CHAINSAW 1927 Ed Monk Design

"Hi, I'm Maggie!"

It was late December, 2001, when I came home wearing a kilt and ceremoniously threw all my pants in the dumpster, declaring, 

“I’m never wearing pants again!” 

By New Years Eve, Vanessa decided to leave me. 

I had argued against a divorce initially because we got along so well and I was unprepared to cook for myself. But ten years was a long time to be married, so we split amicably. We got her an apartment we were in so we could share custody of our dog, Chloe, and she was out within two weeks. We agreed that I would help her set up her new place and she would make sure I was eating properly. And we’d get together for regular sex, at least until one of us started seeing somebody. 

We spent most of a Sunday morning moving her stuff (or half of our stuff) into her new apartment. Our neighbor across the hall was in and out all day and knew what was going on. She made an effort to talk to both me and Vanessa, being all Sad and There For Us. 

Rachael’s cute and she’s always been a little flirty with me. At one point when Vanessa wasn’t around, Rachael told me she was going in for breast reduction surgery in a couple months. I said, “Oh, really? I’m thinking of getting penis reduction surgery. Maybe we could get together for a little ‘before and after’.”

She looked down and I really thought she was gonna lift up my kilt to check for herself, but she just smiled at me and I sad she should come over later and have a glass of wine on our porch (she was always envious of our porch). She said, “Maybe” and went back into her apartment. I hadn’t been with anybody but Vanessa since we got married, and I wasn’t necessarily thinking I was gonna get Rachael into bed that night, but I thought it would be good to have somebody cute to talk to. Maybe have her over a couple times and see what happens. 

We moved up all of Vanessa’s stuff and it got down to the last bag of books. She set it down and gave me a hug. “I know this is the right thing to do. We’ll be fine,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe we just need some time apart.”

As she was hugging me, I could tell she was crying. She later told me that she’d spent the night up in her new place going through all our pictures, listening to the music we both liked, and wondering if this was all a mistake.

It was a pretty long hug. Long enough for me to realize that I was about to spend my first night alone. Ten years of marriage, over and done. I didn’t really want to be alone. I’d always preferred having a partner, I function better that way. And now I have to start dating again. Well, I thought, there’s no shortage of cute girls in this town, that’s for sure. There’s the cutie who serves me coffee in the morning, of course, and the blonde teller at my bank, Sara. There was Amy who worked at the marina, and Lisa who worked at the boat brokerage I sometimes did jobs for. There was Theresa who lived in Boston, maybe I could fly her out for a weekend. There was the waitress at the Hilltop, the chick over at Ken’s Market, and that other waitress at the Hilltop, the one with the short blonde hair and green eyes. Goddamn, I’d LOVE to fuck that one. And Rachael. Maybe I WILL try to do her tonight, I thought. 

Vanessa let go of me, gave me a kiss good-bye, grabbed her books, and she and Chloe were gone. I closed the door, had a beer and wondered what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life. Vanessa claimed she loved me, she was just having a hard time dealing with my bipolar disorder, so she left. And here I was, alone.

But it was still early on Sunday afternoon and I had a couple hours before I was gonna invite Rachael over drinks and hopefully some naked time, so naturally, I went out for a beer. 

I decided to go up to a place on Phinney Ridge that I had been to a week before. I had gone there for several years for Dave’s annual birthday party, and the week before was the first one we had after he had died, a few months earlier. And that was the first time I’d worn my new kilt out to a bar. I had gone without Vanessa, as she was protesting the kilt. The cute waitress, however, was drawn to it immediately and couldn’t keep her fingers off of it. Being married, I didn’t really flirt back, but I relished the positive reinforcement that you need when you first start wearing a man-skirt out in public. 

I had a beer, but the cute waitress wasn’t there. I wrote a note on the back of my business card, something to the effect of- ‘Hey! Remember me? I’m the guy in the Utilikilt from last week. I was married then, but now I’m not! Wanna get together?’ I gave it to the bartender and asked her to give it to the girl who was working last Saturday night- dark hair, cute. I think she said she likes to paint…? {She never did call]

I finished my beer, and I was pretty low. For some reason I thought I’d run into this waitress and she’d be so happy I was now single, she’d invite me back to her place. We would get some red wine, paint each other’s naked bodies, and fuck all night. It seemed reasonable enough but it wasn’t happening. 

Plan B-

I got in the truck and drove back to Queen Anne. Basically to park ‘cause I was gonna go get smashed at one of the bars within stumbling distance to home. If I was gonna spend the night alone, I wasn’t gonna do it sober, that was for damn sure. 

I went to Hoyt’s and had a few beers and shots of scotch up at the bar. At some point I saw a group of four college-aged girls playing pool, so I ordered up a pitcher, got four more glasses and sat down at their booth. Before I could think of something witty to say (I should have thought of something before I went over there), they grabbed their drinks and moved everything to a new table. Fine. More beer for me.

Sometime after that I felt somebody sit down on the bench next to me and was relieved to find it was an attractive woman. “Hi! I’m Maggie!” she said, with an adorable English accent. My spirits rose.

We drank beer and whisky and she seemed to actually care about this drunk, pathetic guy whose wife just left him. She told me I didn’t have to spend the night alone, and came back to my place. 

We went to my apartment and drank and smoked and blasted music and fucked. I don’t remember thinking anything about it. I don’t recall even thinking about Vanessa as I was boning Maggie. I don’t think I even felt relief that I could still get laid after all those years of monogamy. I just needed some human contact. 

At seven in the morning my alarm went off, and although I’d barely even closed my eyes and was still kind of drunk, I knew I had to get to work by eight otherwise my guys would stand around doing nothing, or worse, do something stupid.

My head was killing me, there was a naked chick next to me who was not my wife, and I had to take a dump. I drank some water and went and sat on the toilet. I had my head in my hands, and was trying to get a grasp on what had happened in the last twenty-four hours when the naked woman comes bouncing into the bathroom and jumps in the shower. I started to point out that I was sitting on the toilet over here, and she said, “Oh, just strike a match, love.” It was the English chick. 

I sat there knowing that something was very wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. My mind was a blur and I tried to methodically recreate the events of the last several hours. It was very difficult and I couldn’t quite get clarity. 

Until I heard the unmistakable jingle of Chloe’s collar as she came bounding up the stairs outside the apartment and I remember that I was supposed to take her for the day so wouldn’t have to spend it in Vanessa’s new apartment all alone. Seconds later I hear keys opening the front door and it’s much too late (and quite inconvenient) for me to try and close the bathroom door. 

My now-very-certainly-ex-wife-to-be pauses outside the bathroom and sees me on the crapper. She notices the shower running and gives me a puzzled look. Before she has a chance to ask me why the hell I have the shower going, the curtain swings open and the naked English chick says, “Hi! I’m Maggie!”

Vanessa turned and left. Which was a good thing ‘cause I got the impression that Maggie was all up for a dripping wet conversation with the woman she’d heard so much about the night before. 

Weeks later, when Vanessa was talking to me again, she admitted that Maggie had given her the closure that years of therapy might not have provided, and she thanked me.

Ride That Duck

It was about four or five in the morning and I hadn’t slept in a couple of days. I’d been cycling back and forth pretty hard between mania and depression for a few weeks and didn’t have the attention span to accomplish much more than surfing around online. 

I had some work but it was menial so I looked up jobs on CraigsList. And there, right in front of me, was a job listing for Ride the Ducks of Seattle. It actually said, “Do your friends think you're crazy?” (Yes.) Has anyone in your family tried to get you committed? (Maybe.) “Well then, you should be a Duck Captain!”

The idea of me being a Duck Captain was so absurd it made perfect sense. I imagined telling my friends that I was applying and having a good laugh over it. My only experience so far of the Ducks was watching them drive around like a bunch of idiots, dancing to ‘YMCA’ and blasting their kazoos, and that’s not me at all. And I’ve never been much of a people person. I prefer dogs. I’d be a horrible captain, but I like to write and I’m always on the lookout for new material, so I applied. 

I asked a couple friends to write me a reference and Peggy hesitated. If some Duck-hating local pushed my buttons, could she be sure I wouldn’t drive us all over an embankment? I assured her there was no liability involved, but to be honest, I wasn’t really sure. 

She knew my story as well as anybody. I told her how once, in the depths of my depression, I went downtown begging for help from Summit Research Center, which specializes in treating bipolar disorder. The intake woman never even made eye contact with me as she read over my patient form. “You drink a six-pack of beer a night? You’re an alcoholic. Go to AA and come back when you’re clean”

I didn’t fight it. I didn’t ask her if she knew what self-medication is.

 I just got in my car and drove to the Aurora Bridge to throw my sorry ass off.

But the Aurora Bridge is no longer very suitable for throwing your sorry ass off of. There’s no place to park and there’s now a suicide fence in the way. The traffic was too heavy to pull over so I got off and turned around but didn’t have any luck going Southbound either, so I just went back to my shop and rode out the storm for a couple months. 

Fortunately, my friend believed in helping out a manic depressive more than the clinic did and she wrote me a great reference. 

Ride the Ducks called me in for an interview and it went well. The managers seemed like good guys and they liked the fact that I was up on current events. They sent me out on a Duck ride to get an idea of what I’d be doing if I got hired. The captain was a jerk but I thought it would be cool to drive a WWII amphibious landing vehicle around Seattle and into Lake Union. “ I can do better than this guy,” I thought. Besides, I told people I was going to be a Duck Captain. So screw it, I went to the audition. 

The audition did not go well. I was very nervous being up in front of a bunch of people and being forced to improv. I hate improv. It’s the lowest form of comedy. There were five other applicants and we were all made to do acting games 

and play with props like it was some kind of hazing. It was horrible. 

I got a call the next day from one of the managers who told me that of the eight people in the jury, four voted for me, and four against. Hung jury. He asked if I’d be willing to come in and audition again. “Yes!” I said, automatically and enthusiastically. “Sounds like fun!”

Then I did something I’ve never done before. I went to the nearest mirror and stared at myself, wondering, Who are you? 

But it was very important that I get this job. It was a test I needed to pass. The second audition was a week away so I bought some tooth whitener and practiced smiling. I went to the store and practiced my improv. “Does this can of tuna make my ass look fat?”, I asked some old guy. “Check out these tomatoes!”, I told some girl in the produce section while holding up some ripe ones. 

I worked on my intro and taught myself to play ‘Amazing Grace’ on the kazoo since I had a Scottish theme going on. At the next audition they ate it up and I got the job. Seattle, meet your newest tour guide- Captain Braveliver!

After a few days, when I was still very fresh, I was nervously going over my intro, looking at my cheat sheet, when two minutes before I was supposed to start my tour, I was told that the boarding crew had accidently loaded up Captain Rick O’Shea’s private charter on my Duck and put the public tour on his. 

“What? What does that mean?”

“It means you have a whole Duck full of 15-year-olds from Yakima. 

They just graduated from middle school and they’re pumped up. Go!”

My tour is all about history and my jokes are aimed at adults so I had absolutely no idea what to do. They were gonna HATE me. I asked Captain Rick what I should do and he told me to just blast some music and I’d be fine. 

As I got out to the Duck I was horrified. It was completely full of teenagers and every one of them had a quacker, those obnoxious noise makers that the owners of the Ducks seem to think make for a better experience. 

I walked up the aisle knowing full well these kids would not appreciate my intro or how much it actually rains in Seattle (36 inches, less than Houston, New Orleans, Miami, Philadelphia, New York and Boston). These kids wanted to party and they got stuck with Captain Braveliver, the worst Duck Captain ever. 

The noise was deafening- ‘QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!!!!!!’

“HEY, EVERYBODY!”, I yelled. “ARE YOU READY TO GO FOR A DUCK RIDE?”

‘QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!’

“I SAID, ARE YOU READY TO GO FOR A FREAKING DUCK RIDE?!? WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”

‘QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!!!!!!’

 I skipped past the regular intro and went right into the safety stuff. I just wanted to get out on the road and get this thing over with. If they complained to management, fine. I was not cut out for this. Thirty seconds into going over the explanation of what you should do if we started to sink, I gave up. They could figure out how to don a life jacket themselves. Or not. 

I told them they had to sit down but they wouldn’t stop quacking. The four chaperones had their hands over their ears and I lost it.

“HEY! YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE QUACKERS ARE? THOSE ARE SOUVENIRS! YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DO WITH A SOUVENIR? 

YOU PUT IT IN YOUR POCKET TIL YOU GET HOME!!”

I yelled, “I SWEAR TO GOD IF I HEAR ONE MORE QUACK OUT OF YOU KIDS I’M GONNA DRIVE US ALL RIGHT INTO THE LAKE!!!”

And they were all like, ‘YAY! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK! QUACK!

The principal, who was sitting in the front row, said, “Man, I wish I could yell at them like that!”

I blasted some bagpipe music and quickly realized these kids didn’t expect anything out of me. Hormones were raging. Nobody cared about the old fart driving and they certainly didn’t want to hear any history. 

But I couldn’t let them win so I turned off the music and condensed my 90 minute tour down to fifteen seconds- “WHEN THEY FIRST SETTLED SEATTLE THEY BUILT THIS CITY ON THE BEACH! IT KEPT FLOODING AND THERE WAS SEWAGE EVERYWHERE! IT WAS INFESTED WITH RATS, THE PEOPLE WERE UGLY, SEATTLE SUCKED! SEATTLE WAS A DUMP! AND THEN ONE DAY THE WHOLE CITY BURNED DOWN! SO THEY REBUILT IT AND RAISED IT UP TWENTY FEET! AND THEN THERE WAS A GOLD RUSH BUT THERE WASN’T MUCH GOLD AND THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO MADE MONEY WERE THE PEOPLE SELLING THE SHOVELS!” 

I set the music to full blast and we all PUT OUR HANDS UP IN THE AIR SOMETIMES, SAYING, HEY OH! GOTTA LET GO!

The kids got off the Duck high-fiving me and telling me I was the best Duck Captain EVER and the adults tipped me $60. I passed. I survived. We all survived. Going over the Aurora Bridge and everything. 

One day, I pulled up to the boat ramp with a full load of passengers. The ramp was crowded with Duck-hating locals launching and hauling out their boats. The first thing you do at the ramp is look down the channel to see if there are any other Ducks coming and check out who’s doing what with their boats. 

There was another Duck halfway down the channel, ready to land, and a truck with a powerboat on the ramp ready to launch as soon as the Duck got out of the water. 

I pulled up alongside the powerboat. Onboard was an older woman who, before I even came to a stop, started yelling at me. “NO! No way! We were here first! You’re just gonna have to wait for us!” 

I started to tell her that I was all ready to go and could be in the water and out of her life in about fifteen seconds. But she started screaming, “NO! I hate you Ducks! Always driving around going Quack! Quack! Quack! You can just sit here! 

In fact, you tell your boss I said, ‘Blah blah blah blah blah.’

There were many ways I could go on this one. But there was something I taught myself early on as a way to manage my roller coaster emotions. It’s okay to think whatever I want, but it’s my actions that will get me into trouble. As long as I take a breath and don’t lose my cool I’ll be fine. Don’t do the first thing that comes into your head, do the second. 

So I’ve got this lady yelling at me in front of my passengers and I can’t yell back at her, and I kind of sympathize with her, but still, I have to say something so instead of blowing up on her I pull out my inner Scottish Buddhist- 

“Mom! You’re embarrassing me in front of my passengers!”

She just looks at me, dumbfounded, so I yell, “You promised you’d stop doing this to me!”

Her mouth hung open but nothing came out. Her husband, in the truck, 

busted up laughing and as the other Duck was driving up the ramp, he waved me ahead. 

My passengers all yelled, “Yay!” and quacked and I heard the women scream, “Goddamnit Harold! You know how I feel about those things!” as we drove past them and into the water. 

There’s a moment when the Duck’s wheels submerge and the lumbering WWII relic floats quietly before the engine is engaged. I felt a little proud of myself. Not just for my newfound restraint, but for everything it took to even get this job. Managing a mental disorder can be as difficult as managing a physical one. There was a time I didn’t trust my life in my own hands, now even a teenager with a quacker was safe with me. It suddenly seemed that in becoming a Duck Captain I had saved my own life. 

To celebrate I let us simply drift for a moment.