The Best Punch I Ever Threw: Part 3

Posted: March 3, 2011 in Nonfiction

Since this room wouldn’t work, we walked back the office in hope that somebody would be there. The door was still closed and the note was still up, but we heard chatter from inside. Mike banged on the door. Nobody answered but the chatter continued, so we went in. There was a bell on the desk and Mike rang it. Nothing. We could hear the people talking clearer now. It was a man and a woman who seemed to be drinking together. They weren’t ignoring us, they were just oblivious. Mike rang the bell again.

“Izzat tha bell?” the woman’s voice asked, “How’d I know,” said the man. “guess’ll check,” replied the woman. But she didn’t.

Mike rang the bell again.  There were three more exchanges regarding if  the bell was rang or not (each proceeded by Mike actually ringing the bell.)

Eventually an old lady came down the steps. She had to be around 90. Her teeth were out, and she was loaded. I’d never seen a drunk 90 year old before. It’s not as cute as I’d imagined. She was dusty and hostile, and when she staggered she looked like she’d break. She stared at Mike without saying anything for nearly a minute. I stood there equally frightened and confused. I’m not used to having to make in opening remark when visiting a hotel. Typically, people know what you’re there for.

“Uh…we’re the comics,” Mike said tentatively, “and uh… we’re going to need a different room.”

“Ohhhh,” She said with a weird accent. I asked people about it later, and they said it was Norwegian, that a lot of Norwegian immigrants moved their, and since nobody else ever moved to the U.P. their dialect stuck around. I’ve never met a Norwegian, and I don’t know how they talk, but what I heard sounded like equal parts hillbilly and leprechaun.

“So yer hereta seetha show eh?” She asked.

“No,” Mike tried to explain, “we, we are the show. We’re the comedians, we’re going to need a different…”

“Yah, yer herta watchtha show. Yer comin’ oftha Lake ay? Neida Room.”

“No, no Miss, we’re performing, we’re…”

“Yah, yah, comin’ alltheway from tha Lake and ya needa room do ya?”

“What, No, we’re… what lake? … we just… we need two beds.” He said the last part like a question. This old lady’s refusal to understand the situation had left him baffled. And she seemed to be getting angry at his inability to speak tiny drunken shoe maker.

She started up again,“Wellnah… we gotta room fa…”

“Miss, we are…”

“Comin’ offtha lake Ah know.” she interrupted.

Finally Mike snapped. “Listen Old Lady! I have No Idea What You’re Talking About, we just need a God Damned room.”

At this point a large fat man lumbered down the stairs. He looked like an alcoholic Santa Claus. He was a big man, 6’3” or 6’4”, and had a barrel chest and hefty ponch around the middle. All of his teeth on one side of his mouth were missing. He had one incisor on the top and  bottom and everything to the left was perfect, but the right side of his mouth was a gross open fissure. It looked like he’d been dipping metamphetamine like Skoal.  It gave him the appearance of a sinister staple remover and made everything he said sound sharp and crooked. His mouth was surrounded by a thick beard that drifted from dirty grey to a bright silver. It was mangled and matted in spots. It caught bits of saliva that jumped from of his mouth like they were afraid to be there. He had bright rosy cheeks that were in no way welcoming or jolly. They were fat and swollen with blood, like if a chipmunk was a mosquito. He clumped down the stairs and looked at me and Mike with a drunk’s half-eyed, suspicious leer.

“They need a room,” he said, and grabbed a key from the counter. “They’re the comics.” When he said that his eyes lit up like a kid’s and he smiled with that half opened saloon door.

This grotesque St. Nicolas had straightened out the situation immediately, and he nearly ran around the desk to grab Mike’s bags. He led us to our room and chatted merrily about the show and how he was going to be there. Every word he said smelled like gin.

We got to our room and we tried to part ways, but the man wedged his foot in the door as we closed it. He kept talking and kind of bulled his way in.

“You know…” he said with a smile, a horror-laden motherfucker of a smile, “I got some poems I’m pretty fond of.”

“Well, this is it,” I thought,

“This is how I’m going to die.”

He didn’t try to kill us though, not even a little bit. What he did do was proceed to tell us the filthiest rhyming poems I, or anybody, have ever heard. They were disgusting. They were Insani-filth. A surreal expression of the worst parts of humanity presented with gross-out humor and vicious inanity. A Salvador Dali work of dirty words and dirtier images. Abstract notions of filth like if Lovecraft wrote captions for Playboy cartoons. I can’t remember them clearly, but they were something like:

There were maggots falling out of her twat and vomit flowed out of her ass
A dead baby’s arm grabbed me dick and me balls and helped me in fucking the lass.
 She had boils and dead baby birds in her cu… 
 
 
I don’t think I need to continue. It wasn’t just a revolting rhyme, it’s also that there were 3 of them. Each one longer that the last. He’d finish one, smile, and fire off another. They were different, but none of them really varied from the subject matter. Mike and I stared blankly, in no way encouraging him to continue.

When he wrapped up the last one he beamed at us intently, incredibly proud of his mastery over verse.

We smiled nervously and made no sudden movements.

He stood there a minute, proud and chipper, then said politely, “Well, I’ll see ya at the show then.” and walked out whistling a sharp, crooked tune that smelled like a Tom Collins.

When the door closed I looked at Mike.

“A bowling alley.” I said.

“A fucking bowling alley.”

I’m going to stop here today. I think I‘ve got this story blocked out the way I want it, and this seems like a good spot for a break. Things will be picking up next post, and I promise, I‘m getting to the bowling and punching. I know how much people LOVE bowling and punching.

 
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Comments
  1. jason says:

    Jason Voorhes “rape victim”

  2. ckmcomedy says:

    I like bowling and punching a lot but am also pretty delighted with drunk old people. Oh the glory years…one of these days.*Sigh*

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