Robert E. Brown. The 2 Street Chronicles

Jimmy the Cripple

There are always moments in our lives where we question humanity and our place in the universe. "How did I end up here?" isn't just a question of geography or decision making. It's a question that can be asked about our morality, about our soul. My time at the 2 street bar felt like a razor edged test study on my humanity. I'm still not sure if the results ever came in.

Jimmy the Cripple was the neighborhood gimp who needed two crutches to walk and talked with a slight palsy slur. He lived off disability and what ever small time hustles he could get into. When I first started walking to work I would see him hobbling up and down the street. It wasn't long before he discovered a new bartender had been hired and started coming in. I think most of us have the natural reflex to be nicer to a person with a disability. Jimmy would struggle up to the bar with his weirdo pimp mustache and giant tape rigged glasses and would eagerly wave at me with a dumb grin. "Hey there Wobert!" I would run up to him all smiles and warm chit chat while patting myself on the back.

The other night bartender did not share my enthusiasm.
"That crippled prick knows not to come around on my shift" Tommy told me. "If he comes in when I'm working, I'll beat him with his own crutches."
A few months before, Tommy jumped in the middle of a group of brawl hungry construction workers and ended up on the floor in a dog pile of angry energy. The gold chain around his neck tore off and and slid across the floor. As he was grasping out from under the pile of swinging fists to retrieve it, a crutch swooped down and scooped up the chain and from his floor angle view he watched Jimmy and his chain bound out the door.
Even with that information I wasn't having it. Jimmy was a sweet guy that had it bad, and I was a saint.

But sooner than you would expect, my social charity died in the face of my mercenary instincts. You see, Jimmy never tipped. Ever. My resentments grew as my saintly charming efforts to make nice with the neighborhood underdog were repeatedly met with nothing but an empty beer can and an ashtray full of dirty butts. At first I blew it off to his disabled impoverished state. But upon hearing that he lavished the day shift Puerto Rican hard body hottie with crisp twenties, my patience ended. The warm smiles died, the friendly chit chat died, soon my hearing died when the words "Wobert, hey Wob, I need anotha bubwiesa." echoed through the bar. Soon the can was slammed down in front of him and the back promptly turned. Then one night the shit went down.

The bar had cleared out. One of those strange moments a bartender encounters where everyone inexplicably leaves at the same time. The only ones left were Jimmy and Uncle Bob, a 75 year old permanent fixture at the bar. I stood at the end reading my paper. After a while I looked up and Jimmy was gone. I walked up and said "Bob, that crippled prick stiffed me again." and threw the half full budwieser in the trash. Bob went back to watching the Phillies, I went back to reading. A few moments went by and I heard "Wobert, what the fuck?" I didn't look up. "What the fuck Wob?" I sighed looking up and Jimmy was back. "Where's my fucking beer?"
"You left Jimmy. I threw it out."
"Fuck that I want my fucking beer."
The dispute escalated with voices raised. Finally I got tired of arguing and slammed a new can in front of him and it foamed out onto the bar.
"Here, drink your beer and then get the fuck out." I turned and started to walk away.
"Fuck you Wobert, you're the shittiest bartender in the neighborhood." he screamed at the top of his lungs, beet red with anger.
I turned back and grabbed his fresh can and winged it into the trash.
"You're through Jimmy. Get the fuck-"
A crutch came up over the bar and smacked me right upside the head.
I grabbed the crutch, yanked it from his grasp and flung it across the room. Jimmy dropped like an anchor, disappearing out of sight.
Bob sat unfazed. "You're not too smart Jimmy." He said without taking his eyes off the game.
There was a moment of stunned silence and suddenly Jimmy's left hand jutted up from bellow the bar and grasped at the railing as he strained to pull himself back up. I leaned over the bar, actually wondering why he was only using one hand and the second crutch came stabbing up over the rail and rammed me in the chest with the rubber tip.
I grabbed that crutch and flung it across the room. Again, Jimmy instantly dropped out of sight. The second drop roused Uncle Bob into good Samaritan action. He popped off his barstool and and shuffled up to jimmy in his plaid shorts and black socks and tried to use all of his 85 pounds of strength to lift up Jimmy's 95 pounds of dead weight. His little white knees wobbled and Uncle Bob collapsed on top of Jimmy.
"Jesus Christ, Bob's going to bust a hip." I thought and ran around the bar to untangle this pile of skin and bones. As I pulled Bob up I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Jimmy had grappled onto my calf and was trying to sink his teeth through my jeans into my ankle. I pulled back my leg and kicked him square in the stomach. He whimpered and rolled onto his back. I leaned down to pick him up and he swung up at me. I had had enough. "Let me know when you're ready to behave." I snapped walking back around the bar. Bob went back to watching the Phillies, I went back to reading. I could hear the muffled sounds of Jimmy crying and frustratedly banging his fists on the floor.

After a couple of minutes two neighborhood tough guys came in to buy a six pack. They stood at the bar with Jimmy at their feet. "Yo Jimmy, looking good." one giggled. The other looked at me and asked "You been playing hide the crutch from Jimmy? I love doin' that." and they both laughed as Jimmy moaned. "What fucking scumbags" I thought to myself as I bagged the beer. But you know what? I let him lay there for another 5 minutes. Sobbing and crying while Bob watched the Phillies and I read my paper.

Eventually I gathered the crutches, brushed Jimmy off and sent him on his way. Once I felt both of our spirits were adequately broken

The Sniveling Goat

Robert E. Brown. The Price is Right Acid Trip: A Heathen Among Zelots Part V

By 2:30 the corral was nearly full. Finally I saw my beloved 247 of 250 and I knew it was almost over. She jumped on me with a running hug. "Oh god, I was so worried. I didn't know what they did with you." She stammered with a wild eyed cracked out on Red Bull look. "I kept asking people where my husband was? What did you do with my husband? But no one seemed to know what had become of you."

I calmed her down and asked about her interview and she gave me a confident grinning double thumbs up. But that was to be expected. Two days before we left for California, I had chatted up a reporter for People magazine who had just spent a week with Bob and had written a long article about his retirement. We knew inside info. Bob loves blondes, (Beth) big boobs (Beth) You would always see one on every show. His favorite Bob tee said "Bobalicious" which Beth had hastily made before we left.

As we talked, the strange little number 1 walked up to another zealot next to us and said, "A Honda Acura costs $49,860." and walked off. Beth leaned in and grinned "I got the scoop on him."
Seemed number 1 had managed to get into every single taping for three weeks running. "He spends all of his time memorizing the prices of everything. Cars, yogurt you name it. He's like Rain Man." She said shaking her head. "But word is, he gives the producers the creeps. I don't think he realizes that he's probably never going to get picked."



Finally the last of the line ups were called and I was able to take off my albatross scarlet X, leaving only the famous big name tag and we were escorted in. The studio was shockingly small, the set looked strangely shabby. Since we were two of the last numbers (246) we were up in the rafters. Bob came out and during the warm up he was surprisingly charming and funny. During question and answer he said "Please, if you are going to ask me to kiss you, marry you or have your baby, don't ask." Like a bad sit com, half the hands went back down. The show ran incredibly fast. I guess there are no second takes after decades of daily practice. The first name was called and the bleach blonde theme singing college girl started screaming. Beth snapped "Well I'm FUCKED." The producers had their blonde with big boobs quota filled and Beth wasn't going to get her chance to come on down.

After an eternity of waiting it was over in what seemed like a minute. A mere 12 hours after we arrived the doors swung open and we shuffled out with zealots set loose into the world. Some were still singing and cheering as they came down off the Price Is Right high. Some were somber, even crying. As we pulled our rental car on to Fairfax ave, there were already five people camped out for the next day. Number 1 (now reduced to number 6) was already setting up his tent.



Epilogue.

So a month after our adventure, it was time. Our show was to be aired. Beth didn't get to spin the big wheel but at least we could watch our dumb bleary eyed faces on one of the final Bob Barker Price Is Rights. Friends, family and coworkers all set TVO or gathered around the television so they could say. "Oh look, there they are." But alas, it wasn't meant to be. After all, we were some of the last people in (246) and were in the last row in the far upper left corner. No one near us was called down. The camera would literally spin up to our area and stop right before we came into view. Perhaps sensing that there was a non-believer lurking up there. While I felt bad for Beth, she still had her obsession indulged. I really didn't mind myself because there was the excited Canadian girl, the angry house wife, the reassuring (sorta) grandma, and of course the walleyed number 1 right in front and center. All getting their rightful due and moment in the sun in a world I had no claim too.



My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Price is Right Acid Trip: A Heathen Among Zelots Part IV

I was caged in with the zealots. Trapped like an infiltrated undercover at a cult compound whose identity was exposed. Cornered in a cage with angry geriatrics whose belief system had been questioned by my mere presence. I couldn't shift the topic away from my big X number. (246) Every time a new adrenaline pumped Barker fanatic high off the interview with producers rolled in, they were greeted by the growing mob eager to point out a traitor in their mist. A frumpy middle aged woman grabbed me by the arm and asked "Why don't you love Bob?"
"Uh, Bob's cool."
"You know there are a lot of good people outside those walls who could have taken that seat. It's really not right."



Since Beth and I were numbered at the very end (246) I had to slide down the bench each time another zealot arrived. I could hear the mumble of the gossip. "That's the one. down there. He got in and he doesn't even want to play." What a horrible way for it all to end, I thought. I'm going to be lynched from a CBS palm tree by a mob of fat house wives uniformed in matching hot pink Bob Is My Baby tee shirts. I finally retreated to the far end of the of the corral, fleeing the heavy weight of the rejection. I sat alone leaning forward with my chin on the rail watching for my lost 247 like a little kid waiting for mommy to come save him from the bullies. A little old lady shuffled up to me.
In the standard grandmother sweet voice she said, "It's ok. My husband and I come every year. He doesn't really care about the show. He never wants to play either." She patted me on the back and my head lifted from the rail as I thought to myself "Oh grandma, you know just what to say to make it all better."
Then as she walked away she turned and said "But this time he KNEW not to come." squinting her eyes just a little.
My head fell back down to the rail.



After awhile the crowd lost interest in me. It was almost show time and one bad apple wasn't going to ruin the moment. The would be contestants were in a high five frenzy and another red coated page came into the pen and organized a sing along to the Brady Bunch theme rewritten to commemorate Bob and his disciples. Everyone knew the lyrics. I couldn't wrap my mind around it. They ALL knew the lyrics. My attention kept shifting between snickering CBS employees striding by the corral like it was a zoo exhibit, and the oblivious cheering, singing Bob fan's who, well, looked like a zoo exhibit. After the "Barker Bunch" song ended, A cute bleach blonde college girl in a bedazzled "Kiss Me Bob" shirt was so worked up that she led her shirt matching crew in renditions of Gillian's Island, The Facts of Life and Charles In Charge. This was truly T.V. Land.


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Price is Right Acid Trip: A Heathen Among Zelots Part III

Finally they announced the third to the last lineup. This was the big one. The important one. This was the "interview" line up. You see, the Price is Right presents a sense of randomness when people are told to "come on down." The camera zooms around the audience, the people look shocked. It give's a sense that anyone might be called. But everything is pre-planned. The producers hand pick the contestants. The would be contestants have less than 30 seconds to impress the producers. I found out later that you could pay to attend nightly seminars on how to impress them during the interview. Number one on the list of things they are looking for: you must look like you won't hurt Bob. A few years back an excited house wife over heated with the power of Bob's presence had tackled him and broken several of his ribs.

But I didn't have to worry about it. I had my big black X through my special number. I THOUGHT that meant I was going to be spared more PIR madness. Instead it made me a target of it.

Chuck asked anyone with the big black X through their numbers to step forward (246) and be escorted to a separate holding area. As I worked my way through the crowd, something was wrong. The zealots all started clapping, cheering me on and trying to high five me. I was really confused. My sleep depravation/red bull binge made it all the more surreal. When I got to the front, a page was waiting along with about five other people who had big black X's on their special numbers. (246) As we were escorted off the crowd erupted in cheers and some of the X people with me waved like celebrities back at the crowd.

We were escorted to yet another holding area where we had to wait for the other 244 people to slowly wander in after their interviews. The page who brought us in said "Now I know some of you might be sad to be in here, but we all know that being in this room first makes you all pretty special people."
They all nodded their heads with big grins on their faces.
What
the
fuck?



As Chuck had stated, you needed the big black X through your special number (246) if you 1. didn't want to play. (me) or 2. if you had been on the show in the last year and won. (the other five people.) I was sitting next to a young Canadian girl who turned to me and said "I won yesterday. when did you win?"
"I didn't win. I just don't want to play."
She look stunned.
"But you have the X. You have to have won."
"No. I just don't want to play."
An old man sitting across from me piped in.
"Son, we know you can't play, you're here because you won. She wants to know WHEN you won."
My teeth clenched into an awkward and embarrassed smile...as I found out the scoop.

A good percentage of people in the line had been there for weeks. They came in large groups and attended every show they could get into. Most of the five people who were in the room with me hadn't just won in the last year, they had won in the last two weeks.

By then the first of the 244 interviews had started to trickle in. But I was trapped with them and my secret was out.

My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Price is Right Acid Trip: A Heathen Among Zelots Part II

At 6:00 am the sun started to rise and the line started to move. The crowd was agitated and giddy and all through the line you could hear salvos of cheers and screams of joy. People abandoned their camping equipment along the side of Fairfax ave, discarding their possessions for the hopes of winning fabulous new prizes. People were pushing through the crowd and anxiously scurrying by in order to get to their place in the line. A young college kid ran up to us and screamed "It's go time, yeah!" and tried to high five me. I just stared at him like a dick. He was unfazed and moved his high five on down the line. Once we got to the front, I thought the ordeal was over. I didn't realize it had just begun.

We handed them our tickets and they handed us our "entrance number." I was 246. Beth was 247 of 250. Now we faced six hours of waiting to receive special numbers. We came back at 8:00 am to give them our entrance number (246) and were shuffled to a large patio area that was lined with long benches. It was reminiscent of a cattle corral. At 9:00 we had to line up in our special number. (246) then at 10:00 we had to reline up to receive our seat number. Guess what the number was? Yup, 246. Then at 11:00 we had to line up in order to receive a big ass tag to tape on our special number (246) to our chest. At 11:30 we had to line up in order to show them our Ids to claim our potential fabulous prizes.

Now there was a concession stand near by that was both my salvation and a source of amplifying the madness. Beth and I began drinking Red Bull like we were slamming beers at a bar. "It's time for another round." We ended up spending close to 40 dollars in Red Bull. I felt like I had been smoking crack after coming down off of acid. It looked like I was at a geriatric version of The Warriors gang assembly. Groups of two to twelve all dressed in their matching Bob tee shirts, there to represent their middle america turf. Can yoooou diigggg it?



In charge of this circus was "Chuck." Chuck was a CBS page with a dream. A dream he was happy to share as he directed the crowds through the various line ups. You see Chuck had been to the Price is Right six times and when he finally got his chance to spin the big wheel he got on his knees and asked Bob for a job. Now he lives his dream every day by wearing the CBS red page coat and taking the mic to herd other Bob fanatics through the day. Chuck clearly had game show aspirations of his own, he spoke in the most over effected game show voice I had ever heard. Every word was so overly punctuated that I could barley understand him. But the crowd LOVED him. One girl in line at the concession stand turned to me and said "Isn't Chuck awesome!?!" Before I could think I hissed at her like a cat and crunched my Red Bull can.

At noon Chuck announced yet another line up. This time to get our name tags taped to us along side our special number tag. (246) This was the precursor to the interviews that we had to have with the producers to determine who was going to be "called on down." Chuck announced that if we had already been on the show in the last year and won, or didn't want to play, to let the page know. I started thinking. "I don't even know how to play Price is Right, I've had two hours of sleep and 6 Red Bulls and I'm here to support my wife, so why would I even want to play?" The page came up to me and wrote out the famous big tag with my name on it and as he was taping it to my chest along with my special number (246) I told him I didn't want to play.
"...what?" He looked confused.
"I don't want to play."
"What do you mean??" Looking really confused.
"I don't want to play."
"You need to think about this. There's no going back." Looking repulsed.
"Yeah, that's fine."
"But I'm going to have to put the big X through your number. Do you understand that?" Looking angry.
"That's okay."
"Fine. If you really want to do this." He leaned over and put a big X through my special number (246)
"Are you happy?" he snapped and moved down the line with a look of utter disgust on his face.
I sat down amid the low hum of zelots mumbling up and down the bench. "Look, that one has the X."
"Oh god, honey there's a big X sitting over there."


My Company

Robert E. Brown. The Price is Right Acid Trip: A Heathen Among Zelots Part I

Never fuck with someone's obsession. When it comes to my dear wife's obsessions, I find myself often indulging. Last year we had to make a special trip to LA. You see, since she was a child, she was obsessed with the Price is Right. The news that Bob Barker was retiring shook through our home like a semi truck had ran through the living room. Tickets were reserved and flights promptly booked.

The day before the taping I took Beth shopping before we met up with friends. While she was in a boutique, she started telling the clerk about her big plans to "come on down." Beth complained to the girl that we had to be there at the obscene hour of 8 am. (painfully early for us)
"Oh god no." the girl responded.
"You better go get in line right now."

It was two o'clock in the afternoon.
But it seems that Bob's looming retirement had spun up a whirl wind of fan frenzy. Beth was only one of thousands who where descending on L.A. for the chance to spin the big wheel before the big man splits. She began to seriously contemplate the thought of standing on the side walk for the next 18 hours. I killed that idea fast.
"Just get up extra early" I said
"That woman must be exaggerating."

So that night we go out, but hit the sheets at a modest 1 am. After all, we are going to have to get up extra early.



The alarm goes off at 3:30 am. Beth is already dressed. I did say extra early. I guess I had left that open to interpretation and what could I say? We get to the CBS studios at 4 am. There is what appears to be a refugee camp set up along Fairfax and Beverly. Tents, card tables, lawn furniture, sleeping bags, blankets. There were venders who had materialized to service and exploit the Bob Barker refugees. We rented two lawn chairs and began our wait.

Beth was terrified that we weren't going to make it in. But then our concerns were calmed. Within minutes of us sitting down, a portly little walleyed asian man waddled up to us. He had a clicker and a clip board in his hand.
"How many people are in your party?"
"Two."
He clicked the clicker twice and scribbled something down on the clip board. "At 4:30 on Sunday there were 480 people here, but it was a double taping." He said in a robotic but authoritative voice.
"At 4:30 on Monday there were 338 people here. This morning you are the end of the line and you are number 246. Congratulations, You will make it in. I'm sure of that."
"I can't believe they stuck you with this job." I said.
"What job?"
"It sucks they made you come out here to count all these loonies at this ungodly hour." I laughed.
"Oh no, I don't work here. I'm number 1."
"Number 1?"
"You're number 246. I'm number 1. I've been here since 6 o'clock last night."

At that point a group of people filed in behind us and he turned away, asking them how many people were in their party.

"At 4:30 on Sunday there were 480 people here, but it was a double taping..."



My Company

Robert E. Brown. Melon Fucking Regret

So, I'm in the grocery store the other day. I went in to buy a tomato. Just one tomato. I go to the produce section where I like to squeeze the fruit. Now I'm not talking, picky old lady squeezing the fruit. I'm talking, choke that fucker grimace and grunt until people are staring and your wife slaps your hand and makes you go stand in the canned goods section until she realizes you are rolling Baked Beans under peoples feet and security is about to be called, kinda squeeze.

So I'm eyeing this melon and remember that a couple weeks ago, an old friend mis- reminisced an incident where I fucked a melon back in high school. She thought it was me, but it was really a couple of my friends who had done it.

I feel incredibly sad. What was wrong with me? Why hadn't I fucked that melon? I could have, but I didn't. Now it's too late. I can't copy two fucktard punk rock kids filled with 8 hits of acid 20 years later. At the time, I just sat there trying to feel up one of their girlfriends under the table while choking back the bourbon vomit; just too uptight for cantaloupe love. I'll go to my grave knowing that I never fucked that mellon.


My Company