Aaron Jesús Leroy is in Potsdam, New York, which is about a thousand-million-bazillion miles away from his friend Helena Thomas, residing in Binghamton, New York. (According to Greyhound.com, my favoritest website in the world, it's only like, 220 or so, but it may as well be a thousand-million-bazillion. Too far to walk, in any case...)
Every Tuesday, for several months, Aaron and I made trouble. What kind of trouble, you ask? Well, what kind of trouble could you get into with a conspiracy-obsessed waiter and an experience-craving barrista, both with a love of hot wings at Denny's, sex, German techno, and Lynyrd Skynyrd? What kind of trouble did we NOT think of?
The question is not 'what are we going to do today?' The question is, 'what AREN'T we going to do today?'" --Ferris Bueller
Aaron and I waited weeks, months, maybe years, for such time as we could locate a freshly-laid sidewalk. And once we found one, we became Aaron and Helena, secret agents. We were spies. We were soldiers. We were fucking crazy. And we sneaked out into the night, clothed in black, hidden in the shadows of a short hill. We waited for the coast to be clear. We waited. We watched. We conspired. And then, using Aaron's keys, scratched our marks into the fresh cement. Aaron's read "Vote Nader." Mine read, "Lady Latté," my oh-so-clever nickname at work. And then we stole away into the night, after which we went out for wings.
Aaron and I developed a particular dislike for a mutual online acquaintance. We conspired to ruin his life. How does one ruin somebody's life, anyway? Particularly someone you've never met, and who doesn't live within walking distance? We conspired. We plotted. We drove 50 miles to a different Denny's for a change of scenery that might help us brainstorm. We decided to send him child-pornography and then tip off the authorities. We decided to trick him into smuggling cocaine over the Mexican border, then trap him in an elaborate scheme of DARE-to-keep-kids-off-drugs vigilante justice. We envisioned numerous SWAT teams and FBI-agents and maybe even the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover attending the mission. We decided to play Unabomber, using his return address. We decided to call his electric company and have them turn off his electricity for a month. We decided to pay off a local high school kid to set some dog-poop on fire and put it on this guy's porch. Oh yes, Aaron and I had some great plans. We never carried through with them. It's hard to organize such plots when you only see each other on Tuesdays.
We decided we were apathetic about death. We weren't suicidal; we weren't planning on actively seeking death. Instead, we decided we simply wouldn't be too dreadfully upset if death chose us. That night, which was stormy and snowy and viciously cold, we skidded into a snowbank in Aaron's car, just a few feet away from a menacing telephone pole. So, no, we didn't die, but we did have to endure being dragged out of the snowbank by a gruff lady cop who advised us to slow down and go home until the storm was over and the roads had been plowed. If I remember correctly, we went to Denny's instead.
We decided that not enough liberties are taken in the practice of urination, and set out to sprinkle the world with our urine. Well, Aaron's urine; it's harder for girls to "aim," of course, and so it wasn't really feasible for me to be peeing off the tops of parking garages or writing my initials in snowbanks in the back hills of Harpursville, New York.
We decided we were homicidal maniacs. We decided we were going to kill Erich and Trish. We decided not to at the last minute, and instead went to Denny's for wings.
We drove through the parking lot of the Town Square Mall strip mall, at 5 miles an hour, playing "Carmina Burana" at top volume with the windows rolled down. We felt cool. Particularly since the Town Square Mall is like, 35 miles long or so, and traffic is pretty heavy, and people kept cursing at us to drive faster. Well, we felt cool until Meg happened to see us and asked what the fuck our problems were. I guess we felt cool after that anyway.
("Lowrider, drives a little slower..." --War)
We learned foreign languages together. Mostly Spanish. Now, Aaron and I can make a complete conversation:
"Hola, señor!" (Hello, sir)
"Hola, señorita! Como estas?" (Hello, miss. How are you?)
"Si, señor! La cafe es MUY caliente!" (Yes, sir! The coffee is very hot!)
"Si, señorita!" (Yes, miss!)
Since our knowledge of Spanish was so diverse and obviously so important to our beings, we decided that Aaron needed a Spanish name. We chose Jesús. Aaron Jesús Leroy. "Leroy" came from the Leroy Street Package Store, on the west side of Binghamton, which we believed sold -- well duh -- packages. We were unaware that alcohol came in those packages; it was a pleasant discovery, particularly on Election Night when Aaron and I discovered ALL the joys the Leroy Street Package Store had to offer. Subsequently, Aaron and I rolled around on the floor and watched television. I'm pretty sure Dan Rather joined us too, but it's hard to remember.
There were the numerous occasions upon which Aaron and Helena found themselves higher than kites from sitting in a foggy room known as The Studio, in which a bunch of greasy stoner kids with underage girlfriends and a lot of alcohol were butchering Led Zeppelin classics. Things were always pretty cool in the half-hour or so after THOSE experiences. What, you ask, was so cool about it? Well, we don't really remember.
We planned a party for ourselves and some people we knew online. They were all from out of town, and we got all of them to agree to meet us in Binghamton. We decided if they weren't cool, we'd take them on a small "road trip," and leave them in the woods to fend for themselves. Fortunately for them -- and perhaps unfortunately for us, after we'd spent so much time calculating and choosing remote wooded areas -- they were cool, so we instead took them to the local Labor Day festival, and then read aloud from a hotel Bible, while drinking Baileys-and-coffee and discussing self-injury and bestiality.
We took long excursions in Aaron's car to remote wooded areas, in search of the perfect place to overlook the city lights. And what did we do when we found such areas? Make out, you ask? No, of course not. That'd be weird. We simply looked at the lights and drove around until we were utterly lost, then found our way -- miraculously -- back to civilization and went to Denny's for wings.
We were extremely judgemental about absolutely everything, and took powerful stances on one another's lovers, housemates, parents, and neighbors. At one time or another, all of these various individuals were targets for harassment, homicide, or torture, but we never carried through with it. Well, sometimes we did. But Aaron and I knew enough remote wooded spots so that you'll never find the bodies. Heh heh heh. Just kidding. Maybe.
After viewing a Stanley Kubrick movie or two, we decided to make a movie. And a snuff film. We even chose a sound track (which, regrettably, did not include "Free Bird") but couldn't get our hands on film equipment, or we might have carried out some of that.
Aaron's car got stuck at the top of a parking garage. We'd been driving down the highway when we noticed that the radio was fading in and out. Logically, of course, we had to drive to the very top of the nearest parking garage, stop the car, and take a good hard look. Of course, THEN, the car wouldn't start again. So we called Aaron's girlfriend's husband (uh... yeah), who jump-started the car for us. Then, having already been to Denny's for wings, we went home.
At one point or another, Aaron and I have plotted against absolutely everything, including but not limited to: Lost Dog Café, Peter, Erich, Trish, the Binghamton Arena and all sports teams therein, the Republican Party, Dan Rather (we decided we liked him after he joined our Election Night party with all his witty jokes, and ceased plotting against him), Binghamton University, Germany (we were going to take over Germany because we thought they made the best techno music), TransWorld Entertainment, RJR Tobacco, the local country-music radio station, and Pantera. If you can buy a stock in it, Aaron and I have plotted its overthrow. If you've ever seen it walking down the street, Aaron and I have plotted to kidnap it and torture it. Certainly, if you've ever seen it working in the Oakdale Mall, Aaron and I have plotted something dreadful against it. In addition to those plots, we also had numerous plots involving international drug trade, political sex scandals, and chemical warfare. None of these things really worked out. Although I still think we'd have made fabulous FBI agents.
Once, we got chicken wings at a little pizza place near Aaron's house, and got food poisoning or something.
Once, we decided to be drug dealers, but we didn't really know anything about drugs, including how to acquire them and sell them. We did manage to secure a couple marijuana seeds in a plastic bag -- which I found lying in the middle of a sidewalk thirty yards from an elementary school -- but they didn't grow, no matter how much I talked to them and played Aaron's classical music CD's at them. After that, we gave up attempting to be drug dealers.
Once, at a dance club, we devised a Satanic ritual, which involved making the "Satan Rules" hand-signal, and inserting a lighted match between your fingers. That was the ritual. I'm unsure if we ever actually invoked Satan. After all, it WAS a dance club.
Once, we decided to go to a strip-club together. Neither of us had ever been. We were turned away from the first place we tried: a 21+ only bar. On the way to our second destination, we heard, for the first time, a wonderful AC/DC song called "Big Balls." We decided it was a sign, and were admitted to the second strip club, at which Aaron got a lap dance and I got my face smeared with a stripper's breasts. We decided to start our own strip club: Aaron would manage it, and I would strip, and we'd split the profits and eventually take over Germany and/or IBM.
Aaron made fun of me for always ending up in romantic relationships with gay guys. I made fun of Aaron for always ending up in romantic relationships with lesbians. We decided that basically everyone is bisexual, at least, and probably mostly gay, but I think we were just trying to convince ourselves we weren't freaks for never sleeping with straight people.
Over wings at Denny's, we discussed: body hair, pedophiles, Long Island, fashion, arson, money-making schemes, real estate, and masturbation. I'm glad nobody ever wanted to hang out with us. They would have thought we were weird or something.
I miss Aaron dreadfully. It's Tuesday night, and I don't know what to do with myself. It's so lonely sitting home on a Tuesday night watching Lifetime Television and eating bon-bons. Any other night, that would be a wonderful alternative to doing nothing, but it's Tuesday, and Tuesday is Aaron and Helena night. Since Aaron is a thousand-million-bazillion miles away, I suppose I'll have to occupy my time in a slightly less interesting way than usual.
Aaron, my partner in crime. Aaron, my partner in upheaval and utter nonsense. Aaron, who would be my life-partner if that wasn't so damned weird, and a little ishy. Aaron, co-conspirator. Aaron: activist for freedom, equality, and occasional regression to slavery; for suffrage and suffering; for education and the complete chaotic destruction of our high school; for coffee and wings; for Skynyrd and screwing. Aaron Jesús Leroy. I miss you, Aaron.
Maybe I'll go to Denny's tonight, just for you.
Love,
~Helena*
"Helena, how come you're not as awake as usual?"
"I went out with Aaron last night. We got lost in a hill in the middle of nowhere until 3 in the morning."
--Helena, any given Wednesday morning.
"Don't go out tonight! 'Cause it's bound to take your life! There's a bathroom on the right!" --Aaron, singing Creedence Clearwater Revival. (Translated into Aaron-ish from: "...there's a bad moon on the rise...")