Back in the Bulk - Blunt Farce Drama

Not everyone who participated in the shenanigans of Bulkie 2 South were residents of the floor. A frequent visitor was our upstairs neighbor (well, 4 floors upstairs on the 6th floor anyway), Rich Cornhole. Rich is, to this day, one of my dearest friends. He, along with Ben Stantz (who you've seen a few times on here already) and I comprised 3/4 of the same pledge class for our fraternity and have had a tight bond between the three of us since (the 4th was Mitch Roll, who was a few years older than us and whom I was fond of but have lost most contact with). Rich is a great guy, very friendly, very helpful to everyone he meets, and generally fun to be around. He's also stubborn and has an unfortunate tendency to wind up with all nature of harm done to his body, inside and out. Sometimes this isn't his fault. For example, he wound up with some manner of stomach disease that has plagued him for years. Sometimes, usually more on the injury than illness side of harm, it is his fault. It really, really is.

One day, a number of people were hanging out on Bulkie 2S. Mostly floor residents, and a number of visitors. The hallway walls were cinderblock or some other similarly tough material with the occasional exit sign high up and the occasional raised metal wall outlet low down, and the halls were just wide enough that we would often sit with our backs against one wall and our feet propped on the other. It was in just such a position that I found myself at the outset of this Bulkie adventure. I was sitting near Ben Stantz and Greg Hammel's door, back against one hallway wall, feet propped on the other, chatting with Rich, who was standing up.

Rich suddenly had a look come across his face that I knew could mean nothing but trouble. A mix of determination, realization, mischief, and pride. "Remus, don't move," he instructed me, beginning to back up. I wasn't sure what was going to happen next, but I was leery enough to say, "Rich, I don't know what you're thinking, but I can guarantee you it's a bad idea." "Don't worry, don't worry, just stay still," he again instructed. As he backed up to the T-intersection of the hallways, Ben Stantz happened to be coming from the other way, and saw Rich backing up with that look on his face. Ben interceded, "Rich. What are you doing?" What choice did he have to reveal his plan?

"OK, OK, so, so, so I'm gonna run and dive over Remus, and go into a somersault, and wind up standing again." Both Ben and I announced our displeasure with this idea. Ben actually went so far as to stand in Rich's path with his arms out. But, as fate would have it, something happened or somebody said something down the other hallway that caught Ben's attention. Rich saw his chance.

With one arm, he reached around Ben and pushed him to the side as he began his acceleration. He was successful in getting past Ben, but it did affect his stride and balance. Nevertheless, he continued forward, reaching his peak speed for the run and dove. And what a dive it was! I knew that the time for interference had passed. At this point, I needed to stay still as Rich wanted or risk injury to us both. So I made myself as small as possible as he passed overhead. And as he dove, he tucked his head and shoulders and... holy crap, he made the roll! But, as I watched these fractions of a second unfold, I noticed he was rolling a little to the left... more than a little. I cringed as Rich, instead of entering a second full roll, smashed his head full force into the wall.

Rich was layed out on the floor. I quickly rushed over, as did Ben and all the various folks who were around in the other hallways. Rich was cradling his head in his hands, allowing some sounds of pain to escape. We all inquired if he was alright, and he insisted he was. "I'm fine! I'm fine! Leave me alone!" (Rich, despite having worked on an ambulance and knowing a lot about proper medical care, first aid, and the like, hates acknowledging ever needing such care himself). As he took his hands away from his head, though, we noticed blood. A quick look at the wall confirmed he hadn't just hit the wall, he'd hit the corner of the raised metal power outlet. The 10 or so of us gathered there rushed Rich into the floor bathroom (a men's room! And some of those present were women! Scandal!), where we allowed our de facto floor medic, Clive McEnroe to examine him and apply those rough, thin dorm paper towels to Rich's head as makeshift bandages.

Clive looked Rich over and announced the wound wasn't that large. "See!? I told you, I'm fine!" protested Rich. Clive continued, "Yeah, it's not big, but it's deep. I think if it were wider, I could poke your skull. You need to go to the campus health center." Rich would have none of it. He insisted there was nothing they'd be able to do for him, and that they were incompetent and a waste of time and besides, he had a test tomorrow and didn't have time for this. We forced him, grudgingly, to the bus stop where Ben and I waited with him for the campus bus as he grumbled protests. And we rode the bus with him. And went inside with him. And god damn it if that ass wasn't right. There was nothing they could do for him. They suggested he find a ride to the relatively nearby Windia Hospital. So we phoned one of the older fraternity brothers we knew owned a car (we were pledges at this point), Andy Greensleeves to come and pick Rich up, and that's what happened. Andy picked Rich up and took him and Ben and I went back to Bulkie.

We were hanging out in Ben's room for a while when Rich appeared at the door. We welcomed him back and all crowded up to see the staples in his head. He put down the papers he was carrying on top of a dresser and joined us in the room, taking a spot up on the top bunk, Ben's bed. Everyone was having a good time talking and laughing, but Rich was kinda quiet. Not alarmingly so, just less so than usual. Before long though, as he moved to get down from the bunk, he asked us what was on the papers he brought back with him. Surprised, we asked if he'd read them. He said he tried but it looked fuzzy. Hmm. We looked at the papers, which listed symptoms of a concussion. Vision problems was one. Tiredness. Problems with balance (poetically read just as Rich failed to climb down properly and almost knocked a dresser over). It was pretty apparent. Rich had a concussion.

Again, we insisted Rich needed medical treatment. Again, he protested, citing the test he had to take tomorrow. We asked him if he really thought he'd study alright with a concussion. That shut him up somewhat. We got one of the other brothers, Bryan Augery (who lived on the 4th floor of our lovely Bulkie South tower) who also had a car to be the driver this time and off went Rich to Windia Hospital again, this time with Augie (as he was called) and Ben.

It was late at night when they got there, and there was a bit of a wait to be seen, and even once they took Rich in, he was gone a long time. Ben and Augie were sitting in a room waiting when Dave arrived. Dave had epilepsy. Dave was also drunk off his ass. Dave's wife showed up at the hospital with drunk, epileptic Dave and said, "Here. YOU deal with him tonight." and drove off. So there were Ben and Augie, neither of them a day over 20, sitting in a room with drunk, epileptic Dave for what seemed like forever. And Dave, being drunk and epileptic, started to seize. The hospital staff came in and explained that it would be better for Dave if they kept the lights off. So they did. And Ben and Augie sat for an hour in the dark with drunk, epileptic Dave, who would periodically seize.

Eventually, they took Rich home, and he was fine. The ordeal was over. And no, Rich did not end up having to take his test. But this was only the first of Rich's many injuries, and the next would take place miles and miles from home, in beautiful, sunny Orlando.

Back in the Bulk - Blind Ninja Attack

After far too long a delay since the last update, here's a fresh tale for you to enjoy from my freshman year of college, living in Bulkie Hall. You may remember a few of the people involved from our previous tale, Elevator Darts. Ben Stantz and John "P.J." Reaver are once again important characters, as is Clive McEnroe, who was so kind as to share the stories of Right Angles Pizza with us long ago. Clive is a man of small and agile build, both brilliant and insane. His instincts are those of a small forest animal, always alert for the need to leap to safety from larger threats. Also of central importance is Jon "B.J." Hummer (The B.J. is for British Jon -- while not actually British, Jon did talk constantly about the time he spent abroad in England). B.J. was alright at first but got kind of annoying, he had kind of a skulky creepy thing going on. He was generally a pain in the ass by this point, and most of us didn't like him always trying to hang around us. Brendan Tourney, L.J. Seabiscuit, and Greg Hammel were all involved to a lesser extent as well.

One day, Clive McEnroe came back to the floor with a sleep mask. You know, like the type people wear over their eyes to block out light and sleep. This was evidently a mask marketed towards women, because it was powder blue and said like, "Princess" or something on it. Clive did not buy this mask, he found it. He found it in a parking lot. And thought he should bring it home so we could wear it. On our faces.

It was going to take more than his suggestion that we all try it on to get us to try it on. It was going to take a wiffle bat. Don't misunderstand me, we were not threatened with a toy bat. This wouldn't have been Clive's style, and it wouldn't have worked. Nearly any of us would've suffered one or two hits before taking it away and beating his ass back with it (because that's what friends are for). No, this wiffle bat was more of a "carrot" than a "stick". You see, ninjas are awesome. Like, really awesome. They are totally sweet.

A game was quickly designed for play with a crowd of idiots, a discarded sleep mask, and a wiffle bat. This game was Blind Ninja Attack. The rules are simple. First, someone volunteers to be the Blind Ninja. This person is blindfolded, spun in a circle, and given a bat. Then everyone else runs and hides around the floor and tries not to be killed by the Zatoichi-esque assailant. There's really nowhere to hide on a dorm floor hallway, so mostly we just tried to remain quiet as we moved around.

Ben, acting as he often did as a voice of moderate reason, decided that the risks of Trevor Cloak, our sometimes-friendly, sometimes-tyrannical RA disliking our game and ruining our fun were high, so we came up with a system. If anyone spotted Trevor, they were to say, quite loudly "Hey [BLIND NINJA'S NAME HERE], hows it going?". This would be the signal to stop playing and hide our equipment.

For the first round, Clive volunteered to be our ninja assassin. Being a nimble little guy with sharp hearing, he wasted no time in orienting and striking down great big P.J. I mean, John was huge and slow-moving, so it was an easy win for Clive. P.J. became the next Blind Ninja. He spun and we spread out away from him. John moved slowly in cycles, first listening, then orienting, then moving, then possibly swinging the bat. In order. Like a video game boss. He was fairly easy to avoid. But I miscalculated. I allowed myself to be backed into a dead end of the hallway (there were four dead ends, the floor was laid out roughly squarely with a dead end hallway at each corner). I tried my best to be silent, but John knew he was slowly, slowly closing in on someone. I prepared to kick the radiator to distract him then try to bolt past him, but fate intervened.

John's missed swings made noise. B.J. was always listening for sounds that we might be having fun so he could glom on and de-fun things a bit. And this time was no exception. Our showdown was occurring right outside his door. The door opened. B.J.'s face poked out. "Hey guys, what are you doing?" John heard a human voice. His ears perked up. He turned his head. He readied his swing. If B.J. had any clue whatsoever what was about to happen, he would've had plenty of time to dodge or close the door. But who suspects a Blind Ninja Attack?

John, swinging the wiffle bat with one massive arm in an downward arc, smashed B.J. right in the face. As he was knocked back and the door swung closed, we heard, "Oh god, my face!" and then did not see or hear B.J. for the rest of the day. P.J. took his mask off, thinking he'd won, not realizing he struck a bystander. Awesomely.

In any event, his turn was over, and Clive wanted another go. This time everyone got away from him more quickly, knowing that he was fast and extremely reactive to his surroundings. His tiny woodland animal instincts took over and he stopped distinguishing sounds, striking viciously at any noise. There was one noise he did not hear, however. And that was a toilet in the bathroom flushing. Trevor had been in the crapper this whole time, blissfully unaware of what was going on. Ben, passing by the bathroom door, heard the flush and saw Trevor exit the stall and start washing his hands. It was time to end the game.

Ben approached Clive and called the code-phrase. "Hey, Clive, how's it going?" Loud. Awkward. No chance it could be mistaken for conversation. But Clive was not hearing words, only noise. As Trevor exited the bathroom, he saw a perfect shot of Clive striking three times to Ben's arms and torso. "Ow. OW. OW! Quit it!!" But it was too late to quit. Trevor had seen our contraband toys and confiscated our wiffle bat. He would later return it, along with all sorts of toys he took away one magical day months later (we think he was told he wasn't actually allowed to confiscate and keep our things if they weren't actually disallowed in the dorms), but for now, it was gone.

Clive was allowed to keep the sleep mask.

Right Angles Pizza, Part 2

Last time we learned the back story of Aristotle "Telly" Souvlaki (and by the by, only the last name is fake, his real name is indeed Aristotle), the proprietor of Right Angles Pizza in central Connecticut with his wife Georgia and their children. Today, I would like to share with you some of the finest and most bizarre anecdotes from my friend's sister's employment as a waitress in Right Angles Pizza between 2000 and 2006. My friend, Clive McEnroe, tells me that while Telly was periodically capable of working like a superhuman, accomplishing unbelievable amounts of work in shockingly short amounts of time, he more frequently liked to do little to nothing while his family and employees worked busily around him. To this end, he had a few special spots where he could relax to his fullest potential in the restaurant, often during business hours.

The first and most secluded of these spots was in the semi-finished attic space of the restaurant. Telly had some furniture up there, including a couch to which he would regularly retreat to take naps. He would also use this space to meet with some of his unusual and inexplicable contacts, such as a Russian chess player who would occasionally stop in to play a chess match or two with Telly, or a deep sea fisherman who sometimes would take Telly on his deep sea fishing expeditions. Sometimes he would even meet up with a few shady characters to play Baccarat, making him one of six people in the world that aren't in James Bond films that actually play Baccarat. He also had a number of questionable business contacts, that we'll discuss later.

His second relaxation spot was located in a back hallway of the restaurant, adjacent to the kitchen. This space was otherwise unusable, so Telly decided it would be a good place to put a chair. But it wouldn't do to have customers watch him just sitting in a chair in an empty hallway, so he built a wall of pizza boxes to provide some privacy. But sitting in a private pizza box room must get boring, so he invested in a television. Now, most people would probably put the TV on a stand of some sort. Telly decided he would instead suspend his TV from the ceiling. They sell mounts for this, but Telly decided to dangle his TV from a rope instead, and there it dangled for several years (it has since been replaced with a proper mount, but it is unknown if this was just the inexorable march of progress or due to some gravity-related tragedy).

His third and least impressive relaxation spot was to lie down on top of the chest freezer located in the restaurant's kitchen. From there it was a simple matter to keep an eye on things while resting or actually falling asleep. I wish this paragraph were longer.

Telly is a man with interesting political views. He has twice been vocal on a hot topic of these past few decades: gay rights. One time, I am told, he was sitting in his 2nd relaxation area, watching his dangle-TV when apparently some news story came on about gay rights or a gay pride parade or something similar. This, for some reason, infuriated Telly. He stormed out into the dining area where employees were serving and guests were dining to make a formal declaration to any and all listeners: "There are gay rights in California! There are gay rights in Washington D.C.! I will tell you where there are no gay rights! Right Angles Pizza!!" He then stormed back to his pizza box TV fort without another word. Now, this sounds kind of heinous, I know. But Telly is literally an old world kind of dude. And he also later contradicted this outburst.

One day a perfectly normal middle-aged lesbian couple came in to the restaurant for a meal. They sat and ordered just as anyone would do. This time, it was Georgia who got all old world over it. She beckoned her husband to her and stage whispered to him, "Telly! Do you know who these women are?" "No," he answered, "who are they?" "They are LESBIANS!" she hissed. Now, maybe Telly is not so intolerant as previously indicated. Or maybe he just misunderstood her to mean the women were from the island of Lesbos (old neighbors?). But this time, his response was decent and humane: "So what if they are lesbians? They are paying customers like any others. Leave them be, Georgia." So Telly's positions on social issues remain unconfirmed.

Something very important about Telly is the fact that he is what is colloquially referred to as "a sucker for a deal." This results in the Right Angles Pizza menu occasionally being changed or replaced by whatever bargain Telly has recently come across. This sometimes coincides with some of his unusual business contacts, mentioned earlier. For example, for some strange reason, Telly has made a connection with some sort of watermelon dealer, and twice a year he gets an obscene amount of watermelons at a fabulous price. When this happens, it is obvious to any who visit the restaurant, because guests are served watermelon slices with just about any damn thing they order. Particularly favored guests or employees are given entire watermelons to bring home. This actually sounds pretty awesome. He has a similar deal with an Icelandic cod dealer, and from time to time really pushes dishes featuring cod on the menu.

My favorite story about Telly's unusual bargain hunts, and my favorite story about Right Angles Pizza overall is this next one. As a pizza restaurant, something vital to Right Angles' daily operations is cheese. They simply need cheese to make the lion's share of their menu items. One day, the kitchen was running low on an important cheese; perhaps it was mozzarella, perhaps ricotta. The actual cheese has been lost to the annals of history. What is known is what happened next. Telly went out to buy more cheese. Now, it is important to note that another of his curious traits was a tendency to disappear for inexplicable lengths of time, regardless of how needed he was wherever he was supposed to be. This trip would turn out similarly. What should've been a 10-15 minute trip to a nearby store turned into 30 minutes. It turned into 60 minutes. It turned into a full 90 minutes, with the restaurant growing ever nearer to a cheese-less kitchen with each dish prepared.

Finally he returned, arms full. Had he procured the needed cheese? Well... sort of. Telly had somehow come across yet another deal he could not pass up while out. Instead of cheese, he was carrying a stack of four full-sheet sized cheesecakes. Where did he get them? Why did he get them? Mysteries abounded. But someone was displeased with this shocking turn of events. Georgia, in front of customers and staff, literally shrieked at her husband. "Telly, you STUPID MAN!!! We need cheese to feed the customers! What in the hell can we do with all of your cheesecake!?"

"Tonight," declared Aristotle "Telly" Souvlaki proudly to his restaurant, "EVERYONE will eat cheesecake!"

And so they did. Cheesecake was served with absolutely everything. Unordered cheesecake slices were brought to guests, free of charge. As usual, all was well, and all was bizarre in the world of Right Angles Pizza.

Right Angles Pizza, Part 1

Readers of this blog should know by now that I like unusual or funny stories. I like hearing them, and I like telling them. Many of my favorite stories come from my family, and these have been chronicled in the Tales From The Lebowskis series of entries that have taken up most of this blog for the past few months. However, not all of the stories that I love have come from my family, and so today I'll begin bringing you tales from other sources as well. Now, this is not the end of Tales From The Lebowskis by any means. But I think it's time to break from those classic stories for a little while and bring you a few other amazing tales.

Today I'd like to begin relating to you the story of a very special pizza restaurant in central Connecticut. This story is not my story, my connection to this restaurant is tangential at best. A good friend of mine who will go by the pseudonym Clive McEnroe told me all about this restaurant and the man behind it. His sister, Ashley McEnroe, was employed as a waitress there from about 2000-2006. Clive has graciously given me permission to print his stories here, and we have gone over the details together to ensure that you, the reader, get a finished product that is both amusing and accurate.

The story of Right Angles Pizza (not the real name of the restaurant, of course, but appropriately close and a reflection of a detail to be revealed later) is really the story of a man. A Greek man. A shockingly Greek man. This man is Aristotle "Telly" Souvlaki. His appearance, manner, and mode of speaking are all strikingly stereotypical of a 1st-generation immigrant to the US from Greece of his age. But Telly meets not only the modern Greek stereotypes, he even meets some of the ancient ones. Notably, he is a man who loves recreational geometry. He would periodically interrupt his employees while they were in the middle of helping customers to pose them little geometry quizzes such as "how can I tell the height of this room without getting up from my chair?" and then proceed to explain basic to mid-level trigonometric and applied geomtric formulae while his customers sat hungry. Hence the pseudonym "Right Angles Pizza."

But Telly's story begins in the nation of Greece, where he was born, raised, and educated up until he was about 16 years of age, in the early 1950's. Something happened then that would set his life on a course less travelled than most. One day he was outside his school on a recess when a younger student began to annoy him by throwing pebbles at him. Irritated, young Telly demanded the boy cease. He did not. Telly warned him that, "if you do not stop, I will slap you!" He didn't stop. Telly stood up, walked over to the boy and delivered a mighty slap across his face, as promised. Unfortunately for Telly, his hand-face thunderclap was witnessed by a teacher, who told Telly that he would contact his father and let him know about his son's misdeed.

Now, most people would've just gone home and faced the music, or maybe tried to avoid their father for the night. Telly decided more drastic measures were needed to avoid the shame of facing his irate father. He left the school and immediately went to the docks and got hired onto a cargo ship bound for South Africa. He spent the next decade in South Africa working, making interesting and sometimes shady contacts, and developing a lifelong love of South African wine. He did not contact his family at all during this time, nor did he contact Georgia, his teenage sweetheart whom he had promised to marry and take away to America. But he did not forget.

10 years after his sudden departure, Telly returned to his native land unannounced. He strode up to the door of the girl he had left behind 10 years prior and announced to her "Georgia! It is me, back! We can now be married and go to America!" She was neither joyous nor angry, merely confused. "Telly?... Where have you been?" But in the end, love won out and married they were and off to America they went. Their next few decades are unknown to me, and when our story continues next time, we will pick up the dawning years of the 21st century at the family owned-and-operated business Telly, Georgia, and their 3 children would run: Right Angles Pizza.