- Quarantine Games for Kids – April 7, 2020
- Story Time with Fozz: A Place that I Love As Much as Bourbon – February 12, 2020
- Growing Old and Why it Sucks – February 1, 2020
So we moved. That was a horrible experience, although our movers were fucking awesome. The guy’s name was Frosty. So of course, you say, “Where did you get that nickname?”
And he says, “Well, I used to be 100 pounds heavier and all my friends said I looked like the black Frosty the Snowman.”
We moved on a rainy humid Friday in August. Our lives were all in boxes. Motherfucking shit tons of boxes. My son cried his eyes out. My father in law, who isn’t a mushy type of guy, calmed Mike down. Like watching that Denaris chick tame one of those dragons, except he wasn’t half naked.
I went to the house and sat on the porch, my favorite room in my house. And had a cigar and shed a few of those moist drops that people call “tears.” It was scary as I had never done this before.
We had a lot of contractors in the house. My favorite hire was Tony. He was a house painter and came highly recommended. A guy from the South with three kids whose cousin had died horribly in Baltimore. We loved him from the start.
Tony wasn’t a good painter, but we kept him. I’m glad we did because if not, I would never had my favorite story of this whole debacle. To set this up, Tony is about 6 foot one, big, braids, huge beard, and black.
He called me one day to come and look at some paint. He had made test strokes on the wall in our walk in closet. “Mr. John, here is one version, here’s the one I bought today.” With that, Tony went to shake up the can. The lid wasn’t on. A fountain of white paint came flying up into his face, into his hair, and all over me. For a split second, the world stopped.
We ran into the bathroom and flushed his eyes. Paint was everywhere, and so was water and more paint. We got our breath and started laughing our asses off. Fucking hysterical. I mean funnier than hell. And I was sober.
Now here is why I mentioned Tony is black. As I was leaving, my head completely fucked up, my stress level at 120, Tony flings the door open. His shirt is off, his shorts are around his hips and he yells,
“Damn, Mr. John! I always wondered what I would look like as a white boy! What do you think?” And he threw his head back and laughed and laughed. I couldn’t start the car. I had tears in my eyes. I got out of the car and me and this guy started laughing again, and hugging each other. On the lawn in front of all the neighbors.
I still have paint all over the bottom of my Vans that I was wearing on that day. I will never throw them away. And every time I put them on I laugh like an idiot. I love you, Tony. Never change.
Next time: “Can My Heart Take It?”