The first time I can remember seeing someone with a hole in his or her body that the Lord had not put there, was when I was a three-year-old boy in Springfield Massachusetts.
Springfield was a town with lots of immigrants from a place called ‘The Old Country.’ I realized later in life that immigrants liked to say they were from this vague old country rather than from a specific well-known actual country, because it made it that much harder for some idiot who got in the US a few months earlier to toss an ethnic slur at them “You dirty former resident of the old country” just didn’t pack a threatening oomph.
Anyway, the Italians lived in the South End and it was there at the Lido restaurant that I saw my first extra holes. Our waitress had ears with gigantic sagging holes. From each hung a large crucifix with Jesus on it. Now despite my alarm at this shocking image of religious suffering, it was more affected by the holes in the ears. I looked around at all the Italian waitresses and sure enough, they all had the same birth defect.
My mother explained that these women had done this to themselves. But, it must have hurt so much and what happened to the little pieces of ear that got punched out? No matter, my first experience with body piercing caused me to not be able to finish my penne marinara.
Over the years I’ve had several other disturbing experiences with people who’ve made holes in themselves. Incidentally, I’m able to say unequivocally that it was the holes that were upsetting because not in any other circumstances, was either Jesus or pasta involved.
While I was in graduate school I worked part-time at the state employment office. I was a judicator, which meant that I had to penalize people who left their jobs for some bad reason. Depending on whether they were late a lot or beheaded some customers, I would take away a prescribed number of unemployment checks. Beheading cost you 3 weeks — and don’t even argue. One day, this unkempt guy of about 20 took a seat in front of me.
Danny’s paperwork indicated that he worked at a local hotel. My usually funny “so, what are you in for?” didn’t help as the response from Danny was a little less chummy. In a sudsy, mumbly voice I heard him say “I need to kill you in hell.” I turned to my coworker Arthur, a Special Forces vet, and surreptitiously made a circle in the air with a DOT punctuating the middle. This was our secret office code to go get security. Arthur looked longingly at one of his desk drawers where I knew he kept some weapon or another, but I shook my head and he left the room.
Danny watched him leave and then repeated “I need to kill you in hell.” Stalling for time, I warned him that under the unemployment guidebook, I could probably deny him an additional week of unemployment for threatening to murder me. He shook his head as if I was the one who was crazy and grabbed a pen and paper. Just as he finished scribbling something, Arthur and two overweight security guards rushed in and wrestled screaming Danny to the ground. They started dragging him out when I noticed a glint in his mouth — an inch-long metal rod piercing his grossly swollen tongue. As his feet wagged out of the room, I looked down at his note. It said “I need to call the hotel.”
So that’s what he was really saying. It was a bad day all around, but it wouldn’t have been if Danny hadn’t punched a hole in his tongue.
Another time, I pulled up to an airport toll booth to pay for my parking. Talking on the phone was an attractive, spiky-haired girl about 18. She had a long silver chain connecting a hoop in her ears with one in her nose, up to one in her eyebrow, and then back to her ear. Although she looked a bit like the George Washington Bridge, she did a deft job of counting out my change while still managing to carry on what was clearly a personal call on a dated land line type phone. All of a sudden, she spotted a supervisor walking toward our booth. In terror, the girl slammed the phone receiver into its carriage. Not realizing that she’s been holding it out of the inside of her chain she fell to the floor with an agonized wail.
Another victim of too many holes most recently, and hopefully my last experience with the pain holes can cause, involved my son and his friend Caleb, they went together to the local hygienically certified germ-free tattoo parlor to get something pierced. Thankfully, my son chose the top of his ear. So far, it’s only gotten infected 16 times, but that’s a happy outcome compared to Caleb.
Caleb chose to have the Yale medical school graduate working there pierce his nipples. My son captured the whole event on camera, including the very soothing impale-and-pull moments. Later the two boys returned to our house with an extremely flushed Caleb writhing on the carpet enjoying his new jewelry. The afternoon ended as my wife applied ice to his swollen breasts. To top it off, two weeks later, Caleb had to have the nipple rings removed or he wouldn’t be allowed to be on the soccer team.
So, I guess my message is clear. At the age of six, figure out exactly how many holes you’ve got, and do not add to that number.
Stephen Neigher is a screenwriter who worked in TV and film in Hollywood for more than twenty years, a retired professor of screenwriting at UNC Chapel Hill and is considered by many to be quite good looking.
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