"Dude, put your dick away. We're being photographed."The year was 1990. The place was Fremont, Nebraska. I was a six(6)-year-old boy attending kindergarten at the regally named District 11 Elementary School. My family had moved to Fremont during the middle of the school year, so I was forced to be one of those awkward new students that gets stared at with suspicion like a black dude in a Best Buy (Rant Solipsism's 100th racist statement!). The only redeeming factor about my new school was that my class was very small. As I recall, there were only about 8 or 9 kids. Being such a small class, everyone was pretty much friends, and after a few weeks I think I fell into some solid friendships without much hassle. Over the next few months I became best friends with tomboyish girl named Nikki. Now, remember that I was six, so at this point in my life I was pretty much a sexless, chubby, worm-like creature. At the time I had not shown any promise in any field. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was writing musical compositions by age five. Tiger Woods was playing golf at age four. At age six, I was still getting yelled at by my old man for eating seven slices of bologna every day after school (my bologna fetish did not wane until my late teens). I can even remember sitting in our backyard while my dad grilled out, and shoving handfuls of grass clippings into my mouth. I'm not sure if Dale bet me I wouldn't, or if in fact he was forcing me to do this, but I have a very lucid image in my mind of green blades bobbing up and down betwixt my lips as I chewed on gobs of the stuff. Needless to say, things were really up in the air as to how I would turn out. Anyway, my kindergarten class was like a small family. We all went to each other's birthday parties and most other gatherings that are put together for children. I distinctly remember going to a boy/girl sleepover and having to sit through the suicide-inducing 1969 classic piece of shit movie The Love Bug. It was the host of the party's favorite movie. At the time, I had no idea what "gay" was. I probably had never even heard the word, but as I watched this anthropomorphic Nazi invention, all I could think was, "This is so gay." I probably thought at the time that I had made the word up. My point is, we were a tight-knit little bunch. So, that Christmas, Santa had brought me what was probably one of the best gifts that I had ever received in my life. It was a police set that came with a vest that said POLICE on the back, a hat that read POLICE across the front, a pair of black shades, plastic handcuffs, a grenade, and several toy guns. There was a plastic assault rifle, a pistol and (I shit you not) a MAC 10 replica. Apparently, this was no ordinary police outfit. This was the get-up for a corrupt federalie taking drug money to protect Pablo Escobar type shit. But I didn't care, the more weapons the better. Whenever I put that outfit on-and I did a lot-I felt like a badass motherfucker. In fact, I thought I kind of resembled Sly Stallone in Cobra. So one day in the spring, I invited my first girl friend (a friend who happened to be a girl), Nikki, over for a play date. From what I can recall, I think we just watched movies, ate lunch and ran around for most of the day. But by the afternoon, things took a turn, and like most things that turn, this one was for the worse. I'm not exactly sure how it began-probably a suggestion by Yours Truly-but I decided to pick up the telephone in the basement and dial 911. A few rings and then a profession female voice saying, "911. What is your emergency?" I immediately slammed the phone down and began to laugh my ass off. Nikki thought it was hilarious too. So, realizing that she liked it, I picked the phone up once more, dialed 911 again, waited for the woman to ask, "What is your emergency?" and then hung up. We both keeled over with laughter. Now, I knew that what I was doing probably wasn't right, but I honestly compared it to prank calling a neighbor. I didn't know that any such technology existed that could trace a phone call to an exact address. All I knew was that Nikki thought it was hilarious when I did this, so following the lead of every male before that has done stupid shit to impress a girl, I called 911 for a third time, with the same result. On the fourth phone call I fired one of my fake police guns into the receiver and Nikki screamed in the background. So, by this point, I wasn't content with just wasting the police's time, I wanted them to actually think that a crime was being committed. In total, I pranked 911, not once, not twice, or three, four, five or six times. I honestly prank called 911 nine fucking times that day. Prank calling the cops was probably my first experience with addiction (novelty shot glasses and CFNM porn would follow later in life). Each time I picked up the phone it was like injecting adrenaline into my veins. Now, only a fucking moron would call 911, scream bloody murder into the phone, and hang up that many times and expect to get away with it. Well, I'm a fucking moron. The only reason I kept doing it was because Nikki liked it, and I really thought that there were going to be no consequences to my actions. Now, somewhere between the first and last phone call, something incredible happened. I remember hanging up the phone, giggling madly (my testicles had not descended yet, so I laughed like an 18-year-old Japanese girl) and Nikki saying to me, "Let's kiss!" Jesus H. Cookie-cutting Christ! What!? Kiss? It took me years to realize what had happened, but after much analysis and regret I figured it out. You see, kind readers, up until that point, Nikki and I were only friends. The fact that one was a boy and one was a girl had never been an issue. Except for the fact that we wore different clothes, and I had shorter hair, at six, our bodies looked almost identical. Bewbs were still a far-off obsession, and if I had known what the fuck a vagina was, I probably would have laughed it off like a sick urban legend. Hell, if I had seen a vagina at six I would have been more baffled than anything. We were strictly asexual, good friends. But now, NOW, Nikki wanted a kiss. I had done something totes awesome for her, and she wanted to reward me. I was turning her on! I realize that I sound like a fucking pervert saying that at 25, but it's true. I was impressing a girl without even knowing how to or thinking about it. The rush, the feeling of being bad, had taken hold of Nikki, and she needed to let loose. Had I known that chicks are drawn to the bad boys, I might have dropped out of kindergarten, told the old man to fuck himself, and headed for the big city (that being Omaha). But, I digress. Nikki wanted a kiss. So I mustered all my courage, puckered my lips, closed my eyes, and gave her the most emotionless, bland, sterile kiss any boy had ever given a girl. It was just two lumps of pink flesh brushing up against one another. No feeling. No passion. And then, it was over. A single fleeting moment of spontaneous eroticism...gone now, forever. But, that was my very first kiss, and I will remember it always. It wasn't my best, just my first. However, this is not the story of my first kiss, this is the story of the first and only time I was able to stick it to the Man. Shortly after the ninth phone call, my mom-who had been upstairs the whole time-walked down the steps and asked us what we were doing. "Nothing," I lied. "Well, I just got a phone call from the police asking me if they should send a cruiser out to our house. They said they have been getting calls from this house." "No, Mom. Don't know anything about that." Deny, deny, deny. That is the one thing that I have learned when it came to getting into trouble. Now, I could deny anything up and down, it made no difference to my old man. He'd beat my ass if it was even suggested that I may have done something bad. All I could hope for was that he would not be completely sure, and thus perhaps feel a little guilt about possibly beating his innocent son. But, such was usually the case, I did do it, and Dad never felt guilty. Anyway, I denied that Nikki and I had done anything other than normal childish things, when in fact we were pretty close to that couple in Natural Born Killers. Well, soon after Nikkie was picked up, and my dad came home from work. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred until later than night when, around seven or so, my father announced, "Let's go to the grocery store." My dad, my mom, my older brother Dale, my 2-year-old sister, and myself, piled into the family car for our very first Late Night Family Grocery Store Run. The first and only one. As we drove to the grocery store, I did not think that anything out of the ordinary was happening, and I stared mindlessly out the window. Then, we pulled up to the grocery store. It was a massive structure, with numerous looming pillars, a pointed archway, and what I thought were a hundred gigantic steps leading up to the huge glass doors. "Just Eric is going in," my dad stated plainly. "Huh," I thought. "Maybe he's going to buy me something." I hopped out of the car, blissfully unaware of my impending doom. In fact, the only thing I was concerned about as I marched up the precipitous steps, was that I was dressed so sloppily, and this place looked like a pretty fucking classy grocery store. We made it to the entrance, and my dad pulled open the heavy glass door. I took two steps in before realizing my mistake. Behind a metal cage sat a fat old cop, looking at my father and me intently. At once I realized I had been had! This was no grocery store! I turned and ran screaming from the doorway, trying desperately to reach the family auto. But, alas, it was all for not. My dad had his vice-like grip on my arm, and he pulled me through the entrance and up to the awaiting police officer behind the cage. "Earlier today my son pranked 911 eight times-" "It was nine times, Dad!" I interrupted. I actually corrected my father's accusation. Shit, if I'm going to fry for one prank phone call, I might as well get credit for them all. My dad explained the situation to the cop, and we were both led to a small white room where I was sat down on a bench. Within a matter of moments a dashing, mustachioed cop walked in and shut the door. It was all run-of-the-mill scare tactics, but guess what, I WAS FUCKIN SCARED. The cop asked me why I did it. "I don't know." He told me that technically he could throw me in jail. Did I want to be thrown in jail? "No." He told me that had my dad done it, they would throw my dad in jail. Did I want my dad thrown in jail? "No." The meeting lasted about ten minutes, and I'm not sure what all was said during that time, because I could not even look at my dad or the cop. Instead I played with the buttons on my jacket like they were the most interesting things in the world. Finally, my dad and I were released from the small cell and we trudged down to the car. "Don't you ever do that again, Eric," my dad said sternly. "I won't." "I fucking know you won't. And don't think that your punishment is over, either. Just wait until we get home." In the car ride home a deathly silence had befallen everyone. My mom knew my old man was pissed, and refused to offer me any comfort. There was nothing but absolute silence...until I looked over at my brother Dale, and saw him with both hands covering his mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he tried his goddamdest to muffle the sounds of his own maniacal laughter.
The Moore You Know: So, I read today that 18% of suicides are done by hanging. That seems like a lot. I mean, I had no idea that that many people knew how to tie a noose. Seriously. Who knows how to tie a noose anymore. When was the last time you needed to know how to tie one? Who are these people that are killing themselves this way? Boy Scouts and Old Timey train robbers? Honestly, I figured knowing how to tie a noose went out of style probably around the time the Civil Rights Act was passed.
© Eric Moore - 2010
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