u s e y o u r h a n d s

I’m making good on Monday’s promise to resume Friday’s Missed Connections after last week’s bye. I hope you show me the love in the comments section.

Explanation: As on most Fridays here at UseYourHands, I select Missed Connection/Chance Meeting/I Saw You ads from weeklies around the country. If you know of a great weekly, recommend it to me. The ad comes first, and the story growing out of the ad follows.

HOBBY LOBBY. HANDSOME man with glasses and khakis monday afternoon. You looked for prints and frames. I was with friend. We said hi. I waved goodbye. Coffee? (Austin Chronicle)

Veronica was looking for embroidery floss to make friendship bracelets in an attempt to express kindness toward friends through irony. She carefully selected aquamarine, magenta, and pink. She was rooting around for a purple skein when a flash of color turned her head. Tom was flipping through a bin of shrink-wrapped prints. He’d just lifted up a Matisse. Veronica held her breath in hope that he’d select it. It was one of her favorites.

EASTER SUNDAY, EDDIE Bauer on Michigan Avenue. You helped me pick out boxers. Me: woman with long blonde hair. You: attractive, looked like you were coming from/ going to gym. Wished me Happy Easter on the way out. Wish we’d chatted more. (Chicago Reader)

At minute ten of her workout on the Stairmaster, it suddenly occurred to Becky that the guy in Eddie Bauer might have thought she’d been flirting with him. Just a few nights ago, she’d been aghast when a few of her platonic male friends told her she had this extraordinarily flirtatious manner. She didn’t want to be a woman like that.

RABBIT HOLE BARTENDER Saturday 4/5. You: Hottie bearded bartender with glasses. Me: Drunk, cute, ate garlic bread and drooled while watching you. I thought we exchanged a look. I sure am interested, let me know if you were. You sang, “Mrs. Robinson” (Portland Mercury)

Karen and Sheila met up every Saturday for brunch and then spent the rest of the morning dawdling over the paper. This ad just jumped out at Sheila, who liked to make fun of the people who’d place them. She read the ad then yelled, “Yeah, girlfriend, he probably sang ‘Mrs. Robinson’ because you were way, way older! Jesus!” Karen’s head snapped up from the lifestyle section to scream, “We’re the same age, Sheila. Get off of my back.”

BLONDE MAN, DARK BLUE BMW I saw you having breakfast at Scarlet Tree In January. You R 40ish, you wore black caoat & jeans. I was the blonde woman staring at you. I can talk now. Would like to see your smile! (Seattle Weekly)

She paced around in a circle as she took a call for what sounded like her dream job, but he still caught her eye. His fork was poised in mid-air with a bite of French toast. She suppressed a little laugh before telling this potential employer what a great multitasker she was as she carefully studied the way he casually tossed money on the table and jauntily hopped in his newly buffed BMW.

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I don’t remember ever taking so much pleasure at mocking public radio personalities. I’ve laughed at SNL’s “Good Times” NPR mock-fest.(Really, how can’t you laugh at the pucking Alec Baldwin saying “Schwetty Balls”? It’s juvenile sure, but still.) But I haven’t participated in the mocking personally. I’ve worked their pledge drives. I’ve had crushes on their hosts. I’ve donated to their coffers.

But then I met WBEZ.

I love making fun of the crew down there. Here’s a list:

1) Carlos Hernandez Gomez - He’s fine, except for his sign-off. “I’m Carlos Hernandez Gomez…SHHHHicago Public Radio.” The way he concentrates energy on the CH in Chicago makes me wonder. I know he’s probably just trying not to say Cheecago like that weirdo from Latino USA, but still.

2) Lisa Labuz - Whenever she flubs (and, boy, is that often!) Phineas invokes Chevy Chase’s “ignorant slut” line. She’s good for eye-rolling. Oh shit, I just looked at her photo on WBEZ.org and she’s positively muppet-like.

3) Gretchen Helfrich - Now, I love Odyssey, even when it’s dry as toast. Recently, I saw “Helfy” in person and wowsa! Girlfriend’s quite the little blond sexpot. And an eager beaver. She started in radio in ‘93 by answering phones at WBEZ and in a year was made Worldview producer. Bet that degree in romance linguistics came in handy. (Author’s sidebar: Romance linguistics? Come on. There’s a whole world of academia/oral sex jokes there that I don’t even want to ponder.)

4) Richard Steele - The Sunday jazz guy. C’mon. Who else wants him to go by Dick?

And the topper. Wait for it –

5) Steve Shadley - He’s the male Lisa Labuz. I don’t know that he’s muppetlike because his bio lacks a photo. A face for radio?

I refer to Steve Shadley as “The Shatter.” Here’s the story that rattles around in my head: Picture a 20-year-old college sophomore Steve Shadley on the air at Northern Arizona State, his alma mater. He’s playing “psychedlic study music” between 2 and 5 a.m. Dark sunglasses. Flannel. A whisp of a moustache. His on-the-air nickname is “The Shadow.” Some guys in his dorm who fucking hate him start calling him “The Shatter” because why not? And it stuck, regardless of his protestations.

To this day, Steve Shadley’s first words upon waking from the nightmares that plague him is “I AM THE SHADOW!”

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A bit of reflection:

At last night’s Chicago Bloggers function at the decidedly non-divey Black Beetle, I used the term “hotbox” for, like, the first time ever. If you are too old or too young or did not attend a college where the air was fucking redolent of the Chronic, then hotbox might be a new one for you. Basically, it refers to the smoking of pot in a completely sealed room. Simple, evocative.

But why was it in my head, waiting to spring forth? I’ve never “hotboxed,” been a “hotboxer,” or gone “hotboxing.” So, what the fuck? The mind is like a grandma’s closet. You reach in, pull out an old box of Sunsweet prunes, and say what the hay and dive right in.

A bit of fiction:

It’s only eleven and I’m already hacking from the cigarette smoke. No matter how many meetings, how many late nights, I’ll never get used to this nasty stink. In the clothes, in the hair. But I remain true to the mission.

When I got to number 12, the last step, I thought that I’d feel free but that’s when the real work started. I truly did have a spiritual awakening and try to spread the word to others. And that’s why I’m here, in the one place where my sponsor thinks I shouldn’t be, where my family is scared for me. A bar.

I’m in bars about three-four nights a week. I’ll pop in around nineish, stay until one. I drink water or cola only. I have never once wanted to drink in a bar again. That was never my thing anyway. I preferred bathtubs.

I sit and I watch. I keep a book or magazine handy when there’s a lull, but usually there isn’t. Because there’s always some guy or woman who needs to hear the truth. So I wait until that person has to go to the bathroom. At a particular volume, alcohol ceases knocking and resorts to pounding on the bladder. It’s a matter of waiting.

When the person exits the bathroom, sometimes still zipping up, I emerge. This is how my speech starts:

“Do you want me to tell you what none of your friends will say?”

The person always mumbles. A man might sneer also. A woman will ignore me.

“Do you want me to say what you already know?”

It’s cryptic enough to get attention. I think a lot of people might interpret this as a weird religious thing. I guess it is, in a way.

They’ll say: “What?” Always elegant. Erudite!

“You’re a drunk.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“No, a drunk, not just intoxicated.”

And here’s the good part. This will always get them. Why? Because I can spot you so easily. I used to be you and it makes me nauseous.

I put my hands on their shoulders and make eye contact. Sometimes this is hard, because eyes can swim as easily as fish.

“Someday, you will accept who you are, but you will not be proud. You will tire of falling, feeling feverish, breaking things, and regret. It will be difficult, but I believe in you.”

A handful of people have burst into tears. I’ve gotten punched twice. But most of the time, I’m on the receiving end of a cocky, shit-eating grin that looks great only under dim lighting, in the glow of an Old Style sign.

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