Women Spirits Protective of Beds

No. 7 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Old mysteries involving ghostly visitations goes back before my time with the Psycho Squad, actually to my dad’s time when he worked on the Squad. At that time there was quite a stigma that went with the work. They hadn't yet gotten to the point where everything was psychological, so they occasionally had to battle ghosts.

I grew up hearing these stories that a kid likes and hates to hear. I actually don't care for ghosts or anything about them. I used to be in the printing business and we bought the equipment from a hunchbacked guy who died very soon after. I was one of about seven people at his funeral. After that I often felt his ghost with me when I worked with his stuff. So I'd freak out and get very little done. But it turned out happily, because I’d leave a note of what needed to be done, then come back the next day. The type would be set, sometimes the job done, leaving me to collect the profits...

But back to the lady in the bustle. This is one of those cases, dime a dozen back in the day, of old women coming back from the dead and terrorizing guys unfortunate enough to have purchased their second hand beds. Men-haters, I’d call them, since you never heard of them terrorizing the female owners of their beds. Which, according to my surmise, meant they were frustrated with their husband in life or overly protective of their privacy under the sheets. Cold as clams. We don't get much of it now, because more recently-deceased women both lived and died with the looser morality we all know and love. We're just lucky they're not pinning us down as we sleep!

But since I'm not in the exorcism business but the psychological helper business I don't usually cast out spirits like this anyway. It's easy enough for guys to give the bed to Goodwill and let it be their problem. And I have to make a living in modern times. Meaning the problem has to focus on the guy with the wallet himself. “You think you saw big bony fingers and a bustle that wouldn't quit. Our minds play tricks on us all the time. Remember looking at clouds as a kid? If you scrunch your face and cross your eyes you can see prunes on apple trees. Keep your face normal and if you hear these weird noises and see these weird bustles and things, stare at the bathroom mirror till your eyes are focused. It's all you... But just for the heck of it, it might help to confidently adjure the air in the general direction you were looking.”

It actually does work. My first exorcism was like that, someone called about 3 in the morning. Could I come to their place? Because there was a ghost or more than one. They saw the legs of someone passing by in the closet. And they heard noises in the basement, like a ghost was about to do the laundry but wasn't familiar with when to put the softener in, so he clunked clunked clunked with the washer lid. I went over, a little scared but believing it'd be OK. They were crying, explaining the whole thing. I went through the house adjuring the ghosts and casting them out, invoking the divine, etc., then to the basement where I checked to make sure the washer was level. The spirits were calm while I was there. And when I got done, that’s the way they stayed, thankfully. The people were happy and lived happily ever after.

The downside of the story is this: The guy's dad came up from Texas a few months later and wanted to meet me. He had trouble with his car, so I let him have one of my cars cheap and he was going to pay me later. He was short $70. Well, dumb me, I can handle ghosts, it’s the living that give me fits. I trusted him for the $70 and never got it. I even called his number and they hung up. But I wouldn't go all the way to Texas for $70 only to have him, like his family’s ghosts, fly the coop.

Plus, I wasn’t up and running my own Psycho Squad business yet or I might’ve scared him straight. A bag over the head, a joyride in the ambulance and he’d be begging me to stop at a payday loan joint so he could pay me back. His kids never had ghosts again, but that dad’s haunted me all these years.

The Ascension of Okibbeha

Part 6 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

My problem with The Ascension of the Great Okkibeha, and any such incident, is always suspicion that it's some kind of ruse. Because, let’s face it, the magic’s gone from everything. The spiritual realms these days aren’t held in high esteem, not credible to our modern way of thinking; it's nearly always a fast-talking guy in a traveling carnival with a blue curtain and puff of smoke. It's true, every one of life's "miracles" -- from childbirth to four leaf clovers -- somehow involves that guy.

And anything that depends on faith is out. The knowledge we have today allows us only to believe mundane happenings, such as that horrible roar outside is a car without a muffler, not a farting unicorn. There actually is such a car in my neighborhood, and if my claim sounds the least bit untruthful I could personally launch a satellite into space and take a picture of it for you. So that’s one form of knowledge, easy to believe given enough satellites and cameras, but there are stranger things. As in the case of Okkibeha, because I’m saying she did ascend into some kind of spiritual realm. And that’s not just my claim, since I didn’t personally make it up, but the claim of ancient Egyptian priests who just happened to materialize before she departed...

Born Cindy Lou M——- to a farm couple in Iowa, family memories say she manifested an incredible interest in ancient Egypt as well as detailed knowledge. Most of us — myself included, usually smart enough to rattle off all kinds of trivia — couldn’t recite five minutes of Egyptian lore. I know there were lots of pharaohs and Egyptian citizens in the land of Egypt way back when. But telling one from another, get outta here! Similarly, I’m not that great with flowers, but I've seen people pick them and pin them to dresses.

Well, everything seemed to be coming to a head for Cindy, or the Great Okibbeha. She kissed her mother and father goodbye and called down an ancient staff of attendants from the sky, and ascended a makeshift throne. This was all in a barn, about the time The Psycho Squad got involved, having been notified. We took the call and buzzed out there, sirens full-blast. As we came over the hill, we saw what looked like a palace lighting the horizon. Which was the family barn. The light rose higher and higher, then when it reached a tremulous peak, a breaking point, all was suddenly black except for a much narrower beam of light piercing the clouds. As it turned out, Cindy/Okibbeha had said bye bye to this level of existence and taken off, robe, throne, and pretty backdrop all.

Did I believe this story? Not entirely, at first. We called out to her: “This is no joke, Cindy, come out! Olly olly oxen free! Yo, Cindy, Cindy Lou! Where'd you hide the barn? Don't be afraid, we’re with the Psycho Squad, an emergency help squad that helps those who need it, usually the wacky. We only want to make things better for you!" I sent Benny over to some smoldering bales of hay to jab his pitchfork a little deeper. "Cindy, your Mom says you’re behind on homework. Come out, we will stabilize you and find a tutor to boost your home ec scores. Making a pan of biscuits isn't that hard.” But none of it did any good. "Obstinate little bitch," I muttered.

I asked for her parents’ phones. The photos indeed showed various strangely-costumed men posing as Egyptian priests, but the place where Cindy had allegedly sat was nothing but a ball of light. So I didn’t know what to do. The Squad was there, so we gave the parents a few downers and shipped a couple of traumatized cows to the vet, and that was it.

Her mother then told us of the mysterious prophecy, that Okibbeha had been manifested again in the earth, born of a virgin, and is prophesied to return in 10,000 years, by which time most of us will be passed on. I don’t always believe such things. But the pitchforks didn’t hit anything and the heavenly beam of light, a million watts without electricity, had to mean something. It meant this much at least: I’m risking the Psycho Squad's credibility by believing it. Gotta put it outta my mind. And Cindy's gorgeous mother a virgin? That'd be the biggest miracle of all, hubba hubba!

Pa Went A Little Nuts

Part 5 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Live and learn. In this post you'll see one of my treasures, the pinnacle of counseling techniques, blue ribbon stuff, makes you wilt. It's not really a technique, just nature, shooting an arrow of realization into a troubled soul. Pa Butler's a good man, only confused for a bunch of reasons. Like old age, confusion, worries, truckers sleeping around, getting divorced, losing their reputation. The cops don't put a guy like that up against the wall. They know he means well.

The Butlers were lovely neighbors of my grandparents. They've known me since the day I was born, and over the years we got old together, them with a huge head start. They got into radio with the CB radio craze. And being close to the interstate they made a lot of trucker friends. That’s a joy but there's also a tragic side; those guys get old and die like everyone else. Or crazy, wrecking their trucks. And all that takes a toll on good people like the Butlers. To sum up their diagnosis, Pa went crazy and threatened to kill Ma for the insurance money, and she might’ve had similar ideas; she was getting a lot of catalogs in the mail.

I tried to feel them out when I was in the neighborhood. “Ma Butler, how you feeling up here, mentally OK or a little dingy?” She tried to act innocent, while sweating it out, sliding the catalogs back into the drawer. And as for Pa, it seemed suspicious when three of Ma’s chairs were put on the curb for the garbage, each one blown to bits. But Ma never suspected, chalking it up to gas pains.

Regardless of age and normal allowances, the time came to take Pa in at the very least, since Ma deserved better than that. Dearest people on the block. But how do you swoop in and bust down the doors, gang-tackle the perps, and pull them out while simultaneously hog-tying them? And if you need a stretcher, with their narrow stairway, forget it. We had to lure them out. Using a girl up the block everyone thought was white trash. Ma and Pa were on their radio and knew we were coming for her.

I radioed them and told Pa, “She’s got that idiot Billy by the nuts and is threatening to make him a soprano!” He radioed me, "10-4," which, quickly looking up the code, is a type of acknowledgement denoting understanding, message received, uh, er, Roger. When the noose was tight, I beckoned Pa and Ma to come out so the girl could see friendly faces and not be afraid. Which worked. They stood on the curb -- charred easy chairs flanking them -- waiting to see dark purple bruises on Billy, perhaps blood streaming down his leg, and didn’t know what hit them when they were suddenly tangled in knots.

They were crying, a sad deal. Ma was collateral damage, and unfortunately she got a little nicked when they tried to cut her free. Then I told Pa bluntly, “It ain’t Billy, Pa... You’ve gone a little nuts, and these nice men want to make sure you don’t pose a danger to yourself or Ma.” He was straining, cussing, giving me the full force of his anger. I told him man to man, “Pa, it’s your turn, pipe down... You’ll be back, better than ever... I’ll check on Ma till you're home and wash the car if you think it needs it.” He melted in the team’s grasp and they carted him off for service. He fingered in everyone’s general direction except mine.

Stanley -- The Spirit of Evil

Part 4 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

Cases involving people yielding themselves to evil —  body and spirit — are among the saddest to me. But that’s just because they always seem to go the same way, down the tubes morally and socially. But I’m resolved not to talk politics.

Is it wrong to hate evil? I’ve always hated evil. I got it from the Lone Ranger. He was a do-gooder in a world that seemed to have about 12 people. Himself, Tonto, and a few others. The others were evenly divided into two camps, the good townspeople/ranchers and the evil people out to cheat them because of the railroads, claims of gold or water rights. If it hadn't been for this same boring story week after week, I might’ve never learned morality.

And with me in the work of the Psycho Squad there’s always evildoers. Saddam Hussein wanna-bes, apparently, without land to conquer or nations to terrorize. They take their half out of the middle, acting goofy around people, breaking in, trespassing, often getting their jollies under the influence of something strong, booze or narcotics, so they’re only about half there, but it’s the half that’s entirely bad, the worst part. I'd love to run a full-page ad. A big picture of me surrounded with a description of my morality and how I got there. Then some earnest rage tearing people a new one, ripping them up one side and down the other, but ending with a positive plea, "Get with the program, you half-wits!"

In a typical day, the police often call me. It happens more often than I like, because my favorite cases don't involve evil but are just guys who forgot to take their meds and are acting out. I can get those straightened out right away. They go from shackles to home right away and adapt themselves quickly to normal. Five minutes of billing and I'm done. It’s the people who are objectively evil even when times are good that get me down. And someone — do-gooders unaware of my preferences — will call the Psycho Squad. We take down the information, then kick it around. “Does it sound dangerous? Is there someone else we can pawn it off on? Shouldn't we leave a guy that bad for the police? Take ‘em in, throw away the key? It’s not Stanley, is it? Tell me it’s not Stanley! Anyone but Stanley!”

You can almost spell Satan with Stanley if you bought another vowel. But Stanley must not know how to spell, because this loony bin reject half the time thinks he IS the Dark Lord. It’s a sad case. Looming large with his inflated ego. Which is essentially what Satan is, good boy gone bad, left the family and by inflation lacks the smarts to go back. I’m almost of the mind to quit feeding Stanley's ego, because there might not be much left. But if I could get him in a clear mind and explain to him the mythological elements of what he's doing — that he's a base idiot with a Big Idea personified — then he'd have some worries. With the spark of realization and a brick to the head, he might be normal.

This is an issue Hollywood could clear up. Every time they show one of these (ho-hum) Satan programs, run the disclaimer, “The following show is fiction. If you fall for it, the Psycho Squad will get you! They are bad ass and when they're done you will wish you were in hell!”

No One Likes The North Wind

Part 3 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

These are the cases the Psycho Squad gets. They say beggars can't be choosers, even though I'm not quite there. It's just when it comes time to pay the bills it's nice to know someone has a problem worthy of the name. "Don't come any closer!" Joe bellows. I put my hands up in the fake surrender gesture, "Whoa, big fella, let's not get huffy. Take a breath -- that's good -- now let it out." Which might've been the wrong thing to say. He blew me across the parking lot.

I know how it sounds -- unbelievable -- but these are the ways a man's mind goes when an evil wind's blowing. Being a mortal man isn't enough for some. He's so whack he thinks he's the North Wind. But I don't have time to judge, especially with that breath. A rancid mix of whisky and Italian breath. Not only were two kids in personal danger, but I had a larger population in the Big City to think about and a toxic cloud.

With long experience, of course I knew the guy. One, that’s a fake beard. And the cape, apparently meant to recall the dark clouds associated with fierce winds, couldn't obscure his features. I’ve dealt with him before. One thing right away, he’s not a pervert, just a poor misunderstood soul. Given that knowledge, a violent response was out. It'd have to be psychological. Take his persona at face value and address him from there. He wants to be the wind, he has to realize even the wind takes a breather, comes and goes, stirs and subsides. It called for a little hypnotic repetition, Breathe in, breathe out. Everything's getting calmer and calmer, there's barely a stirring of even the slightest breeze. Calm and pleasant, getting stiller all the time. Until... peace...

Next the team rushed in, subdued and restrained him fast as ABC 1-2-3, and cleared the scene. Innocent bystanders relieved, the victims returned to mom and dad, leaving us to stand there stoically. "You went a little wacko, huh?" A quick visit to the clinic, get his meds straightened out, restrict him from watching TV weather, as well as the all-important billing process, and he'd be on his way.

But as simple and clear-cut as that is, he still got huffy. “How dare you accuse me of—?” I stopped him right there. “No one accused you of anything.” Then I got strictly clinical: "This craziness may’ve been kosher in the days of Robin Hood, men in tights dropping from the trees, but it doesn’t fly now! All it takes to spoil the charm of life for everyone is one weird clod like you!” What could he do with those condemning words but hang his head in shame...

The fact is the Psycho Squad's clientele is so varied with strange ideas up the wazoo that nothing can be easily dismissed. You learn to suspect the worst, then assume whatever conditions led him to his present behavior would ultimately thwart him. They always go overboard. Say he really is the North Wind. His blowing days are done for now.

Rex's Tiny Swimming Pool

Part 2 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

One of the common causes of mental malaise -- the feeling of it, no secret to anyone -- has to do with the things we own, possessions and status. And that's nothing to mess with. Ask anyone. I know because I've lived, been there and learned. You look out on the world and see others more prosperous than yourself and wish you had it as good. In this case, this guy's hopeless feelings were as obvious as anything: a heavy dose of envy, jealousy that he didn't have a swimming pool like his neighbors.

I grew up in an average town, and guess what, the neighbors across the road had their own swimming pool! And there was my family. When we wanted to swim, we had to do it in farm ponds (with relatives) or the state park that had an average beach. But one time I did get to swim in their pool, a really fun experience. All these decades later, it's no longer there; it's been filled in and is just a lawn. With the neighbors gone, who knows where, probably heaven. Proving the old adage, You can't take it with you. Unless they actually did, since, again, it's not there any more.

Anyway, we know people tend to get anxious if they worry too much about things: What's wrong with me? Why can't I have nice things? With enough thinking like that their eyes glaze over and they're not quite with it. I'd guess all of us have suffered it at least mildly. You just can't allow it to get too strong a hold on you because then you can't be happy. Instead, if you're always able to look on the bright side, the things of your life, what you do have, that helps. Compared to lots of people in the world, you're miles ahead! I said to this guy, "You've got a tub, Rex! OK, it's not a swimming pool, but it's the next best thing, a little pool." A personal pool. Certainly a guy can bathe in a tub. Plus, I bet he's even got a bathtub somewhere; in the bathroom going by educated guesses.

All Rex needed to do was step back and realize how great he had it. But in the people-business -- in the Psycho Squad we do lump Pool Envy with the broader condition of General Envy as at least proto-psychotic behavior. And if you think that's weird, I had to help a guy once with Lunch Meat Envy. How can anyone have that? you wonder. Yeah, that is weird; I ate so much lunch meat as a kid I'd go ballistic if anyone even suggested it. My team wrestled me to the ground once when I merely saw a lunch meat sandwich. The only way they could bring me out of the delirium was rubbing cheese under my nose.

I didn't rub it in with Rex in this case. Just coaxed him along, assuring him I was there to help. "Go put on some trunks. We'll warm the water and I bet you'll be thankful after all for what you've got, a pretty nice tub! You know, Rex, they don't have tubs as nice as this in Pakistan..." Rex soaked for 20 minutes, smiling the whole time, a happy ending for all.

The Psycho Squad

Part 1 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

We have wreckers for cars that break down. And ambulances for nervous breakdowns. That's basically what you need to know. And people to drive them and ride along.

I've had wreckers come help me; that's a complicated business. You'd think, hook the hook to the bumper and drag it in, simple. But, no, there's lots of different cars, the places where the hook needs to go varies. You even have to have it so when the wrecker stops, the car stops. Get that? It has to be cinched up real good and tight. Then the other thing, they have to be able to turn corners without it flipping off or getting twisted at the chain, etc. It's so complicated, if you have the slightest qualms about having what it takes, go into brain surgery instead. It's easier and the pay's better.

That's where I come in, one of society's heroes, somewhere between the wrecker guy and a brain surgeon. In fact, that'd be a terrific logo, a wrecker pulling a head to the service station. That'd be a funny logo, something everyone would remember. And it tells our story in its basics; just as a car breaks down, we break down. It's nothing to be ashamed of. No one blames a car when it has problems. I guess I have, but it doesn't do any good. But who among us hasn't kicked a car or even taken a sledge hammer to one?

With people though -- and I'm a people person, not a cannibal but I love people -- I treat them as well as possible. The least little thing, of course, and they'll sue the pants off you. Especially if the problems are more mental and not observable, just the symptoms. They can imagine you did all kinds of things. And say they've got split personality disorder, they think they know what you did from five different angles. Tough to disprove even if you have a split personality guy as sideman.

Anyway, it's a tough business, but gratifying. It's good to know you're doing something everyone else only dreams about. But those folks can wake up and take a sedative and go back to sleep. We have to face it, this is the reality of life, terrible, boiling over crazy, you wake up with the heeby-jeebies and that's the way you go to bed. Half the time I'm afraid to face another day, but then I think, at least days are twice as nice as nights. Especially with a full moon. It's been a while since I was surrounded by psychos on the highway. Say you're threatened, just howl yourself, keep 'em confused, they don't know who they're looking for. Then phone for backup. 

I wanted to do this job since I was a kid. I also wanted to marry a redhead. Three redhead wives later, I thought, try a blonde. So here I am, doing the job. The ambulance is a seductive mistress, also redheaded, a red light twisting the night away.

One of my old classmate friends wanted to help people when he graduated. So he went to work for a home with mental cases. They were locked in, he was locked in with them. He showed me the bite marks on his skin one day, even dropped his pants a couple inches. Teeth marks from people with teeth better than mine! I thought the obvious, you gotta be crazy. I’d really hate to be their dentist...

These are my adventures. Which I try to keep tame. If nothing interesting happens on any given day, that's good, that makes me happy. The more boring, the better. Lack of bite marks, my goal. Avoiding redheads? Lock me up and throw away the key if I cave. Bald's better.

Guidance Counselor Go Bye Bye

Part 30 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series (bye bye)

The end of the school year came and as it turned out was anticlimactic. Especially looking in hindsight. Everyone had to deal with end of the year issues, getting your hats ordered for graduation, etc. Then there was the whole deal with the locker, which I should’ve never had to deal with. If there's a problem, call the insurance guy.

We always have the world we have, though, and that was how it was back then. There was a definite ending point in view. And everything from that point is your place in the world as they foresaw it, or different, and making do, getting by, trying, striving, failing, trying again, relationships, having children, starting blogs, learning about computers, life insurance, burying your parents, scattering their ashes to the four winds, and looking forward, most of all, when you learn later in life that the guidance counselor eventually met his fate. With his cremains out there somewhere. I never sought them, and probably this close to my own death -- cough cough -- I’ll just wait to see his spirit in the great beyond. And go toe to toe.

But he had nice words for me as we parted, looking to make my life easier, “Don’t call, don’t write.” It’s true, it’s saved me a fortune on dimes and stamps. Which I know I could’ve done the responsible thing, given the dimes to the March of Dimes and the stamps to soldiers to write home with. But I banked the whole thing, keeping what was my own for my own purposes.

When I walked the stage to get my diploma, family over here was proud of me. They let out a cry of happiness that evaporated immediately. The other kids who’d been in the guidance counselor’s office were proud. A few of them didn’t make it, so weren’t present, so I don’t know if they were proud or not. Since they were likely hanging out on Skidrow, it’s not like we were going to see each other very often. Have I ever dreamed of being on Skidrow? That’s as far as it goes, I’ve imagined it without really ending up there.

The other big memory at graduation was seeing the guidance counselor among the rest of the faculty. There were the teachers I liked, the teachers I disliked, the school secretary whose deft handling of my money and the giving of my weekly lunch ticket is eternally impressive, a few hangers-on, like teachers from junior high, including the bastard who nailed me for nude magazine pictures in 9th grade, and of course the guidance counselor.

I never saw him again and if I ever did it would’ve been too soon.

Graduation--No More Guidance Counselor

Part 29 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

The big day for Graduation at long last arrived. No more teachers, no more books, no more guidance counselor’s dirty looks. Which turned out not to be literally true, because there he was on the stage and giving everyone the eye. Friendly or dirty, depending how he felt about you.

I was fairly proud not just of graduating but of everything leading up to it. When the big moment came, that which I’d stumbled my way toward for 12 long years (plus the time you sleep in Kindergarten) turned out decent enough. I somehow managed to pay for the flowing robe and hat and made it to the school on time. Pretty good, if I do say so myself, for an incompetent guidance counselee! Put that in your dirty look and smoke it!

The ceremony was supposed to be outside but was held inside because of rain. So even the weather was against me, because had it been outside, the guidance counselor would’ve been obscured by trees and shadows and maybe never brought to mind. Since it was in the school, we got the same glare of lights throughout, like at basketball games. Nowhere to hide.

Of course the scene was orderly and nice, with laughter for variances. Say someone did something out of line -- jump up and click their heels -- everyone laughed. The folding chairs had school color decor on each end, the junior orchestra was in good form belting out a few of the usual tunes. The faculty were in their places, apparently on their best behavior, not wanting to betray their true nature when so many unaware folks of the community were present. They wished it could've been outside more than the rest of us, so their biting comments and dirty sneers could've been more blatant.

The guidance counselor was on stage, like some kind of scholar. It kept running through my mind, “You almost graduated from Barber College and here you sit! Thanks to the GI Bill and the way your path was narrowed by fate! The simple fact that Barber College doesn’t have a wrestling team, and you thought you might be Coach of the team here! Then, if that’s not enough, the idea that they’d make a wanna-be wrestling coach, almost barber, the guidance counselor, how bizarre! Education isn't the orderly well-thought out profession they pretend. They grab any warm body. True guidance isn’t at work, except that of rank convenience for someone. A lowly staff person was no doubt responsible for this travesty. After making a decision of convenience, not merit, they got an extra hour to watch TV (some deadbeat guy) or have her hair done.

I saw him on stage. Every paradise has a snake in it, and this snake I had nailed. I zeroed in on him, watching for him to reveal himself. When in one moment of revelation -- when the principle had said something witty and the gym was joyous in laughter -- I caught a glimpse of him flitting his serpent’s tongue out quickly. He recovered before slithering off, maintaining his seat against further revelation. A bolt of lightning would've driven the revelation home.

It gave me a chill. But I put it out of mind. Then we were going through the alphabet, and when my letter came, near that time, our row stood and we made our way to the aisle, walking solemnly, stoically, toward either our salvation or doom. I passed the piano and prayed for strength that I wouldn’t crumple next to the principal and end up pointing to the guidance counselor, only to see him jump up like the assassin of my Spirit Animal Abraham Lincoln, and kill me before exiting the gym with a painful limp and later being hunted down like the filthy dog he was and burnt alive in one of the neighboring barns. A barn that would’ve been built for that exact fate, had it only happened.

Instead, what happened, our eyes met for a second but nothing consequential. I thought it over, “Oh, nothing, huh? Playing it safe for the rubes? Keeping up the responsible guidance counselor ruse." I got my diploma, turned the tassel from here to there and lived happily ever after. To that point.

It’s better to graduate than not. So I’m grateful I did rather than didn’t. Even when I go to graduation ceremonies now — I avoid them when possible — I wonder if a similar drama is playing out before me. I tend to ask around if anyone knows who the guidance counselor is, then watch him or her. But everyone seems real normal, nothing overtly hostile.

My Winning Communism Speech

No. 28 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

I know I wrung the guidance counselor many times through the wringer. And I’ll wring him out a little more today, with suspicions of ulterior motives, but for the most part this is positive about how he helped me accomplish my persuasive speech.

Have you ever given a persuasive speech? It’s very artificial in a class, since everyone knows it’s a persuasive speech. Of course they’re looking more for technique and less to be persuaded. Whereas, say I were to give my persuasive speech to a more typical crowd of indoctrinated Americans, it's likely they would’ve been repelled instead of persuaded. Almost persuaded, but lost, running dog lackies.

And who knows? I didn’t think it at the time, but maybe the guidance counselor only helped me because he thought it’d bomb and I’d look bad. As it turned out, no one was persuaded but I did OK for content and presentation. I even studied enough on Communism that for that week I was really into it.

We heard a lot about communism then, supposedly bad, blah blah blah. I thought, Give me a break. How can most of the world be Communist and Communism be bad? I was mostly thinking about China, which had people by the ton and manufactured most of the cheap things I bought. Seemed pretty capitalist to me...

OK, the guidance counselor was suddenly alive with helpfulness. I had no idea that he might be setting me up for a public hanging. But if indeed those were his evil motives, the kids in class were mostly bored and nothing I could’ve said would've yielded anything like a public hanging. Only one kid there was a radical — this was before Fox News — and I thought he had to be faking it. His hair he kept purposely short, his shirt was tucked in his pants by choice, his belt nipple-high, he carried a briefcase and identified with the word 'warmonger.' Even he didn't mind the speech.

I no longer have my notes and supporting documents except for what I have above. But you can tell what the tact was. To expose American propaganda about communism and show the actual truth that it's a good path for society. American propaganda tended to put a negative spin on communism, showing the people sad and in chains. Whereas the true teaching, communism’s testimony of itself, showed it as entirely good, the people happy, dogs breeding with each other like normal, etc. All hunky dory, the dog population proceeding apace, the people happy, dancing on the publicly held lawns, more or less a field day for everyone everyday!

I was immediately repulsed at American propaganda for not even admitting that the Communists saw things in color like us. But everything was a dingy scratchy black and white. Was that reasonable? I actually asked my dad, who was strictly anti-Communist, and he vouched for the black and white scratchy theory. I asked a guy at the Chinese restaurant, since I didn’t know any Russians not in hiding, and he said, “No talk 'bout, order pwease.” I had a crab rangoon and left, disappointed at not knowing more about worldwide governance.

One of the things that really rang true for me was some good information I got on American capitalists being pigs. That definitely rang true in my experience, letting me know I was on the right track. That went over very well in the speech. No one rebutted the point, nor did anyone produce compelling proof that we weren’t pigs. The graphic I had on American children being pigs was pleasantly received, many laughs.

The guidance counselor gave me a thumbs up on the thing and sent me forth. When I figured out his angle, that I might’ve been publicly strung up for my foreign viewpoints, I was of course disappointed. But it was par for the course for the guy, a capitalist bastard with a stupid wrestling coach mentality in a stereotypical guidance counselor’s body.

In the grand world of communism — and someday we'll see it at long last — we’ll string up guidance counselors like him. Or reeducate them, which no doubt will be a waste of time, meaning his hanging will be an hour or so later.

Spit In My Spaceage Locker XL5000

Part 27 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Here’s one for the books, my filthy locker that needed cleaned before I could graduate. And the guidance counselor took the same position as the school administration, that it was my responsibility either to clean it or pay $100, a lot of money.

This one needs a tiny bit of explanation. I was assigned the locker at the beginning of first year (of three years in our town). It was literally next door to where the wrestling team met and far from where I normally hung out. I immediately quit using it when I met a girl who let me share her locker. Her locker mate had dropped out. Then a guy I knew from Sunday School who was my original locker mate dropped out too. So our locker was abandoned.

Somehow, then, the locker abandoned by me "popped open." And unknown wrestlers and others, experimenting with chewing tobacco and other scummy pursuits, spat in it over and over. If they wanted good luck, they spat in the locker. If they had a tough opponent coming up, they spat in the locker. Over the years I periodically went by it and noticed it was open and I’d push it shut, but since the lights were bad down that hallway I didn’t notice the mess.

So the time for graduation came and I was tagged for having a dirty locker! It took a while to realize they were dinging me for the original locker, unused by me for three years. But when I went to look at it -- damn right, it was dripping with spit, with plenty more, years worth, encrusted everywhere. And not just that but dust balls that float randomly through the air. Everything you’d expect a sewer to be if sewers came in locker form. And now they expected me to pay $100 to clean it up...

Well, guess what, I said a little prayer, “Help me out of this mess. Some a-holes spat in my locker! Amen.” The very next thing, one of the janitors that I was halfway friends with came down the hall. He didn’t know the spit locker was mine but was sympathetic when I told him. Sympathetic to the point of taking me to his closet and sharing some of the original literature that came with the lockers.

You see a piece of it in the graphic. That brand of lockers was advertised as self-cleaning! Meaning, cleaning it should not my problem. And if the self-cleaning mechanism was broken, it was the school’s responsibility to fix it. The fact that the lockers were put in in the early ‘50s had nothing to do with it.

I explained the problem to a friend in the debate club, and he presented my case to the school board, who had to agree, the defendant didn’t owe a cent. The school was at fault!

So where does this leave the guidance counselor? Thanks, bud, for stabbing me in the back once again. After the great times we spent together, you doubted me one last time. But a big thanks to the janitor and his wife Deidra, who also had me over for donuts. She commiserated with me, saying how sorry she was that some bad boys spat in my locker. I patted her hand and told her truly, “That means a lot to me.”

The Great Colossus

Part 26 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

At this point in my life I suddenly knew how the Statue of Liberty feels, not just once in a while but everyday of her fascinating life, similar to Martin Luther, “Here I stand, I can do no other.” Which was an incredible insight for Luther, because when he lived the Statue of Liberty was still nothing but a gigantic French puzzle. People dreamt of it, “Will this thing ever be pieced together and floated to America on barges?”

When you put it that way, I guess I shouldn't have worried so much about the guidance counselor and my life. It sounds like things were fairly well, or most definitely, set in stone, foreordained, and going to happen more or less as much as any other alternative. Heavy stuff, I know, but my super brain, fit only for a Colossus, or split in pieces and shared by several brainless men, can think such things (1) and recognize them when they eventually come to pass (2).

The guidance counselor, then, knowing the school year was ending and that he'd soon be rid of me, was in helpful mode. “What can we do to cobble together a reasonable cover story for your educational pursuit thus far, resembling as it does the Wild Mouse ride at the carnival, a rip roaring scary ride, fraught with bumps and bruises, but in the end still on track?” I thought, “Now you’re talking my language. The end is set from the beginning, but just getting there is half the fun.”

“Something like that,” he deadpanned in his usual sour tone. As much as saying, “What do you know?” With a side of “I’m also guidance counselor for the best and brightest of this school. Let me get you on track, Mouse, so I’ll be able to deny whatever bad eventually happens.” A real Judas Iscariot moment if you ask in hindsight. But it’s true, life is about sinking or swimming. Dying in the embers or rising from the ash heap and taking your place. Does anyone really doubt that a guy like me — with loving parents — would rise to take my place with the immortals? Hearing none, the motion's carried.

Just looking at my Colossus pose is enough to put me on top of the world, even today, so long after the events of the past, fraught yet with bad memories, but with the evidence of whatever wrongdoing was done either long forgotten, lost, or being eaten by mice in the educational headquarters and their hidden files. The beauty of the whole thing now is, despite the guidance counselor’s many fevered insults about me, none of it matters anymore.

Plus, I could go to a hypnotist right now and still be put in a trance and forever be centered on the image of me as the Great Colossus, striding over a dominion vast in scale. This Colossus wouldn’t be a bit funny. Not a bit, for in my mind, with the hypnotist’s help, I would stride around the city knowing, certain that I am the champion of the world! Be nice to me or that could happen.

It really gave me a funny feeling to think, “Here I am, every bit as good as the guidance counselor, and destined to surpass him in every way. And I guess I have in certain ways. I’m still alive and he’s dead. And I know where his cremains are buried. And I’m not yet cremains myself, but like I mentioned before, I’m still alive. Not to rub it in too deeply, alive unlike him, who is dead.

But he was alive that day -- damn the luck -- and that’s what always matters about the past.

Grandpa's Solid Gold Hot Rod

Part 25 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

As my high school career was in its last few weeks, everything loosened up. Of course I was busy, with a big push to get papers and projects done and make sure I passed. They were strict on that point, leading to at least one all-nighter. I had to justify with documentary evidence in my Science paper that the earth not only has flat plains but mountains. But along with the fever pitch of all that, everything else loosened up. The guidance counselor, so often a burr under my saddle, even loosened up. Knowing his time with me had come and gone. He looked at things stoically, all things must pass. When I sat in his office, not going to wrestling, he still didn’t like it. But now it was nearly over so it wasn’t so bad.

For the students, the end of the school year is always a time to cut loose and even raise hell. And everyone expects it while not encouraging it. Take the guidance counselor. He was mum on it, but who knows what he did in the Korean War when it was time for him to come home! He might’ve stripped naked and run back and forth across the 38th parallel. I know that’s what I would’ve been doing if I were there, if I’d ever been drafted. Mooning the Communists, our enemy at the time, Kim Il Sung and the slave state in his thrall.

OK, loosening up. Behavior a little beyond the norm. Even veering off into the completely irresponsible and wacky. I was lucky to get away with it, but now I can crow it from the roofs What’s the big deal now that I was the one in Grandpa’s solid gold hot rod spinning brodies in the damned school parking lot? As long as I didn’t get caught, it’s my business and no one else’s. Even then, it’s not like anyone was really going to get hurt, as long as they stayed out of the way. Spinning in gravel's a magical experience. With the beauty of gravel being it’s very hard to trace the tracks to anyone in particular. And back then there were NO video cameras. If you could do it and get the hell out of sight, it was their best guess against your best denial. And I didn't know anything about it...

The guidance counselor might try to weasel information out of people about their pranks, but that late in the game his days were numbered. I got used to his disappointed glares but you still couldn't be too complacent. I believe he had some kind of arrangement with the administration to weasel information out of kids in exchange for rewards, maybe dates with the wrestling coach’s leftovers or rejects. But the key thing to handle that is simply to stay quiet, let several decades go by, then once they’re all good and dead, dead and gone, spill the beans, totally irrelevant today. Were the high school to come after me for old infractions, at this point I’d cuss them out and assume they couldn't legally rescind my diploma.

So I'm not too worried. This time life's on my side. The old foes are now a'molderin' in their graves, with bigger fish to fry.

Piece of Cake Training School

No. 24 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

Here's a good mock-up (?) of a pretend (?) wrestling coach place, combining two of my themes, the education of guidance counselors and the reformation of wrestling coaches. I'm assuming it's pretend, but on closer examination this might be how they actually do it!

I'm going with my gut, I think it’s in good fun. So coaches, please don’t wrestle me to the mat and have your way with me. And if you do have your way with me, please let me see what you have first just in case I have a hard time later discerning your presence. Which might qualify you for advancement to guidance counseling, although don't read that as a guarantee.

The theme, you have to admit, is curious, however pathetic it also is. That the guidelines for wrestling coaches and guidance counselors are so lax at that particular institution! And I need to be careful. If there really is a place called “Piece of Cake School of Guidance Counseling,” let's call this another place, a fictional place, whose low standards matches my other posts on these actual occupations. That’s always danger egging these guys on, you don’t want to get in trouble.

Knowing what I know, though, it's still hard to picture their standards so lax that a guy on the beach could brag about his misbehavior and failure to be in school and that he'll be advanced anyway toward a degree and career. I’ve had a few lenient professors in my career, but none of them was quite that lenient. And not so much because they didn’t want to be cool, but because the price of it would be their reputation and profession. So everyone was respectable.

Even my guidance counselor was genuinely educated, I’m assuming. I actually never saw his degrees or transcripts, but I have a hard time believing no one else did. Now that he’s gone, passed on, it’s probably a moot point. But for all the faults I found with him, having the required degrees wasn’t among them.

"Reforming Wrestling Coaches Since 1965." That’s a pretty good record, depending on when the ad was made. If it was 1966, then they were just at it. If it was last week, that’s a long time not just to endure wrestling coaches but to reform them! That much reformation, if it were really happening, would have revolutionized the industry by now! Because one thing none of us wants — except maybe them — are wrestling coaches running amok and unreformed.

And the Alert-o-Tron 5000, while it sounds like a great invention, is probably someone’s idea of a gag. The very idea that someone could strap on an Alert-o-Tron and manage to stay awake for 2 minutes and get a degree sounds like a stretch. Heck, I could stay awake for 2 minutes, depending on what time of day it is, without an Alert-o-Tron, and I wouldn’t be a good wrestling coach. I don’t know anything about the various techniques, except the very basics: If you're pinned and exhausted, give up and pound the mat yourself. And as far as the well-known perks of the trade, I don’t swing with such lenience. I’m particular as to partners and follow some pretty stringent guidelines. Flowers, wine, a call the next day...