My Mr. T Experience

^ Has anyone ever taken a bad photo of Mr. T? Honestly! I'm not trying to get a laugh here. I'm fucking serious.^

 I wrote the following tale as an inspirational speech I performed in 11^th grade. Whereas my classmates spoke fondly of heroes, role models, and departed loved ones, I chose the fictitious route. The others were sentimental. I was emotionally detached.

The response to my speech was mostly positive. Some laughed. Some worried about me.

The story has since been lightly revised, but it remains the product of a prolific yet blundering 17-year-old. Enjoy? Yeah. Do that. It's not Shakespeare, but then again, a lot of people hate Shakespeare.

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Whenever I hear the word “inspirational,” my mind drifts back to my first day of kindergarten. It was a sunny late August afternoon and I remember how hard it was to let go of my mom's hand when we arrived at Waters Elementary.

Our teacher was very nice. Her smile made me feel at ease. I spoke to some of my classmates even though I was nervous.

I ran into a problem during recess, however. After two or three brushes with death on the jungle gym, I decided the slide might be a welcome retreat.

When I got to the ladder of the slide, a burly sixth-grader stood in my way. He scowled and crossed his arms.

“This slide ain't for girls,” the bully scoffed.

“But I'm a boy,” I squeaked.

“Well, then you should prove it,” he said. He pointed to a girl with brown pigtails playing four square. “Kiss that girl over there.”

His virtually toothless cohort sidled up and chimed in.

“Wait. What if the kid's a thespian, like them chicks in them movies yer uncle's always watchin'?”

“You shut that yapper of yours, Q-Bert!”

The bully nearly turned on his cohort.

I wanted so badly to wake up from this nightmare and be back home in my cozy bed. But I was stuck in reality, which sometimes gets ugly. I was on the verge of shamefully ambushing that unknown girl with a kiss when a strong, dark hand grabbed my shoulder.

“This boy ain't doin' no kissin' 'til he's damn good and horny.”

Oh, my God! It was Mr. T!

“Now, listen here,” he went on. “What's your name, kid?”

“It's Chad, sir,” the bully said with a tremble.

“OK. Now listen here, FOOL! This boy has the right to do whatever he chooses on this here playground, and I ain't gonna let you tell him otherwise. Now apologize to him, sucka.”

“Sorry!” Chad said. “I'm really, really sorry.”

Mr. T taught me at a young age how to resolve conflicts with others... when he launched little Chad through a nearby window. As if that wasn't merciless enough, Mr. T then pulled Chad's limp body back onto the playground, where he ordered Q-Bert to keep his friend's dead weight propped up. Then Mr. T hustled up three flights of stairs to the roof of the school. He jumped down about 30 feet—in slow motion, mind you—and diving-tackled the poor kid.

Chad got a little case of permanent brain damage on his day of comeuppance, but I've heard he has recently relearned how to wipe himself. So, he's making progress.

Anyway, the recess monitor came over to scold us, and what does T do? He pulls out a freaking machine gun, that's what. But he was careful to shoot only the ground surrounding the teacher until she retreated. That way no one got hurt. Except for... you know.

Mr. T then hoisted me onto his shoulder, made a mad dash, and eventually forced me into the back of the A-Team van. I'm still recovering psychologically from what he did in that van.

He admitted that he threw his fight with Sylvester Stallone in Rocky 3, through a waterfall of tears, I should add. As if that wasn't shocking enough, Mr. T also told me that the writers of The A-Team stole a lot of their material from The Dukes of Hazard. For instance, the scene where the villain's car veers out of control and winds up sinking in a pond. Also mentioned was the part where there's a cool explosion and people have to dive for safety.

He was really sobbing when I told him what was up between T and me.

“Mr. T, you're still my hero.”

The man looked at me with those soaked brown eyes and smiled.

“You know something, Nick, the fool I pity most is the one who doesn't believe in himself.”

And as the gentle giant gave me a hug, I whispered to him:

“Do you pity me?”

Mr. T shook his head so hard his gold chains jingled. He replied:

“Not after today, son. Not after today.”  

Straight Outta Mount Calvary: The Fireman's Picnic (rewrite)

^Shockingly coveted for a Wisconsin kid circa 1990.^

My dad grew up in Mount Calvary. Since the village is located in an area known as The Holyland, when I was a very young and naive boy, I spent an entire summer believing Jesus himself had grown up there. In truth, he didn't, but their faith has long struck me as stronger than usual. The residents are willing to wake up early on Sunday mornings to pray away their hangovers at mass. They love the Holy Spirit, and other spirits as well.

Every August, the humble village hosts a carnival at Fireman’s Park. It is aptly referred to as the Fireman’s Picnic.

It’s not my aim to deride the spirit and tradition of the Fireman's Picnic. But In the late '80s and early '90s, at least, the town's modest budget did not permit them to splurge on the crème de la crème of redneck carnival rides—namely the Gravitron and the Zipper. Throughout my childhood summers, my parents would spend money I would then hand to a scruffy stranger who allowed me to ride on a rusty cart that crawled clockwise on a track that was 15 feet wide. I wasn't expecting loop-de-loops and laser shows, but come on, give a kid something to work with, you know?

Only one ride posed a legitimate threat to the uprising of a corn dog you had just choked down. It was a blend between a high-octane carousel and a demonic swingset. A dozen seats dotted the perimeter, and they were attached to chains that dangled from propellers. Once the thing got going, the propellers spun rapidly around-and-around-and-around, and the rider got a sense of what it feels like to be an unbreakable string of snot dangling from the blade of a helicopter. If memory serves, this ride was called “Discount Nausea.”

Discount Nausea could only be tolerated in great moderation, and with little interest in the tame rides, I sought out the prize booths maintained by jabber-jawing carnies. Sadly, throwing darts at balloons and executing a pyramid of empty beer cans with a single shot from a BB gun were talents that eluded me. Though my ambition was to win a Bartman t-shirt, or a least a small poster of Packers quarterback Don Majikowski, I usually went home with the humiliating consolation prize: An artificial clip-on feather, colored the shade of a peacock’s underbelly. Not only did the carnies take my money—OK, my parents' money—a the twisted bumpkins also had the nerve to bash my impending manhood.

“I’m an eight-year-old boy,” I’d squeak. “I play with Ninja Turtles. What the heck do you expect me to do with a frilly blue feather?

And the carnie would guffaw, opening his mouth wide to reveal five lonesome maggots jutting from his gums.

“Weeelll, I’m sure you can think of somethin’, Nancy-boy. WHO’S NEXT?!”

It’s been said that human beings alternate between afflictions of either boredom or pain throughout their lifetimes. I’m not a very optimistic person, but I think that’s nonsense, primarily because of slow, wet kisses and The Simpsons.

I mention the boredom/pain aside because, after wandering through the confines of Fireman’s Park, yawning in brief intervals, I would whimsically attach the fake feather’s jagged, metal clip to my pointer finger and withstand the painful pinch until I could take it no longer. At last I would remove the clip urgently, and then shake my throbbing red finger for a while. The boredom didn’t feel so bad then.

My favorite attraction at the Fireman’s Picnic was the Moonwalk Tent. Rambunctious hopping is an activity sure to engage children. The Moonwalk Tent (aka the “Bouncy Castle”) had its charms, but after ten minutes or so, the fetid stench of sweaty socks lingering in a roasting confinement really got to you. Plus I was always bummed out about the absence of top ropes and turnbuckles inside the Moonwalk Tent. There aren’t too many places in which a top rope and turnbuckles can be set up feasibly, but dammit, inside the Moonwalk Tent is one of those places. And since I was too young to pair up with a gorgeous blond and enact that Revenge of the Nerds fantasy, I soon bid good riddance to the Moonwalk Tent.

It was after all these lackluster pursuits that I discovered the Smoky Room Upstairs, which was maintained by the local volunteer fire department.

The Smoky Room Upstairs was the size of a two-story hobbit-house, its dimensions comparable to a double-wide trailer living room. A tube the size of a manhole cover fed into the upstairs, and it traced back to a smoke machine with a generator that churned maddeningly.

The Smoky Room Upstairs (aka fire smoke house) was designed for educational more so than fun purposes. Its chief aim was to enlighten kids on safety precautions in the event of a household blaze. A mustachioed volunteer would usher kids up a short flight of stairs on the side of the diminutive structure, above the seemingly vacant first floor and into the upstairs room. I say “seemingly vacant” because I had a hunch the off-duty firemen used it as a windowless sanctuary to play games of Euchre and chug cups of Miller Lite.

His shoulders and neck craning at an uncomfortable angle, golden helmet scraping against the ceiling, our guide waved us all into the cramped room. It was furnished like an oversized dollhouse. In the midst of his boring safety lecture, he scolded a careless youngster who plopped down on an artificial couch. It’s hard for kids to discern a prop from the real thing. That’s why the little buggers feel like cold-blooded assassins when they aim a Daisy rifle at the mailman’s head.

Though the interior decorator did a half-ass job, the electrician was quite ambitious. The square perimeter was plastered with about a dozen outlets at shin level. The fireman instilled a fear of outlets into our little hearts that day, warning us of the dangers of ramming a fork in there or overloading the amplitude as the dad from A Christmas Story would do.

As the lecture drew to a close, the fireman attached his gas mask and cued the smoke machine. I’ll never forget gazing at that vent, watching the smoke wisp gracefully and ominously into our air supply, feeling like I was at the mercy of a deranged super-villain and his elaborate death chamber.

Pretty soon, when the smoke had reached a murky, almost opaque density, we were instructed to crawl out of the Smoky Room Upstairs (a trek of nine feet) and rejoin the outside world. Then it was once again time to scam money from our tipsy parents so we could buy tickets for rides and booths until it was time to go home.

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For dreamlike childhood nostalgia, John Lennon had “Strawberry Fields Forever.” I have “The Fireman's Picnic.” What a ripoff. Someone once asked me why this story has so many sour moments, and my reply was that it wasn't the fault of the Fireman's Picnic. The onus was on me, wandering aimlessly, dissatisfied but observing.

Maybe my expectations have always been too high. Every year I go to the Fireman's Picnic in tiny Mount Calvary hoping to ride the Gravitron, and every year, it's not there.