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Tag Archives: The Untouchables

Fresh Socks For Homeless Walter

27 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by Smaktakula in Crime, Culture, Stupidity, True-Ass Tales

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

Beaverton, Chicago, cops, mustach, Oregon, police brutality, police officers, rogue cops, The Untouchables, Travels With Tardsie, Union Station, Walter the Homeless Man, white people

By Tardsie

And There’s No Better Friend To Have! Unless, Of Course, He’s Not Your Friend.

My encounters with police officers have largely been, if not pleasant, then at least hassle-free. It helps that I’m friendly, polite, and never in my life more caucasian than when I talk to a cop. I think most cops are pretty decent dudes.

Sadly, the cops I remember most clearly aren’t the officers who’ve helped me when I was in a jam, or even those who had to deal with me when I’d done wrong and had it coming, but rather the jerks who wore their authority like a crown and acted like thugs for no reason other than that they could, the bullies and punks getting off on the power of their station.

It was my displeasure to meet a particularly shitty cop on November 5th, 2002.¹ I’d left my job and apartment in Beaverton, Oregon to bum around the country by rail, and now found myself in Chicago’s historic Union Station, notable for the “baby carriage” scene in The Untouchables.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps At Union Station.

Tardsie Poses For A Photo On The Steps Of Union Station.

***

Filthy and bedraggled, I wander into the men’s restroom to clean up. Union Station is an Amtrak hub, so the bathroom is busy, but I manage to find sink space next to a wretched-looking homeless dude–a black guy with wild, unkempt hair and an eye-watering aroma. His emaciated hands and head jut twig-like from an artificially bulky frame, created by layer upon layer of filthy clothing. He yammers ceaselessly as he washes what appears to be several pairs of socks.

Yes. Completely, Totally, 100% Just Like This.

When the guy says “Can I have those socks?” I think at first that it’s just another facet of his apparently unending dialogue with God. But when he says it again, I realize he’s talking to me. He’s looking down at the open travel bag at my feet, atop which lie several pairs of clean socks.

After a span of time that seems longer than it probably is, I reach down to grab a pair socks, and hand it to him. “Here you go.” “Thanks, Brother” he says, and his ongoing conversation–which fortunately, no longer includes me–begins again. Not long after that, he gathers up his things, including his new socks, and wanders off to a stall.

My Unforgettable Act Of Charity Puts Me In Some Pretty Rare Company.

I have just about forgotten about him when the cop comes rumbling in, his black and yellow police windbreaker flashing in the mirror just before our eyes meet.  His small shaven head, bullet-shaped, with its tiny piggish eyes and ridiculously oversized mustache is poorly matched to his expansive, well-fleshed body.

“Whaddaya doin’?” he asks, and not at all nicely. My stomach tightens as I turn to face him. There is a uniformed cop behind him.

“Shaving,” I tell him.

“Shaving.” He spits the word back at me like an accusation. Then: “You sure you weren’t washing your feet?”

I tell him I wasn’t, and because this situation is so intense and because the cop is still smirking under his mustache and because I don’t know what else to say, I say “Jeez.” It is the wrong thing to say.

“JEEZ?” he says, seeming to swell as he steps toward me, either side of his mustache punctuated by the edges of a feral smile, and just like that I am fucking terrified.

“Only One Of Us Is Gonna Enjoy This, But That One Guy’s Gonna Enjoy It An Awful Lot.”

Then the uniformed cop says something and points down to the stalls. I do not have to know what he said to know where he is pointing, and at whom. As they both charge off in that direction, the bald cop’s little head swivels to face me and, not stopping, he says, “Sorry.” It is a reflex, a word completely devoid of meaning, and he cares not a bit whether I know it. Then he is gone, carried along on a wave of black anger.

“WALTER!” he bellows at the homeless man in the stall, “Get your fuckin’ ass out here, you goof! You’re goofy, you know that?”

Suddenly awash in a rush of relief that feels an awful lot like shame, I slink out of the bathroom, but not quickly enough to miss the firecracker bang of a locked stall door shattering under the force of a boot.

You Got It, Bro.

***

¹The reason I’m able to recall the date so specifically–as well as the dialogue in the story–is because I wrote the details down minutes after the event. ∞ T.

Meet Tardsie!

30 Tuesday Nov 2010

Posted by Smaktakula in Culture

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Arturo the Copy Editor, Chicago, cliche, condoms, Coors, Coors is horse piss, Dublin, Ireland, Jamba Juice, James Joyce, Las Vegas, Mike Meyers, Pope Benedict XVI, rent boys, Rome, Saigon, Silvio Berlusconi, So Beats The Nylon Heart, Special Olympics, Tardsie, Tardsie The Backpack, Tardsie's lifelong hatred of the Irish, The Untouchables, travel reporting, Travels With Tardsie, Union Station, Vatican, Vietnam, Washington DC

By Smaktakula

Tardsie Has Long Been An Advocate For The Less Fortunate.

Much of the hard work which makes Promethean Times such a magical family experience occurs behind the scenes.  Our small, tight-knit staff is more like a family than a collection of colleagues, with the exception of our copy editor, Arturo, although we are quite fond of him.

If You See Something Fishy In This Picture, You're Right! The Backpack Posing With Mike Meyers Is Actually A Tardsie Impersonator.

At the center of it all is our venerable Editor-In-Chief, Tardsie the Backpack.  Although Tardsie was not the first to helm Promethean Times, it is his vision which guides us today.  When Rodrigo O’Bannon was fired after Promethean Times’ shaky first few months, Tardsie came out of a well-deserved retirement to right the ship.  The impact of his calm leadership on our inexperienced young staff cannot be overstated, and that Promethean Times not only exists but flourishes today is a testament to his influence.

Most People Aren't Aware That Tardsie Was The Stunt-Double For The Runaway Baby Stroller In "The Untouchables."

Tardsie the Backpack spent the majority of his career before coming to Promethean Times as a travel reporter, publishing several travel narratives.  The most famous among these, Travels With Tardsie, catapulted the young backpack to stardom and made him an overnight literary darling.  His out-of-print novel, So Beats The Nylon Heart, met with a warm response, although sales were disappointing.  He worked briefly as an investigative reporter, achieving some success, before being blacklisted for what he calls “political reasons.”

In Dublin With His Pal James Joyce, Of Whom Tardsie Once Said, "He's The Only Irishman I'd Allow In My Home."

Today Tardsie only slightly resembles the brash young backpack who courageously went undercover to expose point-shaving in Special Olympics basketball and who partied with celebrities.  At nine years old, Tardsie has grown contemplative.  Two of this three zippers are long gone, “And the other one’s busted!” he jokes.  “They made me with cheap nylon,” he says, indicating the rupturing seams along his sides.

Tardsie Always Stops At The Memorial When He's In DC. In '67, His Uncle Frederick, A Foot Locker, Was Misplaced In A Saigon Whorehouse, Never To Be Found.

“I don’t regret anything,” Tardsie says.  “Something my dad used to say still resonates with me.  He said ‘Life experiences are like quarters.  You lose both by sitting on the couch.’  I’ve tried to live my life by that.”

Although that advice actually comes from the side of a Jamba Juice cup, we’re sure that the elder Tardsie was indeed a wise bag.

Tardsie Reports On The Italian Elections. He Was Arrested And Briefly Detained For Defacing Berlusconi Campaign Posters.

Tardsie Goes Undercover To Investigate Allegations That Coors Is Made From Horse Piss. It Turns Out It's Supposed To Taste That Way.

Tardsie Successfully Lobbies Pope Benedict XVI To Permit Condom Use Among Rent Boys.

What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas. But The Stains Are Permanent.

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