The Sicilian Mafia’s Honor Code: a Moral Umbrella (my thesis for B.A. in history)

When anyone thinks of honor, the mafia is sure to be a major dwelling point. Due to Hollywood movies and over-romanticized tales, people think that the mafia is a group of men obsessed with money, how to obtain it, and how to obtain it honorably. This is not an entirely inaccurate assessment of the mafia. However, it begs the question: how did the mafia view and define honor, and how does that compare with other honor societies in the same area? First I will examine exactly what the mafia was, what it did, how it operated and how one became a member. Primary evidence exists thanks to recent betrayals of the unwritten honor code that has recently been broken more and more as trials of mafiosi: members of the mafia, have become more common and public. Second I will use primary and secondary sources to simply and effectively break down this unwritten code and explain it. The fact is, although unwritten, the honor code of the Sicilian mafia was extensive and held the utmost importance in the eyes of the members of the group. It was a mafiosi’s primary concern to uphold this code of honor. It is through this extreme and self imposed code of honor, that is, an amplified version of normal conduct in the region with increased penalties, that the mafia was able distinguish themselves from common criminals and thus justify their delinquency and rationalize their wrong-doings as acts of honor, and this is how they were different than common criminals in their area, and other groups in the same part of the world.

The Mafiosi saw their honor as the most important thing in their lives. They were more concerned with being honorable men, and distancing themselves from common street thugs who may be misconstrued as being part of their group. The difference was not so much in the crimes that were committed, but how and against whom they were. The mafia is a secret society made up of so-called “men of honor.” To be in this group, also known as the Cosa Nostra, one had to uphold the group’s ideas about what it meant to be honorable, and what it meant to lose that honor, to be shamed. It was because the Cosa Nostra saw itself as a group of honorable men that they took such care in cultivating within their ranks a sense of this honor and its importance, distancing themselves, in their eyes, from common street thugs. Antonino Calderone, a former mafiosi whose story of his Cosa Nostra experience was published by Pino Arlacchi, apologizes for, “the distinction [he] draws between the mafia and common criminals, but it matters…. We are men of honor, and not so much because we have taken an oath, but because we are the elite of the criminal world. We’re vastly superior to common criminals. We’re worse than everybody!”[i] The case in point of his distinction is illustrated perfectly in Calderone’s explanation of prostitution. “It’s an unclean activity,”[ii] moreover, he relates a story in which a man who was the brother of two mafiosi, as well as a son and a nephew of mafiosi and was never admitted, “precisely because it was said that he was a pimp.”[iii] This story shows how fervently the honor of the group was guarded. This man was not officially a pimp, but people had heard something to that effect, and that was enough to keep him out of the Cosa Nostra. Arlacchi gives another example, which also illustrates the prevalence of violence, where the son of a prostitute was, “killed by a group of young men…. The youths had made the child their target in a shooting competition.”[iv] Even the offspring of unclean individuals were not respected.

A code of honor is a complicated and almost unexplainable entity for most groups who are concerned with it. There are a lot of little things that one could only understand by being raised in or around that group, or by intense anthropological study. However, on the surface, the honor codes of the Cosa Nostra of the twentieth century strongly resemble those of other groups from the Mediterranean. The Greek Cypriots, studied by J.G. Peristiany in essay, “Honour and Shame in a Cypriot Highland Village,” which appeared in the book that he edited entitled Honour and Shame [v]were somewhat different than the Cosa Nostra: the men of the village are born there, and so have no choice but to participate in the honor struggle. This is also true for the Greek men described by Gallant[vi] and the Turks described by Eck[vii], they do not enter into their honor societies by choice, they are born into them.

Since there was a specific set of understood behaviors that every mafiosi had to agree to, this is as close to a definition of the honor code as possible. Every mafiosi, according to Calderone, was sworn to an oath, but there was a prelude to the swearing in; an extensive back history needed to occur before one was even considered for membership. During this time, the virtues needed to be a man of honor were studied, and older men of honor would watch the potential members to make sure that they did indeed possess these qualities in high amounts, and only then were the oaths taken.[viii]

The first and most important things according to Calderone were cleverness, ruthlessness and determination,[ix] through exhibiting these in every day events, a young man could definitely defend his position of power and honor in the Cosa Nostra as well as protecting the group from outsiders. If a young man showed enough of these qualities, he would be considered for membership. The older mafiosi would “let [them] do a few things.”[x] Which is to say, they would let him participate at levels closer and closer to those only occupied by men of honor to test them. Arlacchi echoes this sentiment by saying how much power was dependant on one’s, “ability to emerge victorious- through physical strength and through cunning- in any competition for supremacy.”[xi] That is any competition; be it fighting, games, races, anything that awarded the winner respect was essential to win at any or all cost, or the person who did not try hard enough or was not naturally strong or fast enough would simply not be considered as worthy to join the Cosa Nostra. The real life and pretend situations were necessary to prepare the potential member for the life of serious and potentially fatal contests, that was the lifestyle of the mafiosi which weak people simply could not handle. A propensity for violence is often associated with this particular virtue. In the other Mediterranean groups, this pre-screening was not a possibility because, again, the men joining the groups were entering through birth and not through an oath.

Violence was one way to get power, and to be a successful member of the Cosa Nostra, one needed power to back up his honor and defend his wealth. Without this power, both his money and his honor could be taken from him with violence either by common criminals, or by other mafiosi trying to build their own. There were no rules for these violent meetings. According to Arlacchi, honor bound battles were never popular or widespread. He says, “intermediate kinds of institutional regulation such as the duel never became established.”[xii] Therefore, the violence could occur in any way, shape or form. Even though violent meetings lacked any set or understood rules, there was a general tone of honor to all of them. For instance, Arlacchi tells of a fight that ended in a low level mafiosi wounding a mafia chief. The mafia chief recovers and murders the underling, who was a goat herder. While this may seem reprehensible, for the chief lost the initial battle, it was worth noting for Arlacchi that, “The whole town followed the brave goat-herd’s coffin, and his murderer was in the first row.”[xiii] Even though the man murdered the other out of revenge, he was still a man of honor, and therefore joined the funeral procession of the man who was also of honor, because as everyone knows, with honor comes respect, even for your victims. Conversely, Gallant’s explanation of the Greek knife fight, a local example of honor fights followed the same pattern every time. One man would call another man’s honor into question through a number of channels: either by accusing him of being a cuckold, insulting his daughter, or any other number of things that honor depended on, and they would fight. The fights would be witnessed and refereed by the other people surrounding, usually in a wine shop, and once someone was marked with the other man’s blade the fight was stopped by the onlookers. Gallant hardly mentions any fight ending any other way besides the occasional accidental killing.[xiv] The fact that the Greek group had a pattern for their violence and the mafia did not is another difference between the two, another unique facet of the mafia’s code of honor.

Once the potential mafia members demonstrated their cunning ruthlessness, determination, the penchant for violence, or ability to be violent and their ability to keep it a secret, they would be sent for, and meet at an often times secluded location for the swearing in ceremony which made them men of honor, and introduced them officially to what was expected of them as such. Diego Gambetta cites numerous variations on the central theme of this ceremony, but the general idea is this: a man who is deemed worthy by the older members of the Cosa Nostra using the above as guidelines is brought to a secluded location and officially gets initiated. Blood is drawn from a finger with a sharp object such as a knife or a thorn, and this blood is smeared onto the picture of a saint. The soon to be new member holds this picture in his hands and it is set ablaze while he recites the oath. [xv] The oath is as close as I have come to finding a clear-cut definition of what is expected of a man of honor. This oath and the subsequent definition of honor drawn from it is generally unique to Sicily, although certain points are as general as the word honor, their specific ramifications are indeed idiosyncratic to the Cosa Nostra.

Rule number one as described by Calderone in his first hand account of the initiation ritual was with regards to women.[xvi] This rule has many facets. First of all, it was expected of mafiosi that, “As soon as [they] discovered that a man of honor has touched another’s wife, that man must die.”[xvii] This seems cut and dry. It differs from other honor codes from the Mediterranean in that it involves instant death for the perpetrator. In the Turkish honor codes, it is the wife who dies first to protect the honor of the husband who was cuckolded.[xviii] In Greece, men who suggest the infidelity of another’s wife fight the man whose wife she is regardless of whether or not the man suggesting it says he was the one who she cheated with. To be sure, the violence in Greece comes when one man is the messenger, not necessarily the perpetrator.[xix] However, even with the subtle differences, death is still a common punishment for adultery. Arlacchi makes another observation with regards to infidelity: “feminine honor typically symbolized unbroken family honor,”[xx] indeed along the same lines of most honor societies. However, the reasoning for the reaction is different. “If an outside enemy destroyed it, he gained superiority over his victims, proving himself the more powerful… he showed that he could oblige a member of another group to violate the sacred bonds of loyalty in order to satisfy his own desire.” [xxi] These sexual conquests were not normal in that they challenged the woman’s chastity or faithfulness, but in that they challenged her loyalty to the family, not just her husband. Not surprisingly, the “Blood-vendetta was the obligatory recourse.”[xxii] The woman was killed first by her male relative, and then the man who slept with her was killed. This was the only way to save face in this situation, to show that not only would one not tolerate disloyalty, but to demonstrate that your power was indeed supreme.[xxiii] Elsewhere in the region, no authors mention the concept of sex, either pre-marital, rape, or extramarital with regards to power, only with regards to shame.

Another aspect of honor and its relation to women is the forbidding of homosexuality. Partially because Sicily is a predominantly catholic, however it is definitely worth noting that without a woman and a family one was hard pressed to prove his honor. Those that are homosexual may be forbidden from joining because of the social stereotypes concerning gay men and violence, that is, that they do not have the capacity for it. Norman Lewis describes an event in his book In Sicily: essentially, he is speaking with a professor at the University of Palermo who had a student that was a child of a powerful Sicilian Mafia family. This student was not keen on the life of crime that lay ahead, so he pretended to be a homosexual. Since it was frowned upon in the Cosa Nostra, he was free to pursue whichever career he wished. He was not able to be a man of honor because he lacked the age-old quality of traditional masculinity, and so had no females whose chastity he could protect and therefore had no females from which to draw the feature of honor which would have been afforded to him;[xxiv] for as someone who is shamed becomes less of a man in the eyes of the Cosa Nostra, someone who is not manly to begin with can never be honorable, and can never have the power that is derived from honor.

If a wife or daughter is sleeping around, they bring shame to their family, and violence ensues, but when a wife or daughter does everything right according to the code of honor, there actually can be a positive impact on the group. Calderone tells a story that occurred during a family dispute that resulted in a split and a long-standing rivalry between the estranged sides. Calderone’s brother Giuseppe (Pippo) saw a girl that he was attracted to, found out where she lived and knew the owner of the building, as the owner was a man of honor on the other side of the family split. He told this man’s nephew what his intentions were. The two were married and through this marriage, the rift between the families was closed. Calderone muses on the fortitude of this pairing, “[Mafiosi] from all over Sicily had tried to resolve the conflict, and they had come up with nothing. A marriage, however, settled everything.”[xxv] This is a time-honored tradition in the area, dating as far back as the Roman Republic- where marriages were often used to cement alliances. It was undoubtedly auspicious that this marriage solved major problems, but one can see how honor is not merely a thing that you own and are able to lose, but it can be gained; as long as you follow the rules. Certainly if the two people had sex before the marriage, with the feud that was occurring, more blood would have been shed. 

After the first rule of the oath, which is very intricate, there is the second, which is quite simple: essentially, it was do not, under any circumstances go to the press or police. If you do, you will be killed.[xxvi] A secret society’s primary concern is upholding its secrecy, and the mafia is no different. The honor code will mean nothing if everyone can follow it, all the common criminals would, and then the mafia would have no way to set themselves apart from the lowly crooks. This is fairly self-explanatory, but it should also be noted that this appears in a book, which is incredibly ironic as the person who took the oath is most certainly going to the press; it is obvious that Mr. Calderone’s life is in danger. The opposite was true in other locations. In Greece, the men who went through knife fights would often, if not always, stay and wait to be arrested and testify at their own trial. Their way of maintaining honor was to tell the whole story. “This man insulted my wife, we fought with knives, I cut him on the face.” The winner of the fight would once again have the chance to publicly shame the loser, and in so doing gain the group at large’s acknowledgement of his possession of honor.[xxvii]

The third rule is along the same lines as the second: brief and paradoxical; “stealing is forbidden.”[xxviii] It is astounding to learn that this is one of the official decrees of an organized crime society, but Calderone explains a situation where this too was cleared up. A man who was taking the oath with Calderone spoke up when this rule was announced. This man’s profession was a thief. He was told to sit down and wait until it would be explained. The explanation was circular: if you have to steal, steal. If that is how you earn a living, earn your living. Know your victim; do not steal from another member of the Cosa Nostra or his family. “From anyone else, yes.”[xxix]

This is where Calderone and Arlacchi’s accounts seem to differ. The next rule, according to Calderone says fights were to be avoided,[xxx] however I have already discussed the goat-herder’s fight and subsequent murder. Arlacchi describes the goat-herder as a mafiosi, and the mafia chief is most certainly a man of honor. I am inclined to believe Arlacchi more, as his evidence already appears in this essay, or perhaps they both are correct; as the word “avoid” may be taken very literally, and as previously stated, their were no official rules for combat as there were in Greece.

The next two rules are brief and seem like they were tacked on as an afterthought, but are still meant to maintain the secrecy of the Cosa Nostra. “Sober behavior was to be encouraged; boasting and showing off were not condoned.”[xxxi] These rules seem to go hand in hand. As drunkenness usually leads to boasting and showing off, drunkenness was frowned upon. It would definitely be a tragedy if a mafioso had too much wine at a bar and began boasting about how many men he has killed, or who else was in the Cosa Nostra, or even that such a thing existed. These rules are to keep the secrecy of the Cosa Nostra of paramount importance as to acknowledge its existence would make it less appealing to its members. Beyond that, or perhaps before, the first rule alone is a good general guideline as it is certain that a reputation for being a drunkard is never positive, and even among members of the same family, too much drunkenness is embarrassing, and surely men of honor are very far above drinking too much wine.

The last rule is a bit strange: “under no circumstances was one to introduce oneself to other men of honor.”[xxxii] This is because if one believes another man is a part of the Cosa Nostra and introduces oneself as such, and the other man is not, then the first man, the mafiosi has just compromised the secret nature of the organization. Interestingly enough, if there is a third mafiosi in the room who knows that both are men of honor, he may introduce them, and with a special secret code let them both know that the other is a man of honor, without actually saying it.[xxxiii] The secret phrase provides more secrecy, as it is almost a special language; further compounding the elitist clandestine nature of the Cosa Nostra.

The secret and the honor are the two most attractive intangible qualities of the Cosa Nostra and the honor seems to be intensified by the fact that no one outside of the group knows about it. No one outside of the mafia may judge you, because they do not know what qualities are being judged. The honor seems to intensify when you realize that even though there are other men out there with similar qualities, they are not in the exclusive club as you are. This makes the secret part of the exclusivity. A lifestyle is developed around this club, a sense of pride is derived from membership; as Calderone mentioned, “We are the elite of the criminal world.”[xxxiv] They are the most polished and practiced members of a world that is illegal. These men are not common criminals. They are very uncommon. They justify their crimes by using their honor code as a shield, a rationalization, a special case that allows them to look down on people doing the same crimes in the same areas on smaller scales, for the simple fact that they are not as organized.

You may steal, but not from mafiosi. You can only kill another man of honor if he does certain things. Violence is good. Win at all costs. Do not make money off of unclean things. With the conditional rules of honor, it would seem that the rules are only in place to protect the honor of the men within the group. Therefore, if viewed from by an outsider, these men and their actions may appear no different from common criminals. It is only through an understanding of the Cosa Nostra that one may then distinguish the two types of criminals in Sicily: the low class, low moral street thugs with no discernable code of honor, and the criminal elite mafia which are: low class high moral street thugs with an official honor code and organizational structure. They both perform the same crimes, but since the Cosa Nostra has a system in place to commit these crimes, they are better. The fact that rules for war exist does not mean that people still do not die. Similarly the fact that rules for honorable crime exist and are followed closely by the Cosa Nostra does not preclude the fact that they are committing crimes. Honorable or not, crime is crime and to distinguish between two types not only encourages the behavior, but legitimizes the illusion of the Cosa Nostra’s attitude, which seems to allow any behavior as long as it does not hurt the family.

---

[i] Arlacchi, Pino. Men of Dishonor, p. 20.

[ii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 21.

[iii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 21.

[iv] Arlacchi, Pino. Mafia Business, p. 13.

[v] Peristiany, John George. Honour and Shame, p. 171-191

[vi] Gallant "Honor, Masculinity, and Ritual Knife Fighting in 19th-Century Greece," American Historical Review 105/2 (Ap 2000): 358-82*

[vii] Gallant "Honor, Masculinity, and Ritual Knife Fighting in 19th-Century Greece," American Historical Review 105/2 (Ap 2000): 358-82

[viii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 21.

[ix] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 21.

[x] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 21.

[xi] Arlacchi, Business, p. 10.

[xii] Arlacchi, Business, p. 12.

[xiii] Arlacchi, Business, p. 12.

[xiv] Gallant "Honor," 358-82

[xv] Gambetta, Mafia, pp. 262-270

[xvi] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67-71.

[xvii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, p. 67.

[xviii] Eck, Purified By Blood. pp. 9-34.

[xix] Gallant "Honor," 358-82

[xx] Arlacchi, Business, p. 7.

[xxi] Arlacchi, Business, p. 7.

[xxii] Arlacchi, Business, p. 7.

[xxiii] Arlacchi, Business, p. 7.

[xxiv] Norman Lewis, In Sicily, pp. 59-60.

[xxv] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 47-48.

[xxvi] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67.

[xxvii] Gallant "Honor," 358-82

[xxviii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67.

[xxix] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 70.

[xxx] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67.

[xxxi] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67.

[xxxii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 67.

[xxxiii] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 19-20.

[xxxiv] Arlacchi, Dishonor, pp. 19. 

The Lake

            It is just past midnight at the lake. A baby blue Cadillac pulls up right onto the sand: a new one, fresh off the line, the first model since the krauts surrendered. It turns its headlights off and coasts using the light of the full moon that is nestled on top of the soft evergreens surroundings. The car turns off and sits silent parallel to the shore.

            The driver side door opens and a gray panted leg steps out into the cool blue sand. It is followed by the other, and the arms and hands pull the rest of the body out. The man is wearing an A-shirt tucked into his pants, and suspenders off his shoulders that seem to pull the pants down a bit. He keeps his hands in his pockets; perhaps because it is cold, but more likely to keep them on his hips as whenever he takes one out, they slip off that side and reveal the border between his undershirt and boxer shorts.

            He slides the suspenders back onto his shoulders and slams the car door. It hits the frame with a metallic pop and he sighs, still looking at it. He takes two steps back, turns to his left and walks towards the front of the car. His hands go back into his pockets and he sighs again as he sits on the hood. His bowed back rises and falls, the lake water laps at the shore.

            There is no one else for miles. The lake is a summer spot, a vacation town during summer, but now in late November it is deserted, except for this man and his Cadillac. He does not move around all that much, mainly just staring at the water while shifting weight from butt cheek to the other, letting one foot dangle at a time, then switching it back to the chrome bumper and letting the other foot swing free.

            Headlights stumble by on the far bank. He jumps up and glares at the twin specters bouncing down the dirt road. He looks back at his car, and then returns to tracking the approaching vehicle. He keeps switching his focus between the two, and walking towards and away from the bank, towards the car and away from the car, away from his car and back towards it.

            The headlights bounce along and slowly turn away, the white lights change into red ones, and they get smaller. He watches them until they are completely hidden by distance and the trees that surround this nowhere burg. Then there is silence. It is just he and his car, and the moon and the lake, and the dark. He wanted to wait for sunrise. 

My first time in Vegas

It's 2pm on Sunday, and my associate Toby and myself are sitting in legends diner. We are just about to finish when his eyes literally light up. He says, "Do you want to go to Vegas?"

I, of course owe my bank upwards of 200 dollars and only hold 14 dollars in my pocket. I say it is a bad idea. But then I remember, when has that ever stopped me from doing anything? So I quickly inform him of my financial situation. "I’ll go, but I cannot pitch in for gas, and I will probably not be able to eat or drink. But I’ll go. Oh, and I haven't showered since Friday, so I’ll need to go home and do that too."

He seems mildly disgusted, yet excited that he has a partner for debauchery, especially a well documented lush like myself who has never been to Vegas. So I go home, shower, borrow another 100 bucks from my brother and we head out. I have a jack and coke in a legends cup (which is a boytos jack N coke i.e. half and half) as well as a vodka/cranberry, which is significantly stronger because I plan on drinking it second, which means my taste buds will be essentially useless.

By the time we hit Barstow, I'm pretty sauced having consumed both.

We get to this truck stop right about then, and enter the circle K to purchase beer. We buy 1 can of sparks, 2 tall cans of icehouse, and an 18 pack of natty light. The woman takes an extreme close-up of his ID, saying she recognizes him. When it is my turn to buy, she takes an even closer look at mine... I do what I normally do, as my drivers license picture is one of me almost 3 years ago, and I am substantially heavier in the picture, I take of my glasses and touch my nose to my chest to get the double-roll chin effect, and she smiles.

"No, it looks like you, don't worry. I just recognize you both. You ever been in here before?"

Both of us reply in the negative.

"Hm. I must have had a dream about you two. You believe in premonitions?"

Then I half-drunkenly blurt out "wow. Crazy. No. we gotta go." and we speed walk out of the store like to kids who broke a window- arms straight down and stiff, eyes forward and slightly below the horizon no talking and short, quick footsteps. We round the corner and Toby says he needs another shower because the toothless lady from the asshole of California recognizes him from a dream, I agree and light a cigarette.

We roll into Vegas around 730 and by this time I have to pee a lot. I had both the drinks I mentioned, plus a 32 oz Gatorade and a dr. pepper. We power walk through the casino to get to the room that our friends Robyn, lance, melee and Ramil have, which is on the complete other side of the property, a nice walk, unless you're carrying several gallons of beer and have the feeling that with each step your bladder tears a little bit more.

When we get to the room, we can hear screams and other sounds of hi-jinx through the door. We have to knock twice before we are let in by lance who has stepped over Ramil and Robyn, who are wrestling over the bathroom. Toby, being somewhat of a jerk, but undoubtedly in a similar situation as me, runs into the bathroom and closes the door. I do the pee pee dance while exchanging salutations with the residents of the room and cracking the tall can of icehouse.

As Toby exits the head with the 18 of natty light, I can see that my instincts were correct, and he too was holding an open beer. It’s 745pm; I’m half drunk, and just getting started. The night was young and it was my first trip to Vegas.

Las Vegas has for long been the object of much drama and heartbreak, as fortunes are won and lost in seconds, and lives are just as easily made and destroyed in the same span of time. As we sat on the two beds drinking cheap domestic beer and watching 60 minutes, I began to wonder if the 4 hour drive was worth it, after all had we stayed home, we could have consumed the same beer and watched a better TV program. It was then that I looked outside and saw the MGM and Excalibur hotel/casinos. It was then when my question was answered...

This place is a hole dug to be filled with booze and souls, and tonight, mine would be added to the take.

So there we sit in the hotel room at the Tropicana, like all good college students: with the sole intent of getting drunk and then going out to drink more. Toby is sitting at the hotel room's table/desk, which is rapidly becoming cluttered with empties, lance is lounging on the bed and I am sitting on the edge of the other one. I have now lost count of how many I have had, which is always a good sign. Toby as well has no idea. Lance knows damn straight, and we are well aware of his problem, his count is "almost 2."

This is most upsetting for Toby and me, so we give him another beer, but lance just puts it on the bed stand. "I don't want to get too drunk, I want to gamble seriously." me and Toby both finish our beers as Ramil walks out of the bathroom and gets another bud light from the cooler. The room is silent until I exclaim, "lance. This is fucking Vegas. If you don't start drinking heavily with no regard for money or personal safety, we're going to have a problem."

Defiantly, he sits on the bed and sips his natural light. I get up, walk across the room, place my empty on the table with the others and, like some type of intoxicated feral cat leap onto the bed at lance's "Hong Kong" feet. (Hong Kong is a reference dubbed by Melissa later in the evening due to the fact that lance's feet smelled like a Hong Kong sewer. I cannot speak to the accuracy of this statement, only to its comedic value)

Lance struggles when he realizes what is happening, and I feel the need to explain why I am attempting to get control of him from the knee down. "Lance, I’m going to tickle you if you don't start drinking! TOBY! Grab his legs. RAMIL, HELP us..." it was at this very point when it happened. Toby could not gain control of lance's left leg.

All I remember is hearing a crunch before the room went dark, and when I opened my eyes I was on the floor with my back up against the night stand and Ramil was trying not to laugh as he held a can of beer to my swelling skull. Toby, unsuccessful in his attempt at controlling his laughter at his fallen comrade was curled in the fetal position on the end of the bed, and lance was holding his shin, writhing in pain in an attempt to steal attention from my throbbing forehead.

The ladies come out of the bathroom; Robyn is quite drunk and is wearing her swimsuit bottoms and a shirt. I am very confused, because they are flesh colored, and I think she is naked, which made me think I was hallucinating. I motioned for Ramil to look, however I was not as suave as I thought, and Robyn turns to me. "They’re fuckin' swimsuit bottoms. Quit staring, if this were the beach you'd get beat up." she can't keep a straight face even when pretending to be mad. I motioned for her to toss me another beer, and she flipped me off. I thought that would happen, so I got my own and another for Toby.

After another 20 minutes of drinking, we head out of the hotel room. Ramil is going to dinner with his relatives, and we needed to get melee as drunk as we were. So naturally, we went down to the hotel bar in the lobby. 2 hours of solid drinking and we somehow think it is a great idea to go to the bar. Toby and I each carried 2 natty lights in our pockets while holding a third, lance was empty handed, and the girls each clutched their purses. I was not walking very well, so I decided to strut, which I was very adept at. But it made me slow, and I missed the elevator.

By the time I got to the bar, they all had 2 drinks in front of them. I lit a cigarette and began to pray, "lord. Don’t let me get blackout drunk and marry some random lady."

Then I ordered a beer. 925 pm. 5 kids. Drunk and getting drunker in the city of lights. The city of sin. The strip. Las Vegas. 930 pm and no last call... ever.

I lit another camel and sipped my Newcastle. I love Vegas.

After two or three drinks at the bar, and two or three more cigarettes, the group decided it was time to leave. Before we left, the bartender made some awkward comments with respect to the ladies we were drinking with, something to the effect of "two to one huh?" referring to the ratio of men to women, "these ladies must be some dynamos..."

I was appalled, but at the same time drunk, so I attempted to execute a hi-5, but ended up accidentally pressing the "max bet" button on the video poker machine I was playing, so I had to abort the male bonding in order to concentrate on the seven dollars that I had inadvertently bet. I lost the money, but only because I was nervously laughing at Alex's (the bartender) awkward comment, which apparently only I heard, because when I made the shifty eyes at Toby, he just drunkenly motioned for me to "hurry the fuck up we're leaving." Which is a signal surprisingly dissimilar to “come on” and in fact is more like the delta force hand signal for “look behind you.”

So we were off. Leaving the bar, walking past the in house wedding chapel, through the casino-mall which was full of the shiniest products which made my ADD, which was magnified by keystone light and sparks, go absolutely bonkers. It took us 20 minutes to walk thirty yards, and then we hit the streets of Vegas. At this point, the world looked like a photograph with an open lens, the lights were not lights, but strings and streaks of sensory information, which my mind could not process. I remember staring down at my empty beer can, and then my feet.

I kept thinking, "just be regular. You got it, keep up with everyone. Don’t get lost, you don't have a room key or know where you are. You don't know where you are going to sleep. Is that Robyn’s ass? Oh. Shit. No it isn't. Who is that? Shit. Shit. Just keep walking. They will find you."

We walked around on some tiled sidewalks, up an escalator, which I thought was strange because I had never seen an outdoor escalator. We were walking over the strip, lots of cars, all with their streaking headlights and faceless drivers. And all of a sudden we were standing in front of a hotdog stand. Melissa hadn't eaten since lunch and she was hungry. Apparently she was pulling me around because I was in drunken campout mode and did not want to move, and she wanted to make sure I did not get lost. The man who was helping us was wearing a nametag; it read "Oscar." I spoke quickly, and kept my teeth clenched. Oscar could not know that I was drunk; I forgot I was in Vegas, everyone here is drunk. Nevertheless, I spoke directly and honestly.

"Oscar! This lady needs a hotdog. She has been to the original Nathan’s. She was born there. She has a credit card. Oscar! Did you get that?" Oscar got it. He smiled and traded her the hotdog for her credit card. They did the whole: id, sign here, here is your copy, come again bit and we traveled the four feet to the bench where Robyn lance and Toby had been waiting for us, she sat down with them and ate.

Her face was very very red; almost purple, although closer to cardinal. It is the Asian glow in full and dangerous effect. Robyn wants to go into the club, but she is vetoed. Toby and I verbally agree that "it's a fuckin' old tourist club. Look at that cowboy hatted guy!"

The cowboy-hatted guy did not appreciate our commentary. We non-verbally agreed that it was in our best interest to vacate the area with quickness. After a couple hallways and indoor escalators we were on the casino floor. And melee was gone.

Quite confused, I sat down at some bizarre video poker type game and put in five dollars.

Now I am quite skilled at computers. I am even better suited to card games of all sorts. One would think that this computerized card game would offer little or no resistance. One would have thought wrong. I’ve been clueless before, usually when waking up in strange places, but that does not cost me any money. THIS video poker machine was the most insanely impossible thing to work that I had ever experienced. I pushed the buttons I thought I needed to push, and nothing happens. I touched the screen. I pushed the buttons that were not blinking, the blinking ones, and the ones on the unoccupied machine to my left... nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sometimes cards would disappear, other times they would stay; some still would be replaced with other cards.

Confused I asked another Vegas hick "sir, what the fuck IS this game"

He lied. "I don't know son."

Fucker. Drunkenly I pushed more buttons until I had had enough of the bullshit, and pushed cash out. Turns out I had won ten bucks. Vegas was treating me well. Very well. Except melee was still MIA and so was everyone else. A phone call revealed that they too, were looking for melee. I suggested the bathroom, and waited near what I thought was the entrance, but it was not, so when melee was done throwing up the hotdog she had just ate and the long island iced teas she pounded before hand on an empty stomach, they found me and we headed back upstairs.

We were now in New York New York. One hotel over from where we just were. Yet Oscar was still at the hotdog stand. All of a sudden, I was very hungry... famished even. I called out to my old friend. "Oscar!" he ignored me, but I thought he just couldn't hear me. "OSCAR! I need a hotdog! I have cash! CASH, MAN!" we completed the transaction successfully; I believe I tipped him a dollar. After all, I was up ten whole bucks.

After the Nathan’s hotdog, I re-met up with the group on yet another bench. On the way, I pulled a genuinely Boytosish maneuver. I ran into a mall employee and somehow started talking to her, proceeding to tell her everything but the truth. "Yeah, you know, me and the red one used to date, but now she's dating the one with the Mohawk."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah. Now I’m with her best friend, the Filipino one in the brown shirt. We’re getting married this summer."

"Oh? I’m Filipino. Does she speak Tagalog?"

"Only to her grandparents back in the Philippines."

"Aw, well she's pretty. Tell her this. [Inarticulate Tagalog]"

I go over to Robyn and attempt to repeat whatever the lady said, but I failed miserably. I went back to her. "She loved it, thanks for the help! Can I have a picture with you? It would make my night."

"Of course sweetie."

And of course, while lance is snapping the picture, melee needs to hurl again, so her and Robyn take off, and the guys slowly follow back downstairs. On our way we make sure to take note of all the tables we walk past. That is where we need to go, that is where the free drinks are served, and this is where las vegas’ soul is.

This is where the gamblers feel alive. This is where alcoholics sit to get their fix for free. This is the only place for people like me, we can smoke inside. As we walked past the clinging slot machines and tried to locate the bathroom, I could feel myself being pulled towards the action, towards the money, towards the dream. But after all, my fake fiancé and fake ex-girlfriend were in the bathroom.

Melee finds her way out of the bathroom, and at this point we are standing around Toby who is playing blackjack. Our plan is to win money, or lose an amount equal to the estimated cost of the drinks, which we are consuming gratis while we play. I sit in first position at the blackjack table, which is right next to the dealer whose name is grace. She is nice.

I play "according to the book" betting the minimum and conservatively. I order my first drink from the waitress, which is free, so I go for broke. I order "as much whiskey as is legal to put in a glass" and give her a two dollar tip before she leaves. I am still quite drunk and so is Toby, who orders something. Maybe a rum and coke, I don't remember. By the time the waitress comes back with a triple shot of Jamison’s I have lost the twenty dollars I bought in with. I thank her, swirl the whiskey in the glass as if it were wine, waft it into my nose, raise it to the waitress, the dealer and I ask her, "Grace, do you like your job?"

"Yes sir I do."

"Are you having fun, or are you just working?"

"I’m working."

"Grace, as I’m sure you're well aware, this is Vegas. If you're not having fun, something is wrong." the pit boss begins to wander over to the table, having undoubtedly heard my loud and slurring accusation. He stands immediately to my right. I wink at him and turn back to grace.

"Grace, let's have some fun." and I slam the triple back and down without tasting it. I place it down, and pompously ask the pit boss if he'd get me another one when he got the chance. I quickly laugh to diffuse what might have been anger and reach for my wallet. He walks back to his podium.

I buy in for a measly 40 dollars and bet 10. Blackjack. I cheer grace for hooking me up with good cards.

"You’re awesome grace"

"Thank you sir."

"Sir? Come on grace, you carded me 10 minutes ago, and now you call me sir?"

"I’m sorry sir."

"SEE? There you go again. Call me Greg. Sounds like grace, except for one syllable"

Grace laughs and deals me a 12. She is showing a 10. If you know anything about blackjack, you know I’m essentially fucked. Unless you play poker, are drunk and have no clue what is happening except that you have a stack of clay discs in front of you and two cards. "DOUBLE DOWN!"

"Sir? I mean, Greg, are you sure?" I’m laughing a bit at this point. Toby elbows me

"Dude, just hit."

"ABSOLUTELY NOT." I move the chips into the double down area. "Double down grace"

Six. I have 18, not bad, but it is nothing against the 20 that the dealer likely has. She flips her card, it's a 7. Money.

Few hands later I get another blackjack and start cheering and clapping, this, again causes concern in the pit boss who stands next to me again. I am betting twenty dollars a hand at this point and I have just about a hundred bucks. The waitress comes by and hands me another triple whiskey.

"Thanks, but I don't remember ordering this."

"Oh. It was taken care of."

"Do I just look like a lush? Or did you have a feeling?"

She nods over my head. "He called it into the bar." I turn to the pit boss, my face is getting warm, a rare feeling but for when I am embarrassed. I look down at his shoes.

"Thanks a lot mister. I really was only kidding with you."

"I know. You’re having fun that makes my job easier. Enjoy the crown." ritzy, this guy ordered me a triple crown. I didn't enjoy it; it just tasted like water that burned. I turn back to the table, and they're waiting on me. I got a 14 and the dealer is showing a 2. I ask the pit boss "what does the book recommend?" he smiles at me.

"I think you forgot how to read about three drinks ago my friend." a wry smile forms on his face.

"You’re right Ted." I have no clue what his name was. "You are very correct. DOUBLE DOWN!" I refuse to be one-upped. This time however, Toby was joined by Melissa Robyn and lance in his quest to get me to not double down. I laughed it off.

"Okay, fine, just hit me grace." 7

Seven.

Seven. I may be drunk, but I am thinking that my advisors are just shitty. I tip grace 5 bucks. And the pit boss slaps me on the back for being such a crazy/lucky bastard. I am betting thirty dollars a hand. The very next hand, I am dealt the cut card, which is bad luck. But then I get an 11, which, apparently is what you're supposed to double down on. "Grace, can I triple down?"

"No Greg."

"Oh. I guess a double will do fine then." 7. Boom. I am almost invincible at this game. She busts, and I win sixty bucks. I am more excited than I have ever been at a casino, and drunker than I have been in recent memory. Well, that week anyway. I scream.

"Woooo oh YEAH grace! You are so the best person right now! HI 5!!" and I hold my hand up in an obvious invitation for a hand slap.

Grace makes a fist and offers a "dap." I respond in kind thus knocking fists like I just hit a homerun.

"Grace, I had no idea you were from the streets." she didn't get the joke, but lance knew it was time. Lance is sober, so when he says "color up, let's go!" I knew it was time to stand up.

However, lance promptly had to pee, so I was left with drunken Toby, who is like-minded. I see a let it ride table, which I am quite fond of (the Bruce lee morongologs story). I sit down, and lose 60 bucks as fast as anyone can lose 60 bucks at that game. I only have two hundred left, and I am pulled to the craps table.

I don't know how to play craps. I’m standing next to Melissa. She apparently knows craps. I lost count of the number of times I said, "Melee, what's going on. No really. What’s happening? Did I win money? Can I pick up those chips?"

I remember meeting a couple old guys who were from Ireland, and saying I was from Ireland and faked an accent. I remember when my second shot came to the craps table, I saw the waitress' nametag, she was from long island, and I said I was from New York. The old man asked me, "I thought you were from Ireland."

"Well, I was born there, county tearnin, but I grew up in Manhattan."

The waitress was uncomfortable, snatched the tip I was holding out and walked away quickly, before I could order another.

The dealer then checked my i.d. because if the tattoos and facial hair and cigarettes didn't suggest that I might be of age, the extreme intoxication might clue him in. I think he just wanted to see where I was really from. I think this because my California i.d. is not from New York or Ireland, and when he saw it he said "Ontario huh?"

I smelled the suspicion. I did what I do best in general, and what I should be extolled for while drunk: I lied. "Yeah, I go to school out here, my parents still live back east."

And that was that, but I was picking up craps rapidly.

And then the man across the table was the shooter. It was sometime after my fourth shot at the craps table. I was using the table to keep myself from falling, and the dealer kept warning me "don't spill that drink on the table." and "keep that drink on the rail or else son," which caused me to shoot them quickly, because the rail is a bad place for a drink, and I don't know why, but at the time it made sense.

But the guy was holding the dice, and he was about sixty years old, and Asian. He was bald too, and when he reached down to pick up the dice I noticed his comb over. It was bad. And not just bad because it was a comb over and that shit always looks horrible, but it looked bad for a comb over, which is definitely saying something. It looked like four fingers draped lazily over his bald scalp, and my filter had been soaked to the point where I was saying exactly what I thought.

I elbowed the guy next to me, the one from Ireland, and said "Jesus, check out dr. comb over with the dice."

The man did not laugh. He just looked at me. I stood up straight to spare myself some pride and noticed a particular shine glinting from beneath his comb over, and that is when things went bad.

I had the rest of my two hundred dollars spread across the board when dr. comb over crapped out. All my money, shit gone. All I had was the twenty-five dollar chip that Robyn made me put in her purse for "drunk insurance." good call Robyn. Because I needed that shit. I put it on the pass line, which is just about the smartest bet in the house, the best odds out of every table game in the casino.

Sparing you all the complicatedness of craps, I needed a 9 to win my money. I was chanting, "nine! Nine! Nine!" and some people were getting into it with me. Then I thought I’d be funny, knowing that a die only has six sides, I began chanting "seven and a two! Seven and a two!" and when I said it the second time, the man rolled a 7, and crapped out. I was now broke, and everyone at the table lost.

The guy next to me, who had been visibly brooding since the dr. comb over comment turns to me, as if it were my fault, and says "why the fuck were you yelling that? What the fuck is your problem?"

Such instant hostility made me jumpy and jarred my ability to diffuse situations. I stared at him blankly and realized that he was very mad. This made me mad, because, well, I was drunk and this person was sending very negative vibes directly at me from point blank rage, and this upsets me.

Apparently we were yelling so lance stepped in again, although this time more assertively. He pushed me back about four feet from the table, which left me standing at the security desk and blathering to the guards trying to explain to them what happened, but just as I got there and started talking, I saw lance with his mohawk in this old man's face and the way lance's neck moved made him look like a rooster, so I laughed, a lot.

I laughed so hard that I could not hear what anyone was saying. When I finally got control of myself, I hear the man chastising lance.

"Look at what happened to your hair!" I have no clue how the argument ended up as a cosmetic attack on my friend, but he was sober, and is always sharp. He stepped back, pointed to the top of the old man's head, where his comb over had been displaced during the yelling match and said "MY hair? Look at what happened to yours."

It was at this very moment that melee, who was sober pulled lance's arm to get us out of the trouble.

We had made it half a block and spent nearly one hundred dollars each, ignoring winnings that were lost of course. One of us (Ramil) was missing as we had forgot that he went out to eat with family, I was paranoid that security were going to chase me at the behest of the fake-Mick, and that I would be arrested.

It was now midnight, hour 4 of my Vegas experience, I was blind drunk and being pulled up escalators, across bridges, up and down escalators, past bars and gambling tables, all while begging to take a piss, but this would not happen until I got back to the room.

If this was Vegas, I fuckin' loved it.

Two Brief Stories about Pee

            I was nineteen and home from college for a weekend. Home for me was always a strange place, since I had never actually lived there. My parents moved into the house during my third week in college, making the dorms more familiar and comfortable than the converted attic I shared with my brother, who lived there full time furthing my disconnect from the place.

            The night in question, was preceded by fourteen or fifteen nights of drinking, which was impressive but nowhere near the record. I don’t know what the record was, but I didn’t want to have to roll my streak back to zero, so I had my brother buy me some wine. Bums drink it, so I always pick it when I need to get drunk in a hurry.

            I uncorked it, sat on my bed and chugged. My brother barely took his eyes off the television to watch his little brother all grown up. I set the bottle down, and lied down. I was asleep instantly and dreaming.

            I was walking through an outdoor mall. It was sunny and cool and there were lots of windows and the air was crisp and tasted clean like it had just rained. I was holding a woman’s hand and it was smooth and slender. Her thumb caressed my forefinger. She tugged me in the direction of an electronic’s store. I pretended to not need to go into the store, but she knew my compulsion and dragged me in.

            It was a great store. It had silver floors and walls, all brushed steel. Monitors and LCD screens hung everywhere, blinking lights, stereo equipment, chrome framed overstuffed leather furniture everywhere; literally a dream. As we were shopping for televisions, which were all somehow within my budget, I had the sudden urge to pee. I let go of her hand and the salesman points me to the bathroom, reminding me that everything in the store is for sale.

            There are no toilets or urinals in the bathroom, just a step waterfall and several more flat panel televisions hanging at eye level on the wall. I heard a whir and tiny football players, like from the carnival game where you throw the football to a cardboard cutout with a hole in it, start running back and forth across the waterfall. I didn’t know what to do, but peeing through the hole seemed natural, so I did that.

            The screens displayed cheering crowds. The more I peed through the holes the louder and more intense the cheering on the televisions got. It was thrilling. I peed so much, more than I have ever peed in my life.

            Suddenly my crotch got very warm; suspiciously warm and in a flash I am no longer in the most amazing bathroom concievable, and am in my bed, covered in urine from the waist to the knees staring my brother in the face as he asks me, “What?” I don’t know what he means, but there’s no time to ask for an explanation. I run down stairs, use the actual bathroom, steal my dad’s sweatpants from the back of the bathroom door, throw my underwear in the trash can outside and go back to bed.

            My brother tells me I was laughing and cheering, then I yelled, “that’s not right at all!” and popped up onto my knees in my bed, then I said, “something terrible has happened,” to which he replied only to be snubbed as I ran out of the room to destroy the evidence.

           

            Years later, in my fifth year of college, I found a stable and fair supplier for some painkillers that were particularly enjoyable. They’re called norco, or I called them norco, some people call them yellows, I think. they’re basically a stronger form of vicodin, with less acetamenophin, which is the part that is more dangerous to your liver, I think. I’m not a pharmacist, nor have I ever acquired these drugs from a pharmacist, so I can only go on what my logic can compute.

            One night I was playing poker with friends and I popped a norco, then another a bit later, and two more before the game was done. At this point there is eight times the reccomended dosage in me and it is working. It makes me feel great, which was rare at the time, as I have a chronic gastrointestinal condition which can be very painful at times, so for an evening free of this pain, I was grateful.

            I went down stairs and got into my pajamas which consisted basketball shorts, sweatpants, socks, a thermal shirt and a hooded sweatshirt, because I lived on the bottom floor in a cement room with no heating vent and a flimsy, unsealed door between the non-insulated basement, and it was winter in the riverside desert on the top of a large hill, making it bone shakingly cold, and I was high as hell on opiates. I climbed into the  bed under my quilt and two blankets and was out instantly.

            I woke up covered in sweat. This was common, thanks to my GI difficulties I get night fevers that shake me from sleep, so this was no different. Usually I sit up, get my bearings, breathe deeply, and get back to sleep. This time, only my crotch area – from my navel to my thighs- was soaked, and I was in the middle of a sizable puddle in the middle of my bed. It was embarassing. I was embarassed to have wet the bed; but I was still high. So naturally, I rolled over out of the puddle, wrapped the blanket around me tight, shut my eyes and went back to sleep.

            I woke up at noon and washed my sheets, hung the quilt and blankets out to get hit with the hose, and tossed my pjs into my hamper. I rarely tell this story. It screams “moment of clarity,” but it wasn’t. Maybe I have a problem. Maybe this collection of stories will become my goodbye letter to drugs and alcohol; or maybe they’re a symptom of a subconcious need for another story, another notch on the belt, or another step down a path that will one day lead to twelve more, but thus far I haven’t learned shit.

A cover letter I gave up writing

Let us be honest for a moment; sales is based on the knowledge of humans in general, and who knows people better than writers?

Nunchucka

            There once was a pair of nun-chucks. I bought them on a trip to Hawaii I took with my marching band during the final months of my senior year in high school. The way I acquired them was fairly standard, the way I lost them was quite out of the ordinary. The wake of their loss was definitely unfortunately, however, not as bad as it could have been I assure you.

            It was April 2005, and I with my best friend Elliott had shipped off to Hawaii. At the time we had both recently left our jobs at the same sticker kiosk in the local mall, and with this in mind we had made off with about six hundred dollars each; for spending money. Of course two kids with too much time and quite a bit of money will always make you cringe, but this is not the cause for concern here.

            Like I said, their acquisition was nothing special. I bought them the same way you buy anything in Hawaii: with bullshit. The scam was this: you carry no more than 60 dollars on you at all times, in groups of no more than fifteen. What this means is you have fifteen cash in the main part of your wallet, fifteen tucked behind your license, ten in your right pocket, with a pack of cigarettes, which also contains ten bucks, and five in your shirt and left pocket.

            We approached the carts in the international market, which is essentially a permanent swap meet, and coincidentally the first one I had ever been to, so I am not totally sure if all are permanent, or just this one. First we would walk around the cart to see if it had anything we liked, if it did, we would stare at it, smile, stare at the worker, smile, and stare at it again. This method would show us as being sheepish, yet aware, and would usually illicit some type of response from the store-owner.

            The nun-chuck cart was the same as the rest. Illegal weapons, lighters, illegal weapons hybridized with weapons (I personally own a night-stick lighter, and a switch blade lighter, both considered “novelty items,” and not “potential murder weapons.”). The nun-chucks however, are legal in Hawaii, so they do not require to be mutated in such a way, although it would be pretty rad to nun-chuck the shit out of someone and then light a cigarette with them.

            The store owner (I’m still talking about carts, but out of respect for this man, I label him as the owner. Basically he was old.) Smiled a disturbing smile at Elliott and me, and walked over to us. His smile was disturbing because of his severe lack of full teeth, and the ones that were mostly there were shaded odd colors of black and grey.

“You like those?” I cannot come close to the thickness of his accent without coming off as a complete racist, but trust, this was the most butchered engrishu I have ever heard in my life.

“Yes-sir, they’re pretty sick.”

“You want?”

“How much?”

“Hm. Normal price thirty dollar.” At this I smiled at Elliott, and as planned we both inhaled sharply.

“Wow, no we’ll pass. Thanks though, have a nice day.”

“Wait wait wait!! Special price! Twenty dollar!” I looked at Elliott, and again, as planned we both inhaled sharply. The old man did say the magic words “special price” which meant that that was his lowest lowball offer. This meant that we had a bit more work to do. I reached into my right front pocket and pulled out my cigarettes.

“I hide all my money in here.” I said to the old man, and smiled, he smiled back. He looked quite confused since I am quite certain he was not listening, or was deaf. I pulled out the two crumbled five dollar bills I pre-hid in the pack. And I looked at Elliott.

“Hey man, how much you got?” he didn’t say anything, so I just looked at the man with ten dollars in my hands and smiled again.

“This is all I have sir.”

“Oh okay. Good bye now.” And he began to walk away. Just as his shoulders made it all the way around Elliott called out.

“Wait!” the man stopped, and turned back, “I got 5 more.” And Elliott reached into his shirt pocket, pulling an obsessively compulsively creased five dollar bill.

“Fifteen dollars? Cash? Okay.”

And we were in.

            That was it for the nun-chucks. They were originally not for me at all, but for my friend Douglas, who handed me twenty bucks before Elliott and I left for the islands and said in his ever so majestic timbre, “dude. Get me something tight.” It is quite hard to believe that the same person who crafted the above sentence would be able to collect a high school GPA of 4.5, but believe it.

            Douglas was second in the class, and with his extra curricular sports: basketball and golf, he was a shoe in for salutatorian. The only person ahead of him was a girl who nobody had seen on campus since our sophomore year on account of her being a certifiable genius far beyond her peers’ intelligence and being so, had to take classes at the local junior college. To be quite honest, I don’t remember her name, but her bumper sticker read “my karma ran over your dogma,” which was about the most tasteless thing any educated person could ever think since as we all know, every religion is flawed, and the ideas of karma and dogma are on completely different levels, and we all know that is a different conversation altogether.

            Fast forward 2 months to the end of May. We graduate in about three weeks, and we are all feeling very good. As was custom with our group of friends we would sprint from our 4^th period classes to the parking lot, jump into whoever’s car was the closest to the exit, and leave, thus maximizing our lunch break, allowing for whatever trouble we could get in to. This day was a bit more than we bargained for along the lines of trouble.

            It started with the common Trent-esque prank of opening the car’s gas tank cover. Harmless enough, but as Douglas was a bit anal retentive, it had to be closed. Since we were moving at a high rate of speed on our way to the local greasy spoon diner we patroned on a daily basis, Douglas did not want to stop his 1996 white VW Jetta, for fear of not having enough time to eat, relax and make it back on time.

            It was Trent’s idea to use the nun-chucks to close the cover. It was not a bad one, since the nun-chucks were in the magazine holder on the back of the shotgun seat where I was sitting, and therefore were in his ADDed face, taunting him. He snatched them, undid his seatbelt, rolled down his window and began to swing for the tank cover. Success was his in a matter of moments, and after a few more flourishes at 55m.p.h. (in a 25 M.P.H. zone) he was back in the cabin of the vehicle, welcomed by hysteric laughter from Douglas, Jack and myself.

            And then it was my turn with the nun-chucks. As we were stopped on the corner of Foothill and Towne Avenue, I noticed a college aged student eyeing Doug’s sweet rims. If my memory serves me correctly, they were eight-spoke 16” rims and when purchased were silver. Since Doug refused to keep them clean, at the moment we were stopped at the light, they had been reduced to whatever color brake dust and engine oil combine to form, and when we saw this guy staring at the wheels and smirking, we knew he was mocking us.

            Not to be outdone, I planned on showing him who was boss. Armed with the nun-chucks, I slid out the front window so that the only part of me inside the car was my left hand (holding on to the oh-shit handle) and my legs. I began yelling incoherent gibberish at the laugher and swinging the nun-chucks willy-nilly around. At one point I began saying, “Huh? Huh?” over and over, but when the light turned green, I slipped back into the car, re-fastened my seatbelt and laughed along with my cronies who were almost in tears.

            The rest of the lunch break went pretty normally, we went in, stood in line, paid $2.66 for the route 66 special (a cheeseburger, fries with M.S.G. and a soda) and sat down to eat. Trent and I had our daily soda drinking contest which ended as usual in a tie, and we all poured out our cups and filled them back up with horchata (For those who are not aware of horchata, it is basically rice pudding in drink form).

            Again, bound by tradition, we piled back into Doug’s car, and sped back to campus. Winding through the residential streets at high speeds, each of us took turns pelting one car of our choosing with the horchata. Just like any other day. We laughed, sped on, parked the car and went our separate ways to class.

            Just like any other day that is, until during “quiet time” in my stoner-English teacher Mr. Bustard’s class the proctor filled the doorway with her six-foot-four-inch frame and spoke my name. I shit a brick. At the time, my grandfather was quite ill, and I was sure this was their pathetic way of making it so I did not cry in front of the class. They needed to bring me to the office. I needed to bring all of my things. I needed to hurry.

            The police were waiting.

            The police were waiting? Why were the police there to break the news of my grandpa’s death… “Oh fuck.

The police are waiting.”

            Now devoid of any color in my face or arms, I walked slowly with the silent giant to the office. I am greeted by the dean of students, former basketball coach Mr. B, Douglas, and two of Claremont’s finest, with the crackling radios and creaking too-tight leather boots. Then came the rigorous questioning, Mr. B spoke first.

“So Mr. Boytos, tell me about your lunch break.” Uh, seriously? I didn’t know where to start. Luckily, smug Mr. B thought I was playing dumb, so he brandished my buddy’s ‘something tight from Hawaii.’ I sighed.

“Oh. Those. Yeah. Uh. What about them?”

Mr. Police number one had a fit and stepped between my seat and Mr. B’s.

“Those are a felony to posses unless you are licensed as a martial artist. You don’t look like a martial artist, so you know what I’m thinking?” I knew what he was thinking. I was almost as much of a fat-ass as he was, so he must have known the impossibility of me being a deadly fighter.

“Oh. A felony? Why a felony if I have no training with them? I think it should be a…”

“I think you’re wrong. That’s the law son. A felony means a strike, two more of those and…”

“So Doug tells me these were a souvenir from your trip to Hawaii.” Mr. B thankfully interrupted the rupturing officer.

“yeah.” I admitted.

“Is that the marching band trip?”

“Yeah. But…”

“Well… you know this is pretty serious. Doug’s not getting these back unless his mom comes to pick them up. We’re going to have to call your mom as well.”

Douglas and I smirk a bit, because neither of our parents would have given half a shit except for being interrupted at work. And the cop took particular offense.

“Funnnnnnny, huh guys?” his lame condescension was met with silence from all other parties present. Mr. B just looked at the two officers, smiled and spoke.

“Thanks guys, I think I will take care of this one.” and they left with their too-tight leather boots begging to be loosened all the way out of the office. Thankfully they never thought to check the trunk of Doug’s car, which at the time contained two pony-keg shells, two air-soft guns, two pellet rifles, a bong, about an eighth ounce of pot, and one of the most disgusting porn magazines any one of us had ever seen, but none could bare to throw away.

            Mr. B made the calls, Doug’s mom told him to keep the nun-chucks, my brother pretended to be my father and told Mr. B I’d be in a lot of trouble as soon as I was done with my studying, and Mr. B turned to us, took our off campus passes away and assigned us to a week of lunch-time trash pickup. Being the wise-ass Douglas is, he told Mr. B that he had an AP test on Tuesday, so it got knocked down to four days. Being the opportunist/con-artist that I am, I told Mr. B that I had one on Tuesday, and he knocked it down to three.

            All in all, going from at worst (had they searched the vehicle) prison time and 1 strike on our record, to three days of trash pickup, I would admit we got off easy. Well, I did. Douglas got knocked out of his salutatorian spot, so at graduation, when we should of heard wisdom from the brain of “get me something tight” we heard some pseudo-intellectual stumble words that were too big and too quiet into a wind-buffed microphone. Thankfully, Douglas smoked enough pot to not be mad at me about it, although Jack and Trent don’t let me off so easily. 

A Query Letter that Worked

I wrote this query letter last year when I was trying to get the project I mentioned in it some representation. I would say it had a fairly high rate of return, about a dozen reads from less than 100 emails vs only three angry "HOW'D YOU GET MY EMAIL?" emails. But also a hundred percent "liked it  but not for me," which says more about the script than the query letter, but that's a whole different post. The script is currently shelved, but took second place at the Ventura Film Festival's teleplay competition in 2010 and is going to hit a couple more contests / fests this summer.




My name is Gregory Boytos. I am a product of UCLA’s School of Theater Film
and Television and based on your client list I believe you would violently
enjoy my half hour comedy pilot "Realtors." It's had nothing but shining
feedback from everyone who has read it, except my mom. My mom hated it.

Realtors tracks two boutique real estate firms each headed by one side of a
recently messily divorced couple in California's Inland Empire, and staffed
by a pack of misfits and screwarounds.

Realtors combines the best parts of Community and 30 Rock - the quick wits
and snappy dialogue of believable human characters - with the off the wall
humor and irreverent attitude of shows like It's Always Sunny in
Philadelphia and Archer in a way that is fresh and appealing to the sharp
young audiences of 2010 and beyond.

I'd be happy to send you a copy of my script - I also have another half-hour
comedy pilot on the shelf - and of course, the obligatory It's Always Sunny
in Philadelphia spec script.



I thank you for your time and consideration



Best Regards,



Gregory Boytos