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CONTENT WARNING
These stories are not appropriate for children,
or for those who may be offended by graphic humour.
Turtle's Ol'Lady's Sister's TV
by Werner Meile
About six years ago I had become disillusioned with office work and I spent about 18 months working as a glazier,
installing aluminum windows in commercial buildings in downtown Vancouver. I was one of those guys hanging off the sides of
buildings twenty stories in the air, or sometimes blocking off a busy downtown street to crane into place enormous pieces of
glass. The work was hard, dirty, cold, rainy and always dangerous, but it makes you tough. After being in sales for years, I
actually enjoyed my newfound scruffy, tough appearance that made people step aside when they saw me coming! (Of course, they
didn't know that I'm really a pussy-cat!)
My co-workers were a tough bunch; mostly ex-bikers, ex-convicts and ex-junkies (and not always ex-), some just plain
dumb-asses and a few tradesmen. Just look at high-rise construction workers in any big city, they're usually a pretty gnarly cast
of characters. I became friends with Turtle, an ex-biker from Ontario. Though they're never really ex-bikers. Although only five-foot-eight, Turtle is the real deal. He's tougher than anyone around. Just one look at Turtle and you know this is no one to mess
with. But he's a nice enough guy and he likes my sense of humour. (Go figure!)
.
So one day Turtle asks me to help him pick up a TV set from his Ol'Lady's sister. Sounds innocent enough, I have a
large van, so I say okay. After work we drive to Turtle's and pick up his Ol'Lady. She's along to provide directions to the house
where her sister used to live several months ago, where the TV is still located. Pulling into the driveway, I couldn't help but
notice that this was the only house on the street with three-foot-tall grass, furniture & appliances and the obligatory V8 and
tranny lying in the front yard. ("Why is all the furniture outside?" I wonder.)
We walk up to the back door, as the front is obstructed by rubbish. We knock and Turtle's Ol'Lady explains who she is
and that we're here to pick up the TV. The ruffian at the door gives us a dirty look and then starts to let us in. As soon as
Turtle's Ol'Lady is in, the guy slams the door shut, leaving Turtle and I outside.
Turtle isn't pleased. He starts banging LOUDLY on the door, demanding that it be opened and shouting over and over,
"That's my Ol'Lady in there!" I'm watching and I know what's coming 5-4-3-2 ... BOOM! the door is kicked open and Turtle
storms into the house.
(Turtle once told me that "cocaine addicts think they're invisible". "How, so?" I asked.
"Because when you're kickin' down their door they pretend like they're not home.")
Now, I'm the last person to barge into a stranger's home but Turtle is my friend. When I was a little kid, maybe 7, I
ran away when bullies were picking on a friend and I. I never forgot the shame, and since then resolved to never again let a
friend face adversity alone. With that early childhood memory suddenly fresh in my mind, I immediately follow Turtle through the
door. We pass quickly through a kitchen of stupefying filth and on into the living room. ("What are all those things lying
around", I'm wondering to myself)
Turtle immediately starts screaming at the guy who slammed the door on us. I knew my attention had to be on the
situation at hand, but nothing I've ever seen or imagined could have prepared me for what I'm seeing. Those things lying around
that I was wondering about are human bodies! Maybe sixty or seventy of them, lying in rows, like five-foot-long logs, row after
row, throughout the rooms and halls, everywhere. ("That's why all the furniture & appliances are outside!")
This is the crack-house from Hell. Most are unconscious, or possibly dead maybe, who knows? The few that are barely
moving are either scared shitless of Turtle's fury or trying to determine if any of what they are seeing is real. There are kids
as young as twelve years old and some persons, who are so far gone and distorted by abuse, that I couldn't guess their gender, let
alone their age; they barely look human. The filth and stench is beyond compare. I'm doing everything I can to pay attention to
the volatile situation, but the horror of this spectacle of misery is starting to seriously freak me out. The sight of a young
boy, about 12, lying there like a snot-faced corpse, made me twitch uncontrollably.
As Turtle is ranting at the guy, he's also starting to disconnect the TV. Only Turtle would have the audacity to
unplug a TV in front of sixty or more crack-heads and try to carry it away. I am quickly becoming seriously concerned for our
safety. A couple of them are watching me but when I start twitching, they take a few steps back. My head is starting to swoon from
fear and horror, and the smell! But Turtle is fearless and continues unhooking the TV.
Alarm among the inhabitants is growing as they realize that the TV is being carried off. Well, this is certainly
stirring the pot! More of them awaken and rise like zombies from the floor, groaning unintelligible threats towards Turtle and I
as they weakly approach. It is surreal, both pathetic and frightening at the same time. If this were a nightmare, this would be
the point where I'd start telling myself, "It's only a dream".
But these crack-head-zombies were so emaciated that I weighed more than any three of them put together (I'm 6-foot
& 210 lbs). Incredibly, I felt more pity and anguish for them, than hostility. I didn't want to hit anyone of them for fear of
easily breaking their bones and quite possibly catching God-only-knows what blood-borne pathogens they're most likely carrying.
Nonetheless, I was scared.
And nonetheless, they approached. Turtle held onto the TV and glared furiously and I stood right up to them; they
backed off. There are a dozen of them standing against only Turtle and I, but they don't come any closer. Sensing our victory, we
start towards the back door. Just then "The Ruler" of the crack-house walks into the living room.
Now I'm a big tough guy with several years of Kung Fu and I grew up in a tough part of Toronto, and Turtle is much,
much tougher and scarier than I could ever be. But both of us just about shit our pants when we saw "The Ruler". Six-foot-two, no more than 120 pounds but looking like a cross between Tom Petty and Nosferatu. Dressed totally in black, The Ruler
had ashen skin hanging from a skeletal face; a straw-like shock of white hair; freakishly long bony fingers and the most
remorseless black orbs for eyes that I've ever seen. That The Ruler had total authority was without question, all the crack-heads
were cowering in fear! Without a doubt, The Ruler is the fucking scariest bitch I've ever seen in my entire life!
"Where the fuck do you think you're going with that TV?" she hissed in a voice so sinister that I felt an
immediate need to control my bladder. Then she yelled at the zombie horde, "What the fuck are you losers doing letting them
get away with this?" Well, they may have been apprehensive about taking on Turtle and I, but there was no way in hell they
were going to disobey her orders! The horde began to move.
"Just a minute," Turtle said, and started to explain to The Ruler that this was his TV fair and square. I
could tell that this seemed to mollify the crowd because I noticed one of them putting down the axe he had concealed behind his
back! I finally broke my stony silence and told Turtle it's time to leave.
Turtle, his Ol'Lady and I briskly walk out the front door, kicking rubbish flying, trying to make a path, and I can't
fucking believe that Turtle is still carrying the TV! But incredibly, the zombies, true to their nature, wouldn't come out into
the sunlight! We just finish loading the TV into my van when this car pulls up and these three enormous biker-type thugs get out.
These guys were huge, mean and as scary looking as anything I've ever seen. The smallest of them outweighed me by about 80 pounds,
these are no crack-heads; they're enforcement. Time to leave, now.
The Three Gigantic Stooges walk past us as I'm starting the engine, and head towards the back of the house and then
they notice that the door has been kicked in! The Ruler must have noticed at the same time because she comes running out the front
door screaming like an evil witch for the thugs to kill us! The three big thugs come running out from behind the house; I scream,
"HOLY SHIT!", Turtle's Ol'Lady screams, "OH MY GOD!" But Turtle calmly says, "Let's go."
I fling it in reverse and back out of the driveway so fast that I could have hit a passing car—I never even
bothered to look, then I fling it into drive. In the split second between reverse and forward, The Ruler is running screaming
towards my door with a face that I hope I never see again. I think she scared me more than the thugs. Then I floor it! My one-ton
propane-powered 17-year-old former Ministry of Transport van starts lumbering down the road! I was never really concerned with how
slow my van really is until, looking back, I see the thugs getting into their muscle car.
Somehow, our lead is enough and I manage to lose them by driving like an idiot through the residential neighborhood.
It's only about 4:30 in the afternoon, so this really isn't good at all. I don't know how they lost us. The van is bright yellow
and so big that you could practically see it from orbit.
Later at Turtle's apartment, as we're hooking up the TV there's suddenly a pounding on the door. Oh shit! Turtle's
Ol'Lady starts freaking out, Turtle tosses me a baseball bat and he's clutching a steel bar from a dumbbell. We stand at the door
and look at each other—this is it.
I nod and Turtle whips open the door and we both charge through—and our co-worker Harry, who's just coming to visit
with a case of beer—just about has a heart attack! Realizing it's Harry, we drop our weapons and begin hugging and slapping
Harry around like we haven't seen him in years, even though it had only been about an hour since we saw him at work. To which
Harry asked, "What the fuck have you guys been doing!?!?!"
While telling Harry the story, we finished hooking up the TV, and it didn't work. "After all that and it doesn't
even work," Turtle's Ol'Lady said.
To which I responded, "You can all go fuck yourselves if you think I'm taking it back!" We laughed till we
cried, and felt happy to be alive.
.
Moral of the Story: If someone asks you for help picking something up, you should really ask them, "It's not from
some crack-house, is it?"
Copyright © Werner Meile 2003
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