking for a casual, mutual embrace here. Proper hugs will definitely improve morale. But if it’s off for even a second, well, the studies aren’t back yet, but it’s always safe to assume the worst, right?

  You know what? I think both parties should count out loud to five. And scratch the Mississippis, too confusing. Just count a thousand. Don’t count a thousand, just count, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, etc. We’re looking for a syllable count here, something to keep a measure, like beats. Just so everybody’s on the same page.

  More numbers. Looks like morale’s turning around here folks. Well, it hasn’t completely turned around yet. But it’s not nose-diving as fast. That’s got to be something, a break in downward momentum.

  Wait a second, even more numbers. These numbers are terrible. This isn’t good news …

  Wait. Wait, more numbers. OK, these are some great numbers. I think it worked. It definitely worked. Don’t discount morale. Any good team needs morale. Any good organization.

  Get over here, you. You. What’s your name, you? Just, I’ll go left, you go right. No, not like … OK. There. A little tighter. That’s it. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand, five one-thousand. Terrific.

  The tale of the haunted coffee machine

  I’m pretty sure I saw a ghost the other day. Well, I don’t know if I it, exactly, but I definitely felt its presence. This guy at work asked me if I’d noticed anything strange in the restaurant lately.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  He said, “You know, like ghosts or anything.”

  And whenever a ghost conversation comes up, I always get really excited, the same excitement I used to feel when I read those Goosebumps books as a little kid. Even though Goosebumps, when you think about it, was a pretty lame series, none of the stories were scary. Spooky, maybe, all with really lackluster endings and gaping plot holes.

  Whatever. They were books for little kids. I remember one time my brother wrote a letter to the author, R.L. Stine, asking him all sorts of questions, like, “How do you write your books so fast?” They were written pretty quickly, once a month if I remember correctly.

  Not to be outdone by my little brother, I wrote a letter too, with even stupider questions, like, “What do you think would have happened if Spider-Man never got rid of his alien costume?”

  We both received envelopes back from R.L. Stine on the same exact day, and both of our letters were identical, photocopied, some bullshit about how he appreciates letters from the fans, how he reads each one individually and shares them with his wife and son.

  Even as a little kid I could tell he was lying, just by being in a family myself. Really? He reads every letter? Please. I imagined my own dad coming home from work with a stack of correspondence and saying to us, “All right, everyone in the living room. It’s time for me to share all of my letters with you.” And besides, Mr. Stine, if you’re spending all of that time enjoying our letters, why couldn’t you spend a second or two writing out a custom note? I mean, you are a writer, right? And you write those Goosebumps books
so fast, fast enough that you have enough free time to bore your wife and daughter with each stupid fan letter you get in the mail every day.

  Anyway, this guy at work starts talking about ghosts. And I’m like, shit, I have to come up with something, because I so want this to be a cool ghost conversation. Every time I think a ghost conversation is getting good, it always winds up disappointing, a total letdown. It’s the same sensation when you have a really great sneeze coming, and right as you open your mouth and tilt your head back and crunch up your face, it just goes away, no sneeze, you’re like, what the hell? It was right there. I was worried, mostly because I thought that if I didn’t come up with something cool to tell him, he wouldn’t feel at all pressured to tell me something cool in return. So I basically lied and told him that one time I saw something out of the corner of my eye in the basement. Pretty lame, yeah, but I didn’t have a lot of time to think.

  “What about you?” I asked him.

  He said, “One time I thought I saw something move past me, upstairs, toward the top of the staircase, but it was also out of the corner of my eye.”

  I kind of just stared at him for a second before saying, “Oh, OK. Cool.”

  And that was it.

  Someone else overheard our conversation and chimed in, uninvited, about how, “Well, I saw a ghost one time!” But by this point I was already super bored with fake ghost stories and couldn’t bear the thought of being let down by any more make-believe.