3WW (Hassle, Inject, Wealth): Morally Bankrupt

Not to be outdone in her apparent concern for our ailing mother, my sister had opted for the more expensive morning flight from Missouri to Portland. I met her in the hospital lobby, her oafish husband Brian lumbering beside her. Based on her general lack of wealth, I knew she had used mom’s credit card. Her logic that the old lady was going to kick the bucket anyway didn’t seem quite right to me. But I also wasn’t in charge of mom’s finances, so I kept my mouth shut and played along.

When we entered the stuffy room, I noticed mom’s eyes first; a pale yellow circled her normally vibrant blue eyes. She was so thin, almost skeletal. And drugged. I understood that she just didn’t want to feel the pain anymore, but by the looks of her swaying in that bed, I thought the doctor’s were probably administering too many drugs. Yet I could see the vibrancy beneath the mask of failing flesh. She whispered a few words, but thought better of speaking. Instead, she smiled at us with her thin lips and high cheekbones.

I had visited Portland a few times. I brought the wife and kids to see my mother. My mother was always a good grandmother. She spoiled my kids, sent them back with sugar highs and stories of water slides and the like. After my wife and I divorced, I visited less often. Once when the kids were in high school, but they weren’t really interested in being spoiled by then. They wanted to see the sights. And my mother wasn’t the type. So, I went alone, mostly. Not often. But enough.

My sister, on the other hand, visited all the time. But always for something. For my father’s car after he passed. To stay at the house while Brian wasn’t working. To borrow some money for a much needed vacation. ‘It’s never a hassle’ my mother would say to me about my sister’s visits, ‘that’s what family’s for.’ I couldn’t adequately argue the point since my mother was an enabler, but I knew better about my sister. In fact, I was concerned about her trip this time when I learned that she was on the verge of foreclosure and bankruptcy. Still, I could do nothing about the fact that my sister controlled everything. All I could do was watch.

After spending about an hour, I said good night to my mother and sister and ventured back to my hotel room. I called my girlfriend and chatted a bit before falling asleep.

The next morning, I arrived at the hospital and looked into my mother’s room. Except she wasn’t there. I stared at an empty room. A nurse came up behind me and offered her condolences. When she saw the shock of my face, her eyes narrowed. She asked me if I had known that my mother was scheduled to be put to sleep. She used those exact words, as if my mother were a dog. I couldn’t speak. She explained that it was peaceful and that my sister had requested that the doctors to inject our mother with enough drugs that she would never again wake up. And she never again did.

I asked if my sister was in the hospital. The nurse told me she had gone to make funeral arrangements, but I knew better. I sped across a number of bridges to the office I’d seen only once. When I passed the stunned receptionist and into the office of my mother’s lawyer, I saw my sister and her useless husband sitting in plush leather chairs conferring with the lawyer about the value of our mother’s life insurance policy. I know what I should have done. But I was so angry that I thought I might be capable of taking another life. So, I walked out of that office and left Portland. I’ve never returned. And I’ve never spoken to my sister again.

Based on rumors through the grapevine, she never did go bankrupt.

3WW (Erase, Meadow, Trace): God's Hand

Mr. Humboldt, a teacher of mine at university, walked us through an exercise today. He gave us each a white board and a dry erase marker. An odd medium for art, but he always likes to challenge us to make visual art with different mediums using everything from Etch-a-Sketches to condiments. I’ve heard tell he once encouraged a class to use their own blood to create a masterpiece. It’s a wonder he wasn’t sacked for such a display. Still, I think they chose not to sack him because he has a knack for attracting the kids of wealthy parents based on a piece that made him famous early in his career.

He began in his eccentric whispery way with a directive to draw something comforting. I immediately thought about the meadow directly adjacent to Nana’s house out in the countryside. I used to play for hours in the high grass; it was my own little kingdom of animals and flowers aplenty. Humboldt – we rarely user the prefix – told us to draw, using only the black marker. We collectively sketched as quickly as we could until he commanded us to cease. He told us to erase it. One of the more brilliant students told the professor that he had nothing with which to erase the board. Humboldt simply said, ‘Lick it for all I care, you witless dolt. I’ve given you the tool to make the art; you can, at least, have the wherewithal to find a way to dispose of it.’ No one else asked about an eraser.

Humboldt then instructed us to draw something wicked. A few of the more ‘unoriginals’ – as I refer to them – chose silhouettes of witches and bats and other symbols associated with Hallow’s Eve. I drew the meadow again, smaller this time. And above it, I sketched billowing clouds, roiling thunderheads bringing with them torrential rains and bolts of naked lightning. Humboldt made it a point to view my sketch and simply harrumphed, a complimentary reaction if you knew the stooped old man. Again, he told us to erase the boards.

He gave us his final directive. He wanted us to relate the first two prompts with a personal touch. He gave us nothing more than that, just a personal touch. Suffice it to say the entire class was stumped. Some couldn’t even relate the first and second prompts. I had the luxury of having had connected them already – most likely the reason he harrumphed – but I still couldn’t think of how to personalize it any more than I already had. I then had an idea. I put my hand down on the white board so that it spanned the earth and sky. I traced the hand very deliberately, and allowed the smudge from my skin to remain on the board. I titled it the ‘Hand of God’. Although I wasn’t particularly pleased with the aesthetic result, Humboldt took the board from my desk and dismissed me, telling me that I had nothing more to do for the day.

Sunday Scribblings (Superhero): The Greatest Power

'Is he with you?' his wife asked. 'Did you pick him up from school?'

'I did,' he replied, his unibrow furrowed.

'Oh thank heavens. How bad was it?'

'It could have been much worse. You were right, of course. We should have kept him home. I think we need to consider pulling the other kids from their classes.'

'Wouldn't that look suspicious?'

'More suspicious than what he did?'

'Yeah, true. What about the press? And word of mouth?'

'No one heard him say anything; no one saw him do anything. We'll just deny it like we've done in the past. And like so many of our ancestors did. We still have a secret to keep.'

'Are you going to talk to him?'

'Yes. It's time. Please keep the other kids away. I just can't believe it happened to him at such a young age. It usually doesn't hit until puberty. He might be rather powerful.'

'Good luck, honey.'

He climbed the stairs to his son's room and peered inside. His son, Daniel, sat on the edge of his bed staring out the window.

'Mind if I come in?' he asked.

The boy didn't answer.

The father sat beside him. 'I have something I need to tell you.'

Still no reaction from Daniel.

'But first, can I ask you exactly what you said to your friend on the playground?'

'He isn't my friend. I hate him.'

'Hate's a strong word, Daniel. And he is your best friend. Do you remember what you said?'

'I said I wished he could run faster than anyone in the world.'

'Why did you say that?'

'Because the bullies always chase him.'

'Why didn't you wish that you could beat up the bullies?'

'I didn't think about it that way.'

'Daniel, I need to tell you something. Do you know all the superheroes and super villians there are in the world?'

'Yeah'

'Well, our family is responsible for creating them.'

Daniel looked as perplexed as his father had felt when his father had told him.

'The people in our family were the first ones on earth with super powers. Your great, great grandfather and his brother both had the super power. They could grant super powers to anyone an everyone. They discovered it by accident, just like you did with Raymond in the school yard. See? You've given him a super power.'

Daniel was obviously skeptical. He knew that superheroes existed, but how could it be that his family was the most powerful of them all?

'The only catch to the power we have is that we must use it selflessly. If we do not, we end up like The Ancient One.'

'Isn't that just a myth?'

'No. Because the Ancient One is your great, great uncle Edward. After he saw the power he could give others, he wished it for himself. Except when he did, he lost his ability to grant powers and he went crazy. He became the first super villain. The Ancient One tried to kill his own brother, but your great, great grandfather had already bestowed enough people with powers that they could defeat him. The problem is that power corrupts. And so, some of the super heroes became super villians. And vice versa, but not as often.'

'Is great grandpa still alive?'

'No. Like I said, he didn't have any super powers. He died of a heart attack in his mid-60s. But he passed along the gene. And now, it seems you have it.'

'Wow.'

'I know. So, you have to promise me that you will always use this power for good. That you will never be hasty or thoughtless about it. It is a lot to learn in such a short time, but you must. And you must speak of this to no one. No one can know we're the ones who create super heroes. If people ever found out, they'd try to see what makes us tick. But all they'd see if blood and organs and slimy skin.'

'Dad, can I change him back?'

'No. Your friend will be like that for life. But you have not done badly. You acted out of good intention. And you bestowed a gift on someone who is deserving. Still, I do not suggest offering it to one so young.'

The father stood to leave and walked towards the door. 'I know this is a huge responsibility. None of us asked for it. But we must live with it. If you want to talk, please come find me in my room.'

With that, the father left the room. Daniel returned to staring out the window thoughtlessly.

3WW (Hidden, Roam, Noble): Miss You

I am driving to a destination somewhere on the east coast. From the west coast. I went west as a young man. Now, I’m returning as an older one. I left on a whim, but am returning on less of one. I wonder what less than a whim might be called. The Thesaurus gives the antonym of whim to be ‘plan’. That makes sense, except I don’t have a plan. I only have punches to roll with.

The dog and I stop in a small town in Nebraska. Grand Forks or Grand Plate or Grand Spoon or something like that. There’s a Kum & Go gas station and market; when I hand my credit card to the cashier, I joke about the name. She doesn’t understand my attempts at sarcasm, so I drop it. I roam the immediate thoroughfares a bit to see if I can find a hotel. I have my choice between an inn that looks like a converted barn or a Motel 6. I choose the latter out of what I think is familiarity. Except I’ve never been in a Motel 6, which makes me realize that brand has struck again.

In the lobby is a woman who greets me with an eerie smile. After a moment watching her deal with the customer in front of me, I realize she isn’t actually smiling at all. Her mouth simply hangs open to reveal an empty un-dentured mouth with a pink wagging tongue. I feel badly about being disgusted by her appearance. I turn my attention to the rest of the lobby. A vending machine that sells Doritos, Ruffles, and M&Ms [Their ‘restaurant’]. A coffee pot on a small table in the corner [Complimentary breakfast]. A stack of flyers on the same table for a nearby museum that looks a lot like the inn I passed [Tourist destination]. Hidden behind the coffee pot, I see a lone half bar of Ivory Soap [Amenities].

I return my attention to the gummy woman. She isn’t interested in interacting. She simply wants to give me a room key and be rid of me. I have no qualms with the approach. I give her the credit card, sign where needed, take the room key, and leave the office.

The room smells. A cross between shit and vinegar. In other words, not a good smell. The dog is reluctant, but more because he’s tired of all the new places or because he doesn’t like the smell, I can’t tell. It’s probably both. We’re two days out from the house we shared, the life we spent. I send him a text letting him know I’ve arrived safely. I receive a text almost immediately saying ‘k’. Never a person of many words was he.

The bed is hard, the sheets yellow. At least the television works; it muffles the conversation a young and rather ignorant woman is having in an adjacent room. The dog starts to dance around a bit. A lot of water and so much uncertainty make me want to piss too. I know I can hold it longer so I leash the dog and take him outside. We walk to the ‘pet area’ which consists of gravel and mud. The dog lifts his leg. At that moment, I realize I’ve underestimated my own urge. I unzip and pee with the dog. I feel a weird kind of bond with the dog; we’re emitting waste together.

I return to the room only to discover the key doesn’t work. I go to the lobby with the dog. Of course, dogs aren’t allowed in the lobby, so I tie him to a tree outside. Gummy lady is talking to what I can only describe as a redneck. A Nebraskan noble. He’s the spitting image of that cable guy comedian. Harry, is it? Gary? They pay me no attention when I walk in. I notice he’s spitting in a cup about a quarter full of the most disgusting liquid I’ve seen this side of diarrhea. I finally interrupt. Neither of them look too pleased. I tell gummy that my key isn’t working. She asks if I’ve had it next to a credit card in my wallet. I say yes. She tells me not to do it, scans it again, and send me on my way.

I enter the room and unhook the dog. I hit the bed fully dressed; I have no desire to rummage through the suitcase. And I feel more comfortable fully clothed in any case. The dog jumps up next to me and nuzzles. I turn on the television and watch the local news. There’s a story about cow tipping. Honestly. I switch to ESPN and see the Yanks have lost.

My mind wanders. I wonder if I’ve made the right move. No job in a bad economy. No home. Just me and the dog. Wasn’t I supposed to work through this? People in much more difficult situations had endured. Why couldn’t I? Was I not strong enough? Impatient? Or am I right?

My cell phone vibrates on the table. I dislodge the dog from his slumber to see the text message. After a few clicks, I see ‘miss you’.

3WW (Budge, Nimble, Theory): A Happy Life

He’s a dancer. And, in my humble opinion, a narcissist. He bought this gigantic vertical mirror. And he stands in front of it for hours, flexing himself. Not that I care that much. It just seems ridiculous.

A two-bedroom in midtown costs a pretty penny, and after my ex moved out, I needed a roommate. Sure, my job pays that pretty penny and then some, but I’d rather not have to keep the place to myself and eat ramen or mac and cheese. So, I placed an ad in Craigslist. I, of course, received a bunch of replies almost immediately. The pictures and décor make it almost irresistible. I then set up a few interviews. First, I spoke to them over the phone. That weeded most of them out. And then the survivors came to meet me in person. A student at NYU whose parents were willing to pay her portion of the rent. A young doctor who would rarely be in the apartment because of his ridiculously long hours. And a dancer whom I had seen in multiple Broadway shows, mostly as an extra.

I weighed the options carefully. I have this theory that when faced with a limited choice, a person should always choose the least expected option, the good over the great, as it were. Because there’s usually some underlying reason why the good choice has advanced so far, but it’s never immediately evident. I therefore chose the dancer. Okay, so the fact that he has a nice body helps.

I don’t regret the choice. He’s pays his bills, stocks the kitchen, and generally keeps to himself. He even gets me tickets to see shows, something I greatly appreciate. But there’s something about him and that damn mirror that annoys the hell out of me.

I came home today and saw him with his nimble, naked body posing in front of the mirror. I couldn’t help but look since he has a beautiful, um, form. But there was something so unattractive about the whole scene. I didn’t hide my disdain as I headed towards my room.

Later that night – I think it was a Monday – I was watching television when my dancer roommate came out of his room to make food. He popped something in the microwave and meandered over to the couch to see what was on. He stood for a moment and looked back at me; he wanted to say something but seemingly couldn’t find the words. He retrieved the food and was about to walk back into his room but turned to me and said, ‘Have you ever stood in front of a mirror naked?’

I sat speechless, hoping that maybe the dancer roommate was having a crazy moment and talking to an imaginary friend. But he wasn’t; he waited for me to answer.

‘No,’ I replied succinctly.

‘Do you know why I do it?’

‘No,’ I stated, hoping he’d go away.

‘It’s part of my job. It’s as important for me to look into a mirror as it is for you to know how to do a vlookup in an Excel spreadsheet.’

I was surprised that he knew what a vlookup was.

‘Come here. I’d like to show you something.’

I didn’t budge. I tried to speak but couldn’t find any words. Instead I sat, looking mildly retarded.

‘Please. It’ll just be a minute.
’
‘I don’t want to ruin your dinner,' I replied.

‘Don’t worry about that. Come on.’

I stood and followed him into his room. He stepped in front of the mirror and began to pose, fully clothed. ‘How can I know if I’m getting the posture right if I don’t look in the mirror?’

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

He changed poses. ‘I need to know my body. What hurts. What needs stretching. What is wrong. And what’s right. I need to know how far back I can put my arm. Or how far out I can put my leg. I need to know these as intimately as you know your numbers or else I’m not going to succeed in my line of work.’

I remained dumbfounded, looking for some way to get out of the room.

‘Go ahead and stand in front of the mirror.’

I did. I viewed my baggy sweats, the sagging belly, the double chin, and the unkempt hair. I thought about the doughnuts every other day at work. The beers after work. The last time I went to a gym – about two years prior. And then I thought about the job I had, the money I made, the success I had achieved.

‘You keep your mirror and that body of yours,’ I said. ‘I’m quite happy with everything I’ve got.’

With that I left his room and sat back on the couch. As I snatched the beer from the end table, I heard the dancer roommate’s door close quietly.

Woven Webs

These are the beginnings of a story. More to come...

He walked out into the rain. Got mugged. Came back inside. His nose bled. Profusely. All over his waterproof Columbia jacket, which wasn’t blood proof. There were three of them. He thought they were black. They were actually Hispanic. Just darker, since they’d just sat outside at Golden Gardens or Alki. He wanted to cry but couldn’t find tears. Instead, he started watching an old Benny Hill episode and laughed until he cried. Then he felt better, though whether because he laughed or cried or both he couldn’t tell. He fell asleep in his blood-stained coat, hugging the giant panda his parents had given him for his eighth birthday.

The next morning, he woke at 6:32 a.m. He always wakes at 6:32 a.m. Unless he’s tired. And then it’s 6:42 a.m. Because that’s how the snooze on his alarm clock works. He disrobes, chucking the bloody jacket to a corner. He’s already given up on it. He won’t wash it; instead it will become another artifact that tells the story of his sad existence. He noticed a few bruises strewn about his body. Nothing to which he wasn’t accustomed, for various reasons. Apart from doubling for a famous reindeer, he proved no worse for the wear. Work beckoned.

His cubicle lay in virtual ruins. Saran wrap and aluminum foil stuck to every possible surface. Even the chair. Since it wasn’t even close to his birthday, he could think of only one culprit. The devious – and very fat – Emma Makowski, aka Emma Emm. He approached her sneakily, carefully. But she still knew. A bit wrapped up, I’m guessing, she said. He wanted to strike her but remember a line from Man of La Mancha. Whether the pitcher hits the stone or the stone, the pitcher, it’s going to be bad for the pitcher.