Don’t Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull

 

I left my house when the sky was blue, the sun was out; no rain, no buttons to push.

I drove down my long drive-way and headed into town, pulling into a gas station to get the numbers for last week’s winning Lottery and a can of Monster. I turned right around and drove back to the house and, once there, I looked to see that no one was watching as I slipped into my secret laboratory, located in my average looking garden shed.

Those who knew what was going on in my ‘shed’ thought I was crazy, senseless; they said I was mad…and maybe, just maybe, I was.

I do my experiments here. No one but my wife knows what kinds of experiments goes on in my shed, and she remains tolerant of my efforts as long as, and I quote: “None of your EXPERIMENTS gets tracked into MY house!”

Thankful that the love of my life has given me yet one more life rule to live by, I retire to the shed.

It is in the shed where I cracked the physics of Interdimensional Time Travel™. Of course, science, though precise, is not perfect, which is why six of the seven volunteers now have arms and legs coming out of their heads and two have assholes for mouths...

It is here that I came in contact with intelligent life elsewhere in the universe. They told us to go away.

It is in this very shed where I opened portals into other dimensions. Well, only two. One dimension was exactly like this one only everything was moved one inch to the left and the other…well, look: If you see a green blobby thing with Red Ball Flyer tennis shoes on his tentacles, his name is Glorb. Tell him to call me.

All that, however, was just practice. 

I locked the door of the shed behind me, turned, and opened another door: an old, ancient door to an old wooden outhouse.

If, Dear Reader, you are too young to know what an outhouse is, allow me to explain. Before Spotify, Tick-Toc, Obama, Television, and indoor plumbing, you had to sit down and “Read Your Magazines” in an outhouse. That’s right: close your eyes and try and grasp the reality of walking out of your back door, going into a little wooden shed, sitting down on a cold wooden toilet seat with your rear end sticking out over a pit obviously dug to Hell itself.

In the dead of winter.

During an ice storm.

Oh, and Red Ball Flyers were tennis shoes people my age wore when we were kids.

I flipped a switch near the door and the inside of the outhouse came online. It was magnificent: the lights flashing, the hum of the Opticalrectalator, the constant beeping of the Time/ Dimension Oscillator, and the faint smell of burning electrical wire with the hint of cooking cabbage.

I dialed in the date: August 22, 1967, and looked at the paper with the Lottery Numbers from last week.

I love my life. I really do. Even as I fall apart and Rome burns, I am just fine on my little patch of sanctuary. I love my wife, my family and friends, I love what I do and I am OK with who I am. However, there is much that I could do winning millions of dollars.

I folded the piece of paper and put it in my pocket, reached for the toilet roll holder and pulled…

…Suddenly, there was a hideous noise: like the sound of a tornado mixed with that one note that Celine Dion hits in “My Heart Goes On”…the one that just drives you nuts…the outhouse shook terribly…the lights flashing on and off…Who is that grim old lady on the bike, and why is she in black and white?. I started to feel faint…so I sat down…in the only place there was to sit…and thought about the situation. After much consideration, I realized that I was totally, completely, and royally screwed.

BANG!

I landed, not with a “bang”; more like a “thud”. I stood up and looked around at my time craft: the lights were still flashing, the Opticalrectalator was still humming. The old outhouse looked intact on the inside, but what lay beyond the old wooden door?

I will tell you.

It was 1967. I was in the yard, right by the house we lived in then; a ranch house, probably built in the ‘50’s, outside a little town in the Midwest. Out in the world, Jimi Hendrix made his American debut at the Monterey Pop Festival, along with Janis Joplin, The Who, and many others.  We were almost to the Moon. Vietnam was a place we heard about from Walter Cronkite every night at dinnertime and we would get the number of that day’s dead and wounded in that vicious hell-hole while we ate.

I was struck by the smell…it smelled like 1967. The town we lived just outside of was really like living in Mayberry. In the summer, I could bike all the way into town, see my Grandmother or one of my cousins, ride to the park to throw rocks into the river and learn to smoke cigarettes, and as long as I was home by dinnertime, everything was fine. The colors were brighter, the sounds clearer, the smells sweeter. 

Everyone in town knew who I belonged to and any wrongdoing on my part would be reported back to my parents before I could pedal my skinny ass home.

If my calculations were correct, I had come to my old home the night of my seventh birthday. I snuck around to the back, where the sliding glass doors were. As I looked at our back yard, I noticed that Dad hadn’t laid the cement and built our basketball court yet.

We used to go out after dinner and play “Horse”, where a person picks a place on the court to shoot a ball at the basket and, if they make the shot, everyone else has to try to make the same shot. If they miss it, they get a letter from the word horse. First one to get all the letters is out, and you play until there is only one person left on the court.

We used to have “Bow Down” versions of “Horse”. That was added by my father. The rule was that if you lose, you have to get on the ground, bow down to the winner, and say: “You are the greatest “Horse” player ever!”. Then you had to stand up and crow like a rooster as loud as you were able. My brother HATED having to do that, enough that Dad would often remind him of the virtue of sportsmanship and keeping to your agreements.

The neighbors hated it too.

I could tell by the scent in the air that Dad was about three months away from having to have the septic tank replaced as I gently reached for the handle to the sliding glass door. I remembered that it was likely locked. Fortunately, I also knew that you could slightly pull up on the handle and that would release the lock, so I did that and quietly snuck in.

The T.V. was on, blasting the stupid A440 note while they showed a test pattern. 

This was in the day when local television stations, that you could only get with something called an “antenna” because there was no cable, satellite dish, and all the local stations “ended their programming (interesting word use there) day” with a short sermon from a local Pastor or Rabbi, and a video of the American Flag flying while a brass band played “The Star Spangled Banner”.

Now, at this time of night, it’s just snow on the screen and that awful single-note signal that they play to force you to turn off your T.V. and GO TO BED!

In my time, my father has been dead for four years, but there he was: sitting on the floor wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and socks, leaning on the couch with his head in his hand, snoring loud enough to hear throughout the house. Dad will sleep there for a while longer, then he will wake up, go to the bathroom and take a piss, and then go into the bedroom he shares with Mom.

It was, in a certain vernacular, a very “heavy” moment; the gravity of the situation almost too much to bear. I wanted to wake him up, give him a hug, tell him how much I love him. The problem with that is: you have to be VERY careful how you wake up my father.

Ever since Dad was discharged from the Marine Corps, he wakes up violently. Dad will wake up with a jolt; eyes wide open and scanning around for the first person he lays eyes on, and if you are within reach, he might reach out and grab a hold of you before he realizes that you aren’t “The Enemy”.

No. I have come here to talk to only one member of the family, and it wasn’t my father, nor my mother, asleep in her bed. I did not come to talk to my brother, who was a major irritant to me during this period of our lives, and a person I had to share a bedroom with.

Fortunately, my brother’s “sleep” is more like a “coma”. Across the room I share with my brother is my sister’s room. My poor sister; we had no air conditioning, and we slept with all the windows open, praying for a breeze that would cool down the hot August night. Behind our house, in this time, is a huge cornfield and woods beyond that. My sister’s allergies were so bad, the sound of her wheezing was the second loudest thing in the house besides my father’s snoring. 

On a lot of summer nights, my sister’s wheezing and my father’s snoring would synchronize and eventually, you would find yourself breathing with them. Sure enough, as I pass through the living room, I can hear my sister’s wheeze. Her door is open, but I resist the urge to look in. I can’t risk waking up my sister and my Mom. 

I slip in to my old room. My brother is out; down for the count, dead to the world. Only an explosion or Mom yelling out from the kitchen that she has food for him to eat will wake him up now.

I went over to my bed. There was my first guitar, in its case, leaning against the wall beside my bed. It was a real piece of crap: made of plywood with strings up so high off the neck you had to take a Vic Tanny muscle building course just to play a G-chord. I loved that guitar…There was the little clock radio that I used to listen to, late at night, under the covers, especially when there was a “King Biscuit Flower Hour”, which featured concerts by famous rock bands of the day: Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, The Allman Brothers Band…

I reached out and gently shook the shoulder of seven-year-old me and woke me up:

Little Me: (Scared…sliding my body across the bed closer to the wall) "Wha…who…who are you?"

Me: "SSSHHHHHH! Keep it down!"

Little Me: "Who ARE you?"

Me: "SSHHHH! Keep it down! I’m you…from your future…"

Little Me: "You’re me…"

Me: "Yes."

Little Me: "From the future…"

Me: "Right."

Little Me: (Taking air into the lungs, ready to scream until I slap my hand over his mouth) "DAAAAAAAAUUUUUUHHHH!"

Me: "Shut Up! Shut UP! Stop screaming! Look at me! Look at my face!"

Little me looked and his eyes grew wide.

Little Me: "H-h-how…"

Me: "Time machine."

Little Me: (moving in to take a closer look at my face) "What…HAPPENED to you?"

Me: "Life. It will leave a few scars."

Little me: "How old are you..am I?"

Me: "I’m sixty-three years old now. I wanted to give you something to hold onto to make my…our life, and the lives of our wife and child, a lot easier when you get to my age."

Little me: "Wait…we’re married?"

Me: (sigh) "Yes!"

Little me: "To a GIRL?"

Me: "Of course! She’s pretty hot!"

Little me: (twisting up his/ my face) "YUK!"

Me: "SSSSSHHHHHH!"

Little me: "That’s GROSS!"

Me: "You forget...I AM you! I remember exactly how I thought...YOU think. You like girls. That’s OK. You are going to have some of the best times and some of the most heartbreaking times of your life. But listen: everything is going to work out."

Little me: "Yeah…sure."

I looked at me, the seven-year-old me; I peered right into my own eyes. 

Second Grade loomed before me. It was the beginning of a hellish, soul-scarring yearly shit-show called a school year that lasted until the end of my Sophomore year... Money wasn’t going to solve that. Money wouldn’t really help me at any point in my life; I always had enough to eat, I always had a place to sleep, and I always had clothes on my back. Everything I ever went through in my life brought me to where I am, and I like my life, and I like who I am.

I had my fingers on the little piece of paper with the Lottery Numbers on it that was still in my pocket. I don’t want to change MY life. This piece of paper would do nothing for him.

Little me: "What?"

Me: "I wanted to give you something that was going to help us…later in our life…but…"

Little Me: "What is it?"

I let go of the piece of paper in my pocket with the Lottery Numbers on it and put my hand on his/ my arm.

Me: "Look, just remember this: 'Never Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull'."

Little Me: "What the hell does that mean?"

Me: "Watch your mouth! If Mom hears you say stuff like that, she will wash your mouth out with soap AGAIN!"

Little Me: "How did you ..."

Me: "Listen...I don't have much time...stay away from idiots. Don't take crap from people. You don’t have a lot of friends and the friends you have aren’t really your friends. You are going to have a great time with people you will never see again. You’re an outsider. There is a great power in that. You can see people for who they are. You can look at a situation or a group of people with a different perspective that will help you make better decisions. It’s OK to be who you are. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Don’t let them get to you. Fight them if they start shit, but otherwise, use the power of the outsider; see what they don’t see and hear what they don’t hear."

I heard some rustling coming from the living room; Dad was either getting up off the floor and getting on the couch, or he was going to take a piss and go to bed. The television was still blasting it’s “Go To Bed” signal, so I couldn’t really tell whether I had more time to talk to myself or if I should beat a hasty retreat before my father comes stumbling half-asleep down the hall.

Me: "Shit!"

Little Me: "What are you going to do now?"

Me: "Look; just remember: 'Never Let The Weasels Gnaw On Your Skull'. Just remember that. It will get you through a lot of shit! Oh, and in a couple of years Dad is going to ask you why you aren’t getting the grades you should be getting. Whatever you do, DON’T answer: “I don’t know Dad. Maybe it’s because I’m just lazy…'"

Little Me: "Why? What’s going to happen?"

I started moving towards the door. I could still hear the T.V., I could still hear my poor sister wheezing, and I could hear Dad snoring again.

Me: "Just don’t do it! Remember the two things I said; never let the weasels gnaw on your skull, and don't make excuses! Do what you have to do so you can do what you WANT to do..."

Little Me: "What all is going to happen to me?"

Me: "Don't let things 'happen' to you. Make your own way. One more thing…in the future, when you’re a senior in high school, there will be a big party you'll be invited to after an important football game, but there will also be a girl named Lisa who is going to ask you to go to her house..."

Little me: "So?"

Me: "Say 'yes' to Lisa."

I slipped out of the room and out into the hall, and creeped down past the “Room-That-Has-Furniture-That-You-Can’t-Sit-On”, through the kitchen and into the living room. Dad was stretched out on the couch. I looked at him for a minute, and I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but then I heard his voice in my mind: “Men don’t cry, son. Unless you are burying someone you love, and even then, you do it alone. Otherwise, men don’t cry. John Wayne doesn’t cry, and neither do the men in this family.”

I went to slip out the sliding glass door when Dad stirred. His eyes closed, half in and half out of consciousness, he must have sensed I was standing there.

“Hey!” mumbled my father.

“Hey,” I said.

“What are you doing up?”

“Can’t sleep,” I answered.

“You OK?” he asked, still half asleep. His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m fine.”

My father yawned, stretched, and adjusted his body on the couch.

“Well,” he mumbled, “Don’t let them see you sweat, son. Everything’s gonna be alright. Everything is…gonna, (yawn)…be alright…

My father was snoring like a chainsaw cutting through stone. I went over to him, bent over, and kissed his head. He was a young man at this point in time, raising three young children with his High School Sweetheart. He was working at a factory, going to Night School studying for a degree in business. He and my mother were paying their first mortgage. An entire flood of life, good times and bad times, was going to be flowing under the bridge between us between 1967 and my life 56 years later.

“Good Night, Dad”. I said.

I moved across the room to the sliding glass door when something caught my eye. I turned, and there was my mother. 

We stood, looking at each other, and then she slowly walked across the room. 

Time seemed to stand still as my mother reached up to touch my cheek. She looked at my face, and there were tears in her eyes. Mom hugged me. We stood in the middle of the room, saying nothing, hanging onto each other.

She looked up at me with a smile on her face. I marveled at how young she looked. Mom playfully pulled my long grey beard: “Lose the beard!” Then, Mom turned and walked out of the room, back to bed.

I took one last look at this part of my past and slipped out the sliding glass door.

The ride back to my time period was even rougher than the trip to 1967. Sparks were flying out from the instrument panel, there was fire, smoke, the Opticalrectalator was over-heating. There were two problems: 1) One of the panels that caught fire had the location locator on it, which meant that although I would get back to my own time period, I might not get back to my shed. Hell, I could land in Cambodia, or Beirut, or worse, Toledo. B) The other problem was that the Inter-Dimensional Time-Space XR-45 Confibulator is about a minute away from a total, complete, and dreadfully inconvenient nuclear meltdown.

This is the kind of crap I deal with on the daily.

As soon as the outhouse hit the ground, I set new co-ordinates on a delay and stepped out into…thank goodness…my own shed! I shut the door and hurried aside. The outhouse disappeared. With a little luck, it would reappear in the skies over the plains of Africa as a meteor streaking across the sky.

I kissed my wife as I came into the house, and I sat down in my big, overstuffed recliner and took stock of the situation: nothing much had changed yet somehow, I felt better. the colors are a little brighter, the sounds clearer, the smells sweeter.

Also, I have a vague recall of a dream I had decades ago, when I was very young, in which I had a weird talk with my future self, and I also have a nice memory the time this girl asked me over to her house after a football game.

Most of all, I never let the weasels gnaw on my skull.