Last night, I went to the Moth StorySlam and made my third attempt at telling a story. Preparing for and attending most of the NYC Moths was one of my New Year's goals, mostly in an attempt to force me to do a bit more thematic free writing on a regular basis. The performing is kind of fun, but not my primary impetus. Rather, I wanted/want to use it as a writing exercise. But this topic should be relegated to a later time, if ever.
I'm now one-for-three. Before last night, I was one-for-two. In January, the first StorySlam after New Year's had the theme "Deadlines." I went to Union Hall and wanted to tell a story that started with the line, "I am an anal procrastinator,". In retrospect, that theme and story are more ironic than ever. Anyway, The Moth had gotten super-popular by that point, and I didn't even get in the building.
In August 2007, I went to my first Moth StorySlam. The theme that evening was "Money," and I had this story about a prank played on me by my best friend. I called it "$18 Million". It was my first time, and I got selected. I performed, it was fun. 'Nuff said.
Now that I've started Aaron's New (Personal) Year – running on the fiscal year model; more on that some other time (maybe) – I'm trying to get back into the StorySlam habit, and so last night, I trekked over to the Nuyorican Poets Café in the East Village for The Moth. The theme was "Wheels." This time, I got in the door, got my sign-up slip in the bag, but out of the 26 people who hoped to tell their stories, I was not one of the 10 selected.
However, a good story should never go to waste, and by the time I walked into the Nuyorican last night, I was pretty happy with it. Sure, I may still be able to use it for some other theme some time, and while this one was definitely meant to be performed more than read, why should I hide it for now. So, without further ado and for your reading pleasure, I invite you to enjoy The Root Beer Accident after the jump:
THE ROOT BEER ACCIDENT
Two constants in my life that I never thought would have any baring on each other were my love for riding my bike and my love for root beer. But one day when I was somewhere around 12-14 years old, these two loves did, in fact, come into conflict with each other.
I'm still a big soda drinker, but at that age, I wasn't really "allowed" to drink it all that much. At least, it was never in the house. My mom wouldn't buy the stuff. But I was still climbing through the window of soft drink addiction, buying and drinking it on my own, outside the house, etc. You know how it is; the more your parents don't let you do something, the more you find ways to do it on your own.
I grew up in San Francisco, and the big pop culture edible item around this time in California was Original New York Seltzer. Now, this being New York, I'm not actually sure if anyone here knows what Original New York Seltzer was because Original New York Seltzer was made in California. It was a brand of soft drink with six flavors that came in glass bottles, I think 8-10 oz, and I remember them being a little bit squat. They were a huge deal and caught the state by storm because they boasted all natural ingredients and flavors. The brand disappeared some time during the 90s, but back in 1984 or 85, it was huge. And when it came out, everyone was talking about the root beer.
It wasn't just that the root beer apparently was really good – better than the standard Mug or A&W brands. No, the thing that was really shocking everyone was that the root beer was clear. Perfectly see through. It looked just like plain seltzer or 7-Up, but yeah, it tasted like root beer. Or so I'd been told.
But root beer is only one culprit in this story, and the other important player is my bike. Or rather, me riding my bike. Something that I always loved to do. I lived in what is a relatively flat part of San Francisco, so anywhere I went further than a block away, I went on my bike. Whether the corner store with video games two blocks away or Sunday School and Bar Mitzvah prep all the way down Lake Street, I rode my bike.
I was always super comfortable on bicycles. That wasn't the case with anything else. Roller skates or blades? Nope. Skateboards? Not even close. I would start to speed up, and I would just need to jump off. But from the moment I learned how to ride a bike, that was never the case. I never was scared of falling, even after the few times I had. I was never scared to go fast. It was easy. It was comfortable. I didn't do tricks or stunts or anything, although I did learn to ride without using the handlebars – including turns – and I would do that every so often.
Which leads me to also mention that no matter how comfortable I was, at that age, I definitely wasn't a very smart rider. Helmet? Hell no. These were the Reagan '80s. Who needs a stinkin' helmet? Riding in traffic with no hands? But of course. Yes … idiot.
On one Sunday, I had gone with my mom to my grandmother's house in Belvedere, in Marin County. Some other family and friends were there, but I was the only person there my age. I still hadn't tried the New York Seltzer root beer – the corner store near our apartment wasn't carrying it yet – but I figured the supermarket near my grandmother's had to have it. And even though my mom was there, she was preoccupied, and I figured now was my chance.
That's right: the great super-secret soda scheme. I quickly plotted the whole thing out. I would tell my mom that I was just going to go out to ride my bike around a bit, but in reality, I would go to the supermarket about five minutes away, buy myself some Original New York Seltzer root beer, come back to the house, but before getting back … drink it! Oh yeah, my pre-teen/just-teen mind had this caper down pat. For some reason, it was really important for me not to let her know I was going to buy a soda because … well, she might tell me not to. So I was going to hide it.
I knew across the street from my grandmother's house, there was this parking alley – a side street between two actual streets that had all the garage entrances for a bunch of houses. I figured that would be a good place to enjoy my refreshing soft drink. You see, it might be possible for someone to see me outside the supermarket, standing there doing nothing but drinking a soda. Or even on the road between there and my grandmother's. But chances were nobody was going to come through this alley. Of course, anyone I knew who would matter was actually at my grandmother's, but my logic and planning only went so far, and didn't quite reach all the way to rational reality.
This whole process took a few minutes to think through. I had somehow constructed so much detail into going to the store to get a soda; I was putting more effort into keeping this a secret than into making sure she didn't know my best friend and I had recently started smoking cigarettes from time-to-time.
She was in mid-conversation when I told her I was going outside to ride my bike. "Fine, fine," she said, and continued on. I knew I was home free. I ran outside, rode my bike to the store, went inside, and there I saw them … all on display. Brand new, Original New York Seltzer. Six flavors! including … the clear root beer. You could see through the clear glass bottle and then through the root beer itself. It was calling me.
So apparently were the other flavors because I bought two bottles. I mean, if one flavor was so good, I'm sure the others were as well. I left the store. I hung the bag over the left side of my handlebars. Phases 1 and 2 complete. Commence phase 3.
As I started riding back towards my grandmother's, I noticed the bag wouldn't stop swinging into my front bike wheel. So I stopped, took off the bag, started riding again and then decided to try holding the bag and not the handlebars. But I quickly realized that wasn't the best idea, so I again hung it from the handlebars. It wouldn't stop hitting the wheel though, so there I was riding, looking down, trying to adjust the hanging bag, looking up briefly … and my turn off the main road to get into the alley was coming up,
As I turned right, the bag clanged into the wheel, hitting the rim rather than the spokes but still making me wobble. Right after that right turn came a left into the alley that was my temporary destination point and drinking spot. As I turned, the bag swung away from the wheel, but then swung right back, and I was looking at it and the wheel and trying to scrunch it higher and turning and looking down and then looking up and …
My jaw dropped. Open. Wide.
SLAM!
Slow-motion instant replay: As I looked-up, there was a car. A car right in front of me. 15, maybe 20 feet away. I'm headed right for it. But instead of using my hand to press on the break, I turn into Wile E. Coyote – eyes bugging out, mouth wide open, doing nothing. I didn't think, "Aaron, you're totally about to hit that car. Maybe you should … I don't know … do something like try to turn? Or brake? Or something?" No, instead, my brain simply said, "Wow. Look at that. Hey Mouth, drop open wouldja. The rest of you guys in this body, just take a break. It will likely be over quickly."
Stopping actually might not have even been so difficult, especially since there was only one part of this convergence actually in motion. You see, the car I slammed into? It wasn't moving. There wasn't even anyone in it. Yes … that's right … I made my turn way too wide and I slammed smack dab into the middle of a parked car. Instead of stopping, bike slams fender, Aaron flies over handlebars, mouth open, hits hood, rolls off onto ground.
I'm not sure if at that age I regularly swore as much as I do now, but it was definitely a "WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED" moment. Sitting on the ground, stunned, I first looked around to see if anyone was there watching. The fact that nobody was saying, "Hey you OK," was not a clue at that moment that I was very much alone, but I wasn't looking for help anyway. I wanted to make sure that nobody saw me slam headfirst into a parked car! I was embarrassed! I mean, how lame is that?
Seeing that nobody was standing there laughing hysterically at me, I moved on to my second concern: my two bottles of Original New York Seltzer. They were still hooked to my handlebars. The bike was a good five feet away doing that thing you see in the movies. You know … there's the angelic little tyke riding his bike in the street, smiling and laughing, and next thing you see is the guy in his car doing something, not paying attention to the road. Cut back to the tyke smiling, oblivious to any and all worldly cares, having fun on his bike. Back inside the car for a split second before you see the driver's eyes and mouth go wide – his own Wile E. Coyote moment. There's the sound effect; screech of tires. You don't see the kid again, but you see his bike, horizontal on the ground with that front wheel just spinning … spinning … spinning. Well, in this moment for me, I learned that front bike wheels really will do that.
Finally, I thought, "Hmmm, am I hurt?" I had a couple scratches but no bleeding. I thought I was probably OK until … I tasted it. Not a lot, but there was blood in my mouth. And I moved my tongue, and something was weird. The blood wasn't supposed to be there, but something that SHOULD have been there was missing. Part of my left front tooth … it was just … gone.
You see, when my mouth dropped open and I flew over the handlebars, I seem to have tried to take a bite out of the hood, connecting teeth first. As I finally stood up and looked at the car, there it was … the missing part of my tooth at the end of a very little scratch. At this point, I actually began to freak out, but at first, not about the fact that I've broken a part of me that won't heel and obviously can't grow back. No, I first start freaking out about how much trouble I'm going to get in for going to the store to buy some New York Seltzer. Because of course, in mom and grandma logic, if I hadn't gone to get the soda, I never would have been on my bike with two glass bottles in a bag that would hit the wheel and make me look down and ride right into a car and I'd still have my damn tooth. Because how was I going to hide my missing tooth and the blood, right?
There was only one way to mitigate this disaster. Priorities had changed. I had to destroy the evidence. I took the bag off the handlebar and threw it -- complete with bottles inside -- into a nearby trashcan. And now that the cover-up had been completed and I had the broken part of my tooth in hand, I finally had another realization.
OUCH! It fucking hurt.
I kept my tongue in the place where my tooth should have been – it made it hurt less – and I ran the block-plus to my grandmother's, leaving my bike in the alley. I was now somewhat stunned, but conscious enough that the more upset I appeared, the fewer questions I would answer.
"Mom, mom. I broke my tooth" My mother and her mother proceeded to have the freak-out of all freak-outs. Whatever they saw on my face, there were no questions asked … just rushing around for washcloths and towels and ice and whatever, holding the compress to my mouth and upper gum. My mom called my dentist, but it was a Sunday. She said it was an emergency. We couldn't do anything that night, but the next morning …
My mom took me to the dentist. I got all Novacained up, and received the first of many temporary fillings I would have over the following two decades before finally getting a permanent crown. When I was done, my mom took me home and told me to rest, but she had to go back to work. A few hours later, after the Novocaine wore off and with my mom still at work for another hour or two, I hopped on my bike, rode to the supermarket and bought another Original New York Seltzer root beer.
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