Half Naked in the Janitor Closet.

Worst shirt in the world and the worst day ever got even weirder, but didn't turn out so bad after all.

Undressing in the janitor closet—bare-chested I found myself cornered and uncomfortable. The conclusion in a minute.








I met a new freshman kid named, Alex, who said he wanted to try out for the football team. The fact that he wanted to play football should have made us rivals. Football players and swimmers at Saint Monica High School seemed like oil and water—we weren't supposed to mix.

I could only pull up the collar of Keith Bjelajac's Saint Mark's sweater so far and think that Alex saw my ridiculous shirt in History class and felt sorry for me. I tried to hide from everyone the best I could, but at lunch Alex found me in the alley between the gym and the music room.

He had a lunch bag which caught my attention. Since mom taught and was always exhausted, she had quit making lunches about 7 years ago. It was easy for me to fend for myself while in grammar school because we only lived a block away. My little sister, Karin, and her best friend, Annie Lennon, would follow me home at lunch time and we always managed to scrounge up something having to do with day-old Pioneer Bread.

But here at Saint Monica's—that was a different story. I just figured that I would survive without having lunch. Pshaw—lunch is for regular kids. Alex's mom packed him a hamburger that had been wrapped in multiple layers of tin-foil. Alex didn't dare want to tell his mother that he didn't like the pickles that were squished on top of his burger and offered them to me.

I was now on the Alex Delgadillo food program - two slices of pickles every day and whatever else I could mooch off of him.


Anyway, it was the end of my first day at High School and I was hiding in the janitor closet stripping the hideous shirt off my body when the door opened.  Like the proverbial "dear in the headlights" I froze.

Football player?
Water polo player?
Janitor?  

 I WISH.

It was one of those catholic-priest-type-guys we called brothers. Brother Michael stood there and stared and I felt like I was naked. After coming to my senses, I scrambled to put on the brown sweater when he said, "No rush."

GROSS! I felt icky.

Footsteps. He walked away and said he would see me tomorrow in his History class like it was a promise. I felt like it was a threat.  

Fast and furious I pulled out about 500 rolls of toilet paper from one of the trashcans they were kept in, and buried the shirt on the very bottom. A fitting burial, I figured! I thought about setting fire to the school but realized that it may have been overkill.

On the 3 Lincoln bus on the way home a senior girl spotted me in my sweater with the deep V (without shirt) and my inglorious bare chest that hadn't been visited yet by a single hair.

To the shagrin of the other boys from Saint Marks who had gone through puberty in the 5th grade and had mustaches that rivaled Sister Cheryl's—this full-bodied blonde-bombshell picked me.

Ha. Take that Ricky.

This fully developed woman invited me to sit on her lap. I felt a little like I was back in the janitor closet. It was kind of weird, but I was now the envy of those mustached boys. I would like to think that she thought I was sexy with my bare chest and all, but think it was more like she wanted to mother me like I was her child.

Oh Boy.  Maybe, Andrea would take notice and be jealous. Maybe this day wouldn't end so bad after all.

I obediently sat on her lap as she combed my hair and made sure to push her upper female-parts into my body.  NICE. But seriously, now I was nervous. What was she going to do—adopt me? Something far sinister I feared.    


I made it back to Venice with some of my dignity intact.

Now I had to figure out how I could dump this scheming, senior-chick before she had a chance to work any of her sensual magic on me. 

After we got off the bus Ricky and Jim wanted to beat me up, but other than that I thought this "high-school-thing" might not be so bad after all.  

hehehehe 

Never again plaid and stripes!  Never again. 

One day older. One day wiser.  

Around the corner at Foster's Freeze and back to the Harding House where the Wolf Pack was waiting to pounce on me. 

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better.

          It’s not.”                                                                                        Dr. Seuss

I Said Yes! Why?

       Why? Why did I say yes to her?

Where were we before I interrupted the story of Markie D for the long pause while I traveled to Malawi with Water Wells for Africa.

Oh, yeah—we took a side trip into the future for the harrowing but true life adventure of grownup Mark—who had to fight off an intruder and found himself staring down the barrel of a rifle in Paris. I reported that crazy incident, just to show that you can leave Venice, but can't take the Venice out of you.

Going back in time to 1970, the next 4 years at Saint Monica high school was not like a new invasion of Venice had suddenly spilled into Santa Monica—by no means. 

My grandmother taught at Saint Monicas and my older brothers had already carried the Venice virus into Santa Monica for about 10 years already! We had already loosed the infection into Santa Monica, Topanga, Ojai, Malibu, Ocean Park, Mar Vista, Culver City, Salton Sea, Kings River, Detroit, Idaho, Northern California and all parts between.  

September 1970.  The hippie hordes at my house subscribed to the doctrine of Antiestablishmentarianism, which means they boycotted and protested against any kind of political or adult authority—i.e. "The Man." The Vietnam war granted them permission to rebel against everything. 

This included oppressive parents (or parents they view as oppressive) who still believed in the antiquated rules for acceptable social behavior.  In March, John and Yoko Ono, had staged their "Bed-In For Peace" following the "Love-In" two years before that. 

NOW, everything was okay—Sex, drugs, Rock and Roll. I was still a little young for sex and drugs, but I loved my Rock and Roll, and felt sorry for my parents. I felt sorry that they were marginalized by the ones who felt had marginalized them and had empathy that their authority had been blatantly disregarded and disrespected. I was torn. I so desperately wanted to fit in with the "Wolf Pack" and was so willing to be tortured by them just to feel like I belonged, yet didn't want to totally give myself completely over to hating my parents.  

Okay, here is what I'm trying to say. I'm pretty much a looser and don't know what world I live in. Do I listen to the "Wolf Pack" brothers (who hate me) or do I listen to my mom which will make my brothers even more mad at me—inviting even more physical harm?

I felt like Uncle Fester (from The Munsters) as if I had a giant clamp on my head with my tiny brain stuck in the middle.

So, when mom says she went to Hensheys and bought me a new shirt for my first day of high school, I had empathy for her and said, "Yes." 

No one listened to her anymore and so I thought it was only right to show respect for her.                                                      
                                           Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid

Ugh. Against every impulse; against any chance of belonging (which I so desperately wanted), I said yes to the multi-colored shirt that had a zipper on the back collar. She thought it was cool and I didn't want to hurt her feelings even though I knew that I could be persecuted for showing up in it on my first day—in a shirt that wasn't even fit for a girl.  

I could put it on, wear it out of the house with a smile and take it off somewhere in between—she would never have to know.  I thought scheming up a plan.          

Dang it. I got caught leaving the house by a brother who laughed at me, pointed at the hideous shirt and called me a 'tard. 

My mocked "coat of many colors" had a turtle neck with a gold zipper - DOWN THE BACK!

Maybe Chewbacca was right. Maybe I was a bit retarded. Who would wear a shirt like this—after all it had a round, golden ring-thingy attached to the zipper-pull.  

    Nothing about this shirt made since to me.

I felt like John the Baptist—Again. 

(Here I am pictured to the right confused by a previous clothing malfunction - submitting the to fox stole and a bloody head on a paper plate).    

It turned out to be a blistering 80 degrees that day and I refused to take off my stolen Saint Mark's uniform sweater—a sweater that did not hide the collar and zipper from hell. 

AND WHY DID I CHOOSE TO wear this colorful plaid-shirt WITH PANTS that had colorful STRIPES. I looked like a dork from another planet. I deserved every bit of ridicule that I received that day.  

Putting her nose in the air, a senior girl came up to me and said, "Didn't anyone ever show you how to dress? Never put stripes and plaids together you dork." 

No I thought. No one ever took the time to talk fashion sense with me. My family only makes fun of me and me tells me I'm retarded.  I'm an orphan raised by the Wolf pack.  Idiot.    






















Our front yard










                                                Their front yard

Their backyard 










                              Our backyard

I said, "I'm wearing this shirt to make my mom happy. She feels bad about her parenting skills, because no one listens to her anymore. She wants to compare our family to the incredible Lennons who live across the street and is suffering an identity crisis of her own. So I am wearing this shirt—despite the criticism I know that I would receive today because of love. You're so stupid" I said. "Don't you know anything about kindness or about love?" 

There I did it. She spun on her heal and walked away.  

I'm 14. It's my first day of high school. I am a freshmen dork cornered by a beautiful, stuck-up, senior girl—of course I didn't say those words (those words went through my head about three days later—actually about 3 weeks later—when I woke up in the middle of the night). 

The only thing that saved me so far was the kid from Saint Gerard's grammar school in Culver City who road his bike to school first day—in White Pants!  Kevin McCaffery hit an oil slick, skidded across the greasy asphalt and continued to slip across a patch of grass. Poor kid dressed to impress but looked nearly as bad as I did. He took some of the attention off of me. Thank you Kevin for crashing your bike and wearing "The Pants of Many Colors." 

Listen, I had been in love with Andrea since 5th grade and haven't had the courage so far to look into her eyes and say anything about my feelings. She's probably going to give up on me. I don't blame her.  




I had about as much chance with the girls as Philip.                                                                                                                                                   Philip was one of the strays my mom took in who lived in one of the rooms on the third floor. 

This shirt all-but-sealed my fate with the ladies for the next four years of high school.







What was wrong with me? 

I hid out the best I could for most of the day and even skipped the meeting after school for everyone interested in playing water polo.   

I had to take the Big Blue Bus (the 3 Lincoln) all the way back to Venice, which would be crammed full of  mean high school kids. What was I to do?  How do I face the cool kids and the cute snob in her hush puppies and low-rider jeans. 


Epic fail, I forgot to bring the extra shirt.
I will either have to:
                                  kill myself
                                  mug an 11-year-old kid and steal the shirt of his back     
                                        or 
                                  hitchhike

All three were out—I didn't want to die—not yet. I wasn't going to rob a kid and I couldn't hitchhike with THIS STUPID SHIRT.  I was a doomed, "retarded" 14-year-old and it was only the first day of high school.  


I needed a new plan.  

I snuck into the janitors closet that was filled with brooms, with the smell of moldy mops and with a thousand rolls of toilet paper.  I skipped 6 period and began undressing. 

This was the only thing I could come up with. Unfortunately the door open at exactly the wrong time AND it wasn't the Janitor. 

Who was it?     Will Markie make it back to Venice with any sort of dignity at all? 

Next time. 


P.S. Even though this combination pictured above is terrible—this is not the shirt I was talking about (turn this shirt around backwards put a gold zipper on the back collar and you can pretty-much get the idea).                
      

Machine Gun verses Small Stool (the wild conclusion) pt quatre

Conclusion (pt quatre) continued from part three.

Holding a small stool over my head like a weapon, the door flung open and I was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Not just any gun, but some type of semi-automatic rifle—a machine gun of sorts! Four guys stood in the hallway—two blocking the door open while the evil receptionist lurked in the shadows in background.

Do I strike the guy holding the gun?     Small aluminum stool verses Gun?      Gun wins!

The guy with the machine gun is wearing a bullet proof vest and is armed in riot gear. I breathe. It's the Police—three of them.

The officer holding the gun looks at me with suspicion and says, "This man here" motioning over his shoulder to sheepish-looking receptionist, "says you owe him money and that you might be..." (are you ready for this)... "that you might be BAD PEOPLE!"

Speechless—my mouth drops!    Us!       Bad People?

I can't believe it—my brain is frozen for a second—the guy is still holding the machine-gun that is strapped to his bullet-proof vest.

In a dramatic sweep of my arm I turn everyone's attention to the back corner of the room where my wife is standing and say (while pointing to her), "Do you see that lady over there? Look at her!" Suppressing rage... controlling my emotions to the best of my ability (with an-hours sleep in the past 64 hours)

I ask rhetorically, "Look. At. Her! Does. It. Look. Like. We. Are. Bad. People?"

Silence as they all look at Saint Kerry and know that there is something wrong with this guy's story.

Embarrassed they say, "This guy says you owe him money and he's afraid you will leave without paying."

Oh, this is the story he invented to tell the police as they came into the hotel.

Pupils pinpointed again and eyebrows furrowed I said, "What do you mean, we owe him money?"

Policeman with the gun. "He says, he lent you money from the register and is afraid you'll leave without paying."

I explained the situation. We have no Euros and had to use our card and the card didn't work and gave the guy more than sufficient American cash to hold the room and agreed to take care of it in the morning.  (I said all of this loud enough to wake up everyone on our floor—this injustice and this creep needed to be exposed).

All three policemen looked at me and then turned and looked at him. I said, "Wait..." as I walked across the room to the dresser and pulled out the signed letter showing that we had paid the guy and gave him plenty of American cash on deposit...handing it to the police. All three of them turn around and look at the guy in disbelief—realizing he had lied and we didn't owe him any money and that this story was nothing more than damage control—knowing he was busted.

They stared at him, waiting for an answer. Cowering against the back wall of the dimly lit corridor, he says, "I checked online. I should have charged them a transfer fee on the transaction and..." (WAIT FOR IT...YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS) "...they owe me 6 euros!"

                                                          6 euros is about 8 dollars

"Six Euros!" I shout. "Six Euros? Hold on. You mean to tell me that I had to fight this guy off and keep him from coming into my room at 4:00 in the morning for six Euros?!"

Still intentionally speaking loud enough for just about everyone on our floor to hear—What a crook, I thought. This guy was full of it and the police knew it.    Now, I wanted answers.

"You...(plural to all three policemen)...you ask him. PLEASE tell me why he felt that he had to break into my room at 4:00 in the morning. And ask him why I had to fight to keep him out for six Euros!

I. Need. To. Understand." I pleaded with them.

No one says a word!  The officer in the riot gear and with the semi-automatic machine-gun looks at my wife and beings to silently mouths the words "I sorry" over and over several times.

They refuse to throw him under the bus, however, we are at at stale mate. I walk to the dresser drawer pull out a $20.00 bill (American) shove it into the hand of the gun wielding officer and demand that he give it to the lying-cheating-swindler crouched in the shadows behind.

He hands the twenty dollars to the French-Mafioso and I insist that they also ask him why this guy felt it was so important to try to break into my room? Why I had to fight to keep him out? Why he changed his story and why all of this for a measly six Euros when we had an agreement and that we could have easily taken care of this in the morning?

I really did want an answer!   I. Asked. Them. To. Ask. The. Guy. "Why at 4:00 am in the morning?"

I wanted to know and I wanted to expose the guy for being a lying-pawn of the French-or-Turkish mafia who definitely had some type of ill-intent!

With no intention of leaving the place while it is still dark at 5:00 am in the morning, we barricade ourselves back in the room and anxiously wait until first light so we can flee safely.

The American Embassy calls back  to check in on us. They still can't believe it and ask if we have an exit strategy - because we needed to get away from that place as soon as possible.

Fully clothed we laid on the bed, hearts pounding, rehearsing the events over and over again trying to get it to make sense. We do the "pretend scenario" of the "nice receptionist" who is acting in innocence believing that we might try to rip him off— in this version he's the good guy—we're the bad people from his perspective and it just doesn't work out!

                                                     66 and 67 hours - one hour of sleep.

We leave in the morning. He's still there—again standing against the wall. I don't owe them a thing— I'm certainly not going to give them my credit card and I don't even ask for the money they owe me.

I tell the new receptionist (in front of God and everyone else in the hotel) that this was the worst night I have EVER had in a Hotel and that the man standing against the wall was a, "Bad-man"(using his language).

It was in vain. I don't think anyone understood my English. We left. Our debit card worked perfectly across the street and we found an Uber-driver in a Mercedes to take us to the Viking longboat!


 Hallelujah!

The veins in my neck still stand out when I tell this story, as if I am reliving it—still inside the room, pushing against the door—fighting for my life to keep a very evil person out.

Welcome to France.  How was our trip?

It's like someone asking Mrs. Lincoln on the night her husband was assassinated at the Ford theater, "Other than that Mrs. Lincoln did you like the show?"

Granted, I jest and it was not nearly the same thing, but "other than this" we loved every minute of our time in France.

Here are some pictures of  our time in France, and as a reminder, this quick flight to Paris from London was on brought on by the refugee crisis that had the The Chunnel back up for hours.

I think if is only fitting to realize that there are global issues of poverty, the need for clean water and perhaps the immediate crisis that should mobilize our hearts (with link below).

Eiffel Tower 

  random door Paris 

 through the clock at Musee D'Orsay

 The Louvre 

 Kerry at Monet's famous garden

 Notre Dame Cathedral of Rouen Normandy

Notre Dame of Rouen Lit up at night 

  360 degrees of breathtaking Stain Glass windows, La Sainte Chappelle, Paris. "The most beautiful stained glass windows in the world." 

 Inside Sainte Chappelle as the sun sets, making a magnificent light show while an ensemble plays Vivaldi's "Four Seasons"  

 Sunset over the Seine River

Being from Venice and being a Dahlin - means that there is never a dull moment!

Just as a reminder, this sudden hop over to Paris that landed us in the worst night of our life at the Hotel Balladins St Antony was because we tried to avoid The Chunnel due to the immigration crisis of those refugees fleeing Isis in Syria and Africa. Here is a link you can explore that might help you find some ways to get involved somehow in the greatest refugee crisis since WWII.        

      

  



           

Staring Down the Barrel of a Gun: Welcome to Paris pt trois

Continued 
“Let me in. Let me in” Insisted the ominous voice on the other side of the door.  I feel like I entered into an Alfred Hitchcock horror flick.  I’m in my chonies fighting off an intruder who is trying to break into my room. 

“Welcome to Paris”  

Mind racing: Dark corridor. Men with dark circles under their eyes smoking and eating Pizza at midnight in the lobby. A credit card that “Doesn’t work.”  The money I flashed for everyone to see (including the pizza-eating, cigarette smoking Mafioso).  A phone that doesn’t work. Mysterious phone calls. No security latch. 

And “No one knows we’re in France” – Kerry innocently told the nice receptionist.

I’m holding the door closed – adrenaline pumping – and from past experiences with the not-so-illustrious “Wolf Pack” (my big brothers and their hippie tribe) I knew it was dangerous for less than three people at one time to attack me.  I COULD HOLD MY OWN.

There would be blood!  Whatever reason this guy or these guys felt they had to get into my room at 4:00 am in the morning – it had better be good enough for them to die over.

Though I was in my underwear, (don’t visualize it – just accept it), I had the stool in one hand and was prepared to defend Kerry and knew that it might come to bloodshed!  

IT WASN'T GOING TO BE MINE!

“You’re not getting into this room” I said holding the door against the frame (like the Grinch when he had the strength of 10 Grinches or like the mother who, with superhuman strength, lifts the car off her child.  

 Picture of Kerry lifting mini-cooper 

“I need to come into your room” said the all-too-familiar voice… as though this was perfectly normal, twisting the key in the lock.

“Why!” I shouted hoping to wake up anyone who might happen to be in adjoining rooms.

“Umm…you left your key in the door and I want to return it to you.” 

Lamest thing I ever heard. “Slide it under the door” I said incredulously, freak out that at 4:00 am I had to be fighting off a guy who says he needs to return my key that was left in the door and needed to get in.       Nothing made sense!  

I was sure this guy was a pawn of the sinister-looking-Mafia-guys and wanted to bust into our room. “Take the key downstairs – we don’t need it”

Whispering, I asked Kerry to look for our key to see if this guy was telling the truth.  I'm positive that he wants to steal our passports and money and I quietly tell Kerry to hide both of our passport holders.

But where? They’ll find it a dresser drawer and under the mattress, I thought, so I told her to throw them on top of the large, tall-freestanding closet.

“I need to get into your room…” He said still unlocking the door and pushing against.  “I need to give you your key back”

 

“Go away – you’re not coming in” I said pushing back against him. Then in a stroke of brilliance, I said “I’m calling the Policia” and told Kerry to push the bedside tables over to me.

We both knew "calling the police" was an empty threat - we didn’t know that phone number.  

Building a pretty secure barricade the two of us began looking for a phone book or for emergency numbers that should be posted somewhere.

No phone book

No emergency numbers listed on the back of the door.

        ... and no Gideon Bible ... btw. 

What do we do?

Shrugging my shoulders – I looked at Kerry who knew that we had no way of calling the police.

 My mind raced. How would we get out of this predicament?  “Kerry” I screamed loudly for him and anyone else in the hotel to hear “Call the police!” 

She shrugged back, knowing that she didn’t have an international calling plan and that we had no phone number.      Mission Impossible! 

What were we going to do and was this going to end in some kind of fight to the death?

We couldn’t call Kerry’s mom – she’d freak out and have a heart attack.

Who could we call for help?  We wracked out brains. 

Caryl!  Caryl knows France – she loves Paris – and she knows some French. It’s 4-dark-30 in the morning here and I think 7:30 pm, Sunday night back in Sacramento.  

We call.                      Caryl answers her phone.      Yay! 

We tell her the story. She’s now as worried as we are and begins an Google search. She gives me the French equivalent of our 911.

I try˗no good. 

I try with country code – no good.

I call Caryl back. Tell her to look up number the police department. She does, but tells us that in the meantime she looked up Hotel Scams on the internet and that this was most definitely a scam.  

She says she looked up the Hotel Balladins and found that a lady had her purse stolen while she was dining at the hotel restaurant. I knew it! This place is shady. "You need to call the police and call the American Embassy." she said.    

Meanwhile, the guy on the outside of the door says, he’s calling the police.

"Why?" That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.  What's he going to do...tell them that he tried to break into our room in the middle of the night and has two American tourists trapped and freaked out of their mind”  I thought.

While barricaded in our room, we call the police and tell them the story. They have to transfer me to a different department. Ughhhh! I have to say the same urgent speech all over again. The officer tells me in broken English that he doesn’t feel like it’s such a big deal.  I repeat, “We’re tourist. We’re in your country and we're afraid. Please come.” The officer on the phone says he will personally be coming.

Hearts beating at (only about) a million beats-per-second. We put on our clothes and remain vigilant at the door.  

We call the American Embassy. They are freak out! They say that this is totally inappropriate. They have never heard of such a thing and that no one is to come into our room in the middle of the night – not even the police.  They take down our names, our hotel and phone number.  I tell them that we are frightened, but waiting for the police to arrive.  

Another knock on the door. It was a soft rap on the door like the first time. It sounded just like familiar tapping of the evil man who had tried to break in. OH, AND GUESS WHAT? DID I FAIL TO TELL YOU THAT THERE WAS NO PEEP-HOLE IN THE DOOR?

Dark hallway. No security latch. No peep-hole. 

"It's the police" a voice says.  

I don’t know if it is the police or a rouse. Is it the bad guys trying to fake me out? Do I open the door?  There was a tinge of nervousness in the voice of the man behind the door that I didn’t like. Should I trust it and open the door? 

I gave Kerry the look that I didn’t think we had any other option, but to open the door. 

I told the man that I wasn’t sure that I should and didn’t know how to trust if he was indeed the police. Grabbing the stool and holding it over head, Kerry and I removed the end tables and cautiously cracked the door open.

The door flung open. A foot was planted against the open door and another body quickly took a position in the door frame.

With my weapon (small stool) ready to strike and with all kinds of angry emotion all over my face - I was staring down the barrel of a gun!   




(This is my blog word limit. I apologize, but will have to continue this epic Dahlin saga in my next post)