3WW (Abandon, Gradual, Precise): Exits

I exit.

It’s a long walk to the beach, but I don’t mind. I take the time to stretch my legs. And to reflect on a long day. To let the cool, damp air engulf me on my gradual descent to the ocean.

A Camry passes at breakneck speed. Then a Lexus. Then a silver SUV that could be a Honda or a Toyota or a Kia. The drivers are all at an age that requires them to get their respective Jacob’s and Emma’s of the world to soccer games across town five minutes ago.

I hear the ocean first. Like the sound of a highway on which all cars are traveling at or exceeding the speed limit. Except cleaner. I soon spy the lapping waves. Not big waves. There are rarely big waves in sounds.

I lift my knees a bit higher as I approach the road that parallels the water. Beach Avenue, I believe it is appropriately, though unoriginally, named. I reach the corner. Lift my right foot back until I can grasp it with my right hand. Stretch. Do the same with the left.

The Milwaukee Brewers t-shirt hangs loosely around my emaciated frame. The navy blue Adidas shorts are far too big, but I have tied the front string to ensure their stability throughout. I tell myself it enables me to have proper ventilation.

I start slowly. It’s all about pacing. And the precise synchronization of arms, torso, legs, and feet. My breathing is haphazard to start. Like a 63 year-old wheezing ex-smoker. I cough a bit, rid myself of the phlegm lingering at the back of my throat.

I think of a fast moving song. Then realize I’m trying to sing the song in my head with perfect intonation. I lose focus. Cough more. Keep my legs moving in a motion that reminds me of a drunk duck. I regain focus. Right myself. I think instead of a rhythm, a beat. No music this time. No lyrics. Just a beat. I center the breathing around the beat. I settle.

Cars become masses of blurry metal whirring past. People become avoidable objects. Each jutting slab of concrete becomes a death trap for fragile knees and ankles. I navigate a subtle obstacle course unseen to drivers and walkers alike.

I feel a twinge. It starts as a nagging pain. A dull ache in the right side of my knee. I recall the woman in the running store stating that every person who runs has that one chronic injury. I wonder which yours will be, she posited. Shin splints? Stress fractures? Pulled muscles? None of the above, I can now admit with confidence. Runner’s knee.

I ignore it. More accurately, I focus on another muscle. Perhaps my left calf. Or my right bicep. My lower back. It dulls the pain enough for me to endure. The pain subsides eventually, as if it no longer thinks it important to tell me about itself.

I hit my groove at mile three. Or at least what I think is mile three. No more pain. Entirely focused. I don’t notice the people I pass. I am barely aware of the ebbing tide’s wafting fragrance. I hear only my rhythmic breathing. I feel movement but can no longer discern my feet padding on the concrete. Sweat trickles down the nape of my neck.

It’s the home stretch. As is my custom, I increase speed. A holdover from my days as a team sports player, I must finish at a full sprint. My wobbling legs inch forward with full abandon. A perfect circle. Almost there.

I don’t see the death trap, the depression in the sidewalk. Just a stone’s throw from my starting point. I falter. I hear a pop, a bad pop.

I won’t be running for a while.

Sunday Scribblings (Dragon): I Am Concerned

I am concerned, to say the least.

I have raised five children in this household. All of them have attended Catholic school. All of them have served at the altar of the Lord (and hopefully one of them will partake in transubstantiation). All of them say their prayers before bedtime. Through these fifteen years – Christian, the oldest, is a sophomore at Notre Dame – the children have been tops in their respective classes and overall outstanding citizens. I am truly proud of them.

The sixth child, George, is another matter. Not to say I’m not proud of him. At the age of four, it is unreasonable to judge him. He says his prayers with the other children. He plays well with them. He is as smart as – if not smarter than – they were at the same age. In fact, I have some concerns that he is more advanced, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

You see, neither my husband nor I nor any of the kids have read The Lord of the Rings. We know nothing of elves. Nothing of dwarves. Nothing of witches and wizards. None of us have read a Harry Potter book, and to my knowledge, no one of the children has seen a Harry Potter movie. Being rather orthodox Catholics, we don’t subscribe to magic and other ridiculous fantasies. If you want to see magic, listen to the Lord pierce your heart. Watch as Jesus answers your every need.

Right, the youngest. Well, I have home schooled all of my children. I do so up through the fifth grade, at which point I think it is important that they are exposed to other children. But that’s a moot point when it comes to the youngest. He hasn’t even formally started school yet. I do have him beginning to read, of course. Not to mention he can do more than basic math. As I said, he is remarkably advanced for his age.

All of the children have had imaginary friends. Except Molly. She was simply too pragmatic for such things. Rachel had a friend named Susan, whom she just adored. Mark took some direction from his talking dog, Harry. And Daniel, well, he had the best imaginary friend, a pet lion that he named Aslan.

George’s imaginary friend is a dragon.

The irony is not lost on me. My husband thinks it harmless and somewhat funny. I do not. The depiction of the dragon in Revelation is of a monster, of the evil one himself. And St. George – according to the altogether fanciful legend, which I’m ashamed to say the Catholic Church has not entirely denounced – slew a dragon. In other words, dragons are not meant to be friends but foes. I therefore fear for my child’s existence.

What’s worse is that George describes the dragon to me in detail. It is a pale blue with two horns atop its head (God help us). It is not a full grown dragon (or else, he says, it wouldn’t fit in the house); it’s a smaller dragon of perhaps seven feet in height. He can ‘spit’ fire if he chooses but finds it to be a bad habit that most dragons (meaning there are more of them) have mostly avoided. To go with his blue scales, he has ice-blue eyes that pierce the souls of those who are evil. That’s when George springs the fact that this is a good dragon.

I can’t remember reading to him about St. George and the Dragon. Nor can my husband. In fact, there are no books about that legend in this house. I’ve asked the other children, and only Christian could tell me that St. George slew a dragon, but he could give me no other reference to that silly legend.

How does George know of dragons, then? And how do I convince him to find another imaginary friend? In the meantime, I must listen to him talk about how noble and chivalrous the dragon is. How he helps George to know who to trust. Out of a four year old’s mouth? This dragon supposedly tells George to beware other dragons who are interested only in riches; their minds are tormented (he actually used the word tormented) by the desire to horde treasure. It is, the dragon says, one of their few weaknesses. Since we aren’t rich, George tells me, we don’t have to worry about this particular dragon. Even though he is a good dragon, George says, he can still be tempted.

My husband and the children say this will pass. I hope so. God forbid he shares his stories accidentally with our friends and family. What will we say? That it’s a phase? I know how they think. It will be a scandal. I don’t know how I’ll ever live it down. Not to mention he’ll be scarred for life.

And so, you can see why I’m concerned.

3WW (Dread, Grasp, Pacify): Dead Rat

‘It’s a rat.’

‘Yeah, I know it’s a rat.’

‘But it’s a dead rat.’

‘Yep.’ I was in no mood to pacify the guy.

‘That’s disgusting!’ he nearly shrieked, his voice oozing with dread.

‘Have you ever been to New York before?’

‘Yes, but to clean places.’

He pissed me off with that comment. ‘Look around. I’m a neat freak. I don’t do messy.’

‘Then why is there a rat?’ he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. It wasn’t much.

‘Because rats live in cities. And they live in these buildings. In the walls sometimes. Near trash. They’re rodents, vermin. It’s what they do.’

‘Oh my God.’

I regretted offering to spend any time with this guy. Even if it was a favor for Sheila.

‘I am telling you that Sheila would not stand for this,’ he stated with certainty.

‘She lives in this friggin apartment. She’s seen rats before. And if you have even an inkling of an idea about moving to New York, then you better believe you’re gonna see rats.’ I knew Sheila wasn’t the type to be afraid of rats.

‘If I moved to New York, I would find a clean place to live. As it stands now, I will wait for Sheila to return so that we can find an appropriate hotel for the evening.’

‘Suit yourself.’ I had had enough after a full day of work. Not to mention the dead rat. I walked into the bathroom to get a few plastic bags so I could dispose of the dead rat. I walked back into the living room area to see Jake standing by the door with his jacket on and his suitcase next to him.

I paid him no attention and started uncrumpling the bags.

‘You’re not going to touch the rat, are you?’

‘I’m gonna get rid of the rat,’ I said without looking at him.

‘Oh, hell no. You’re not touching that rat while I’m here.’

I turned. ‘Huh?’

‘Do not touch that rat.’

‘I’m getting rid of the rat, Jake.’

I bent to scoop it up but got whacked in the arm.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ There Jake stood attempting to hold the broom handle like a baseball bat.

‘I told you not to touch the rat. I will not be diseased because of you and your disgusting ways.’

Sheila entered the apartment and saw her brother aiming the broom at me.
‘Jake, what are you doing? Put the broom down.’

He turned to her and screamed, ‘He’s going to touch a dead rat!’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed with much less drama, ‘I found a dead rat today. I’ve already called the super to make sure the building knows.’

‘I demand to leave immediately, Sheila. This friend of yours will surely cause my untimely death if I remain. We will get a hotel room. And you will pay since you put me in this predicament in the first place.’

I watched as Sheila tried to plead with Jake. But he obviously had something he could hold over her head. And that was strange since I’d never seen anyone hold anything over her head.

She walked over to me. ‘I’m sorry. I guess my brother and I will be staying the night at a hotel.’

‘That’s stupid, Sheila. Why?’

‘I just want to show him a good time.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Mike’ she told me distractedly. ‘It’s okay.’

‘Correct,’ Jake chimed in. ‘I told you that my sister would not stand to live in such living conditions. I am going to use the restroom, and then we will be going. Sheila, you should pack,’ he directed.

I had no idea what was happening. But I knew that I didn’t like how he was treating me or Sheila. So, I grasped the rat in between a couple plastic grocery bags and disposed of it in the best way I could imagine. Into the front pouch of his suitcase.

Confessions of That Crazy Guy You See in a City

I walk around most days. Just around. I can’t say exactly where. In some places, there are chain-linked fences. In others, there are people. Lots of people. They are either staring at me or they’re not. But I can’t really tell. I can recall cars. Mostly red cars. I remember my first car given to me when my grandmother died. A Buick, I think. It was the smoothest silver you’ve ever seen. I walked up by the building today. I want to say it’s black. Or it could be white with black in it. I’m reminded of a dog and cat when I look at it. It doesn’t belong together. Someone used the wrong materials. I like to peruse the building’s aura. Just its outside. Mean spirits become annoyed if I venture inside. I am educated. It might have been Princeton. Or a community college. But I remember a Vietnamese professor who taught us about accounting. Or was it about how the Viet Cong fights? I don’t know now. Oh, and there he was. There they were. My dead father and my uncles. Trying to hit me for being bad. I gave them a piece of my mind. Told them off in front of that building. Screamed my head off until they went away. It didn’t make much sense during my yelling because they were dead. But they were eyeing me terribly like they used to. That’s when I was more scared of them. But not anymore. Sometimes my mother comes to talk to me. It’s just gibberish most times, so I just talk back to her in the same way. She understands. She’s always understood. Even when I started to date that bitch, Doreen. A no good hussy, she’d call her. I see now that she was right. It’s a shame that most people don’t see. There’s truth in there somewhere. And scraps of food. I haven’t eaten in a while. But I don’t know what I’m in the mood for. I’ve tried to eat a rat, and don’t trust what the rest say; it doesn’t taste like chicken. When was the last time I had chicken? I ask my sister. When she doesn’t answer, I start screaming. She never cared about me. I can’t be bothered. I wonder if I sleep. It’s a strange question since I used to have a bed. Well, I have a bed now but I can’t remember where I put it. It’s somewhere in the city. It might be in my father’s old house, but I’m not going back there. That bitch, Doreen, is there asking me to pay for the baby. It’s not my baby, though. I don’t care about her or anyone else. I don’t care because no one else cares. That’s the way it should be. Or is it just the way it is? I don’t know anymore. Hey, there’s a chain-linked fence again.

3WW (Fear, Ignore, Weightless): The Championship

‘It was one of the best moments of my life,’ he recalled to the small crowd that had gathered around the bar. ‘We were down by three with 12 seconds left.’ He swayed a bit in his chair; he’d had one too many vodka tonics. ‘LaSean inbounded to Derrick, who baseball passed it to me half court. I caught it, turned, and shot. I ignored the guy coming at me and let it fly as he hit my arm. The buzzer went off.’ He took a slurp from the tiny straw. He didn’t notice that his wife – with whom he’d earlier had a big fight – entered the bar. ‘I made it. So, the game was tied. But I had a free throw ‘cause the guy fouled me.’ He stood, almost knocked over the stool. ‘I had no fear.’ He made a motion as if bouncing a basketball. Right to left to right. And again. He lifted his hands above his head in mock basketball shooting fashion and let his right wrist snap forward. ‘Nothin’ but net,’ he all but whispered. He plopped back onto the stool and looked around at the intrigued crowd. ‘I felt weightless. Like I floated up above myself and saw the whole gym go crazy.’ He sat silent for a moment staring out into nothingness. He shook his head slightly, looked at the crowd. ‘And that’s how we won the 2007 Arkansas high school championship game.’ His audience was satisfied. Someone even offered to buy him a drink.

‘Didn’t your whole team get disqualified because you were actually 22 and lied about your age?’ He heard her grating voice behind him. He turned back towards the bar and grabbed his almost empty vodka tonic. He ignored the now perplexed audience and stared ahead silently.

That someone decided not to buy the drink after all.

It's Personal: When Door's Are Locked, Open Windows

It was Sunday. This past Sunday. Mother’s Day, in fact. Which reminds me to wish a Happy Belated Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there. And to anyone else who qualifies, though I can’t fathom who that might be.

Right, Sunday. I had things to do, mothers to see.

This post falls more in the ‘things to do’ category prior to the ‘mothers to see’ category. Though the ‘mothers to see’ task was somewhat dependent on the ‘things to do’ task.

I decided to run. Yes, run. I, who have scoffed voluminously at running. I, who used the Back to the Future 3 line, ‘Run for fun? What the hell kinda fun is that?’ every time someone told me that he/she ran for fun.

Why? Well, there are many reasons. Eh, who am I kidding? There’s one. I don’t want to invest in a gym. So, I’m finding ways of staying in shape that don’t require that investment at this point.

I know what all you runners are thinking. I hope he knows what he’s doing. I hope that he invested in good shoes. To the former, I say nope. To the latter, I say yep. Purchased them from a runner’s store in Grand Central Station. From the woman who looked like she was a runner. Not from the young, fat guy who liked to make sarcastic jokes.

Back to the running. I left the grandparents’ house at about 10. Decided I’d take only my wallet and the key to drive the car. Parked at Chick’s, a restaurant down on Beach Street. And proceeded to run to Lake Street and back again. A four-mile run in 40 minutes that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Stretched and got back into the car.

Proceeded to do some last minute Mother’s Day shopping. Saw fathers and kids galore in the stores at approximately noon. Chuckled a tad. And then recognized my hypocrisy. Then chuckled some more.

I proceeded back to the homestead. Caked in dried sweat with almost a full-grown beard – I hadn’t shaved in a week. My loot and jacket in my hands. I climbed the steps to the front door, opened the screen, and tried the door. Locked. I knocked. Nothing but the barking dog. My grandparents are somewhat hard of hearing; well, my grandfather is, and my grandmother could have been doing laundry. I ring the doorbell. Still nothing.

From behind me, I hear a voice saying hello. I turn to see the neighbor across the street peaking our her door. A middle-aged woman seemingly happily married and with two children. ‘I saw them leave about a half hour ago.’ I replied with an ‘okay’ and a ‘thanks’. I initially thought, how nice of her. Then, I thought, how strange. This little street where my grandparents live is a miniature spy network with everyone keeping an eye on everyone else. Good, in some ways. Spooky in others.

Locked out. The dog’s barking. And I’m in a sweaty t-shirt and running pants on the front porch with the neighbors spying on me. Good stuff.

I decide that I’m going to assess the situation. My first option is the back door. But no, it’s locked too. That left windows. All of the basement windows are screwed shut, not to mention they’re too small for my frame. That meant the second story windows. The picture window in front was out. I would have had to break it. There are three other windows across the front. But, I was concerned with the spying. So, I went to the side. A couple windows. One into the grandparents’ room. One into mine. Didn’t seem feasible. I had nothing I could use to reach them.

The three back windows remained. One into the dining room. One into the kitchen. And another into my room. Still, the windows are about eight feet from the ground, meaning I couldn’t reach them without climbing onto something.

Well, there was something in the grandparents’ backyard. A weird wooden frame looking thing that looks like it should have been thrown away about ten years prior. Peeling white paint. Uneven. Rotting wood. In other words, perfect.

I steadied the ‘thing’ beneath the window to my room. And proceeded to climb onto it. I heard some cracking and shifting and other questionable noise. But it held. I pushed the screen up. Then the window. Voila; I had my entry. Except I still needed to get through the window itself, which would require a jump from the rickety ‘thing’ on which I was standing. By that time, I had no other alternative. A little while longer and some neighbor would have been calling the cops on me. I had to chance it.

So, I jumped. And pulled myself into the room. I kissed the rosary that hung from the window. And then closed and locked said window to ensure that no one else could perform the same stunt. Especially when I was soundly sleeping on some random night in July. Or something.

Today, I ran too. And I brought all of my keys.

The Favor

The city worker wrenches the door open; he shines the Maglite onto the controls for the traffic light. He fiddles with a few levers until the traffic light goes dark.

Nearby, the New Haven Police are treating the accident as a crime scene. The driver of the now indistinguishable silver 2010 Audi TTS Coupe is in critical condition. The driver of the white 1996 Ford Taurus has little more than a scratch, although the same can't be said about his car.

While a gaggle of cops troll about the intersection looking for clues that might help them understand more about the wreck, Lieutenant Clarence Granderson climbs into the ambulance with the driver of the Taurus.

Upon entering, the lieutenant immediately assesses the situation, a skill at which he is particularly adept, and determines that there is absolutely no danger. The man he sees before him is no younger than 80 and looks as if he's seen a ghost.

'Mr. Samuel Carson?' Granderson asks.

The old man doesn't move. He sits on the padded stretcher; he is bent at the waist and staring at the ground.

'Mr. Carson?' he tries again, raising his voice a few decibels.

Mr. Carson sits up a tad too quickly, almost losing his balance. He steadies himself and then meets Granderson's eyes with his own. The lieutenant sees confusion and fear.

'Hello, sir' the old man little more than whispers.

'Mr. Carson, I have a few questions for you.' The lieutenant feels as if he's addressing his grandfather. 'Do you feel up to answering questions?'

The old man immediately answers, 'Yes, sir' and turns toward the officer to show that he is giving his full attention.

'Do you understand your rights?' Granderson asked politely.

The old man's demeanor changed slightly. 'Sir, they read me my rights. But I told 'em I wanted to talk. I'm not trying to hide anything. I know when I've done something wrong, and I'll own up to it.' He maintains eye contact to ensure the lieutenant understands.

Granderson allows his lips to curl into a brief grin before looking down to gather his thoughts. How he wished every alleged criminal could approach him.

'So, did you do anything wrong, Mr. Carson?'

'Yeah, I was driving.'

'Driving? Well, you're allowed to do that. You have a license. And you have never had so much as a parking ticket.'

'Do you know how old I am?' The old man eyed the officer and waited for a reply.

'No, sir, I do not.'

'I'm 90 years old. I shouldn't be driving a car past sunset. I can't see.'

'If you know this, then why are you driving?'

'My granddaughter is flying into the airport. But her flight got delayed so it came in after dusk. She called me to come get her. And here I am.'

'Couldn't she have taken a cab?'

'She doesn't have any money. She doesn't take care of her money worth a damn.'

'You could have paid the driver when he got to your house.'

'I'm not paying another dime for her!' His face is reddening with each word. 'She knows nothing about money. Wastes it on that damn phone she has. She overcharges her credit cards. She doesn't listen. Just like her father.' He catches himself. 'I'm sorry, sir. A family issue. I was just coming to pick her up. That's all.'

'Okay, Mr. Carson. Has your doctor prohibited you from driving?'

'Nah. Who needs doctors anyway, except for prescriptions? They have no idea why the hell I'm still alive. Neither do I. So, I say screw 'em.' The old man relaxes with each spoken word. So does the lieutenant.

'So, if you have a license that says you can drive at night and the doctor hasn't prohibited you, then why were you wrong?'

'Look, son. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. I ran the red light. Didn't even see it until it was too late. I clipped that fancy hunk of metal by hitting it in the rear. I saw that much. God help me. I don't think I'll drive again.'

'Mr. Carson, I appreciate your honesty. You have been very helpful.'

'What happens to me now?'

'You just stay in here and get looked at. I'll let you know.'

Lieutenant Granderson exits the ambulance. A tall, slender female cop approaches. 'He just died, sir. About five minutes ago on the way to the hospital.'

'Okay' he responds blankly.

'What do you wanna do?'

'We're going to let him go home.'

'What!?'

'He has no criminal record. He fought in the war, as in the Second World War. He told me the entire truth. And I don't think he'll do it again.'

'Sir, I'm sorry, but that's not how the law works.'

'That's how the law works tonight, Garrett. And if you wanna take this to the next level, I'm more than ready. We're letting him go home tonight.'

She storms away. But never tells a soul.

Granderson climbs back into the ambulance. 'Mr. Carson, I'd like to drive you home.'

'Thanks. So, what's my punishment?'

'No punishment. You must simply guarantee me that you will not drive at night again.'

'What about court dates and the like? I can't imagine the other guy's gonna let this drop.'

'Well, Mr. Carson, I'll be honest. The other guy's dead.' The old man's head sinks into his hands. 'But the other guy was also one of the most dangerous and violent drug runners in the northeast. We've been looking for him for some time. You've actually done this town a favor.'

Mr. Carson lifts his head and glances at the lieutenant with an odd expression. One of utter horror. And yet, relief lingers there as well.

'I'll give you a ride home. My partner will drive your car back.' Granderson aids the old man out of the ambulance and into the front seat of the cop car. They are the last to depart the scene. Except for the city worker who restores the traffic light.

An Experiment

I've always wondered why. I mean, I've never felt depression, per se. Not like it's described. A sinking feeling. A sentiment of absolute helplessness. As if nothing's going right. As if nothing can ever go right. I feel like I always see the silver lining. That there's good in most everyone. And if not good, then at least the potential to be so. I see beauty in God's creation. Don't get me wrong; I'm no poet. But there's something beautiful about seeing snow covered mountains. Or colorful butterflies. Or a child playing with a puppy. Even in my darkest hours. When I dealt with the death of my child, for instance. I still endured. And I never thought about it. How can anyone think about it? Unfathomable. And just completely immoral. I understand that the reference to its immorality stems from my personal belief system. And it's not necessarily my place to impose that belief system. But I also won't pull punches when I think something's wrong. And this is wrong. Suicide is wrong.

Still, I wanted to see why people do it. Granted, I didn't have the same mindset. I was not depressed. I wasn't even sad. Just curious. What is it to look out over a precipice knowing that it will all be over soon? What is it to give away God's most precious gift? What does the person think in that last instant?

I decided to drive from my place in Factoria. I told the wife I'd be back by lunch. Had a bite to eat downtown. And then walked around a bit in Fremont. Stopped by the Lenin statue. Perused a few bookstores. And then I decided to do what I came to do. I proceeded to the Aurora Bridge on foot. Supposedly a bridge with one of the highest suicide rates in the country. Next to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fran. I looked over the edge and saw Lake Union. I felt a tad woozy. But I needed to complete this experiment. Just to feel what a person might feel. I began to climb the railing. I got my left leg over the rail. And then my right leg.

I slipped.

It's amazing how much you can process the instant before you know you will die.