It's not often that I want to keep something to myself. Well, it happens when someone else is involved, but if it's just me--AND ME ALONE--I almost never keep that thing to myself. In creating the title of tonight's column I decided to keep one of those things to myself. I have my reasons.
I'll give you an example. Something happened when I was a kid, and the only people in the world who know about this were the people there and the one person I swore to secrecy about it decades later. Before writing this, I released him from his promise. This person and I were talking about one of Gregory House's unusual obsessions.
I have a policy that those close enough to me to confide things in me know very well. You have to swear me to secrecy first, and then you can confide, and God Himself couldn't get it out of me. Oh fuck me, this is a column with a side note within a side note, but that's the kind of night it is, I guess.
I used to know this one guy who, and I can't stress this enough, I told him my policy sooooooo many times he either wasn't listening or was incredibly stupid. In retrospect, I believe both of these things. Regardless, in the cafeteria at work he told me about this idiotically unlikely sexual position he'd come up with, and he named it after himself. I ridiculed him openly to his face--AGAIN in the WORK cafeteria where others were hanging around, and he was a loud, belligerent loony--and he insisted it was a true story. I'd finished eating and intended to spend the rest of my lunch in the employee lounge reading, and he followed me. I ran into another person in the breakroom who knew all about this guy's bullshit, and I started telling her about what he'd just told me.
"No! You can't tell her!" he said.
"You know my policy," I said. He had to. I'd explained it maybe a dozen times.
He pleaded ignorance. I told her the whole thing. She laughed her ass off and went to lunch. Another coworker came in, and in front of this guy I told this coworker everything.
This sounds like bullying. It's not. I promise you. I would never do this to someone I hadn't told about the policy, or even if I'd told them twice. Three strikes, you're out. It's the next one that doesn't count anymore. And they have to be sober when I tell them. Yeah, I know, I have fucked up reasoning, but you didn't know this guy. He was a liar and a cheat and a scumbag and a manipulator and, this last part I'm 95% on, a predator. I'm not a violent guy. I can be, as faithful readers will know, but if I can defeat someone with words, I will do it.
Before my break was over (15 minutes from that moment) everyone knew. I went as far as putting the sex move--and who names an unlikely sex move after themselves?!--on Urban Dictionary. He eventually forced himself to have a sense of humor about it, and good for him. I'd do the same. He told me that I'd better get a coffee mug made with the UD definition on it for Christmas. I told him I would, and I usually live up to my word. But he's out of my life, and I didn't have the money at the time. I have it now and would have happily gotten it for him.
So I take my own policies very seriously, and I live by them to the hilt. So my friend? The one I mentioned earlier? I swore him to secrecy first. And then we talked about House's weird obsession with monster trucks. My big secret? I LOVE MONSTER TRUCKS. I was dubious at first, but then my uncle took me and my cousin to a rodeo, and part of said rodeo was a monster truck rally. AND BIGFOOT WAS THERE! And bam. I got it. I understood it. I loved it.
I don't think it was mine. I think it was my cousin's. But one of us had an RC Bigfoot after that, and there were all these shitty plastic cars that we could run it over. Oh my fuck me Jesus, I had so much fun with that shit! I wanted my own monster truck so badly. I still kind of do, especially if I have to deal with rush hour traffic.
So there it is. I finally overcame that insecurity about myself. You all know what you probably suspected already: I'm the oldest eight-year-old kid you know.
Okay, that was one hell of a left turn. So let's get back to what I was going to write about in the first place. I know for a fact that six of you on my social media know the name of this middle-of-nowhere village. I suspect ten more of you might, too. And I really want to keep that location to myself because I intend, if I somehow survive to old age and/or sudden riches, I want to cut myself off from humanity, more or less, and live out my days without ever using my voice again. No offense. I might have mentioned in a previous column that I wasn't superstitious, but there's this weird part of me thinking that if I name the place, I'll jinx myself.
To give you an idea of how out-there this place is, I'm convinced there are more horses in that village than there are people. Or township. Or whatever.
While driving through the other day, to do some forest preserve reading, I saw that a farmhouse was up for rent. The land was sizeable, too. Not that I'm a farmer or could even do a good job of doing that. I'd kinda like to have a horse. I speak a big Western game. It would be nice to actually be able to ride a horse, though. I'd hate to look like Clint in Unforgiven when he tries to get on his horse so he could go out and murder a few fellas.
I seriously considered just going there now. I even looked it up online. Turns out, I actually have enough money to pay rent on the place for five months and still live relatively comfortable. The problem is, I have no job. Well, I have one, but the start date keeps getting delayed. I can't rationally make the decision to rent the place without actually having a concrete job. Without the rent, living here, I could survive 2021 in an absolutely basic level of comfort. I have to have a job by then. Or maybe I'll win the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes?
I really want that place. The houses in that area were built in the mid to late 1800s. They look like the houses that I adore from those aforementioned Westerns. There is one that reminds me of a house from the film, THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. If I could rent that, I would probably beat my own skull in after my money ran out.
But it might be worth it.
Man, I just can't rent that place. I wish more than anything that I could. Well, I'm fairly sure I'd be labeled a city boy by most of the closer neighbors. Sadly they'd label me a lefty. I'm not. Biden's not my guy, but he got dipshit out of office, so I'll take him. There is one house I saw had a sign bolted to the ground so it wouldn't be easily removed. One word is spray-painted on both sides: TRUMP. The owner isn't the only one, but I find faith in the others who have Biden signs up. Not many, but enough. Who knows? If it came to it, maybe I could tip the scales in local elections. Probably not.
But I really fucking want that place.
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